My grandpa’s house in the village sits on a small road overlooking the beach. The sand is as white as the streaks of old hair on his head, the water as clear as the glass marbles children would swap and play with. I remember when I went there a few years ago with my dad to bury my grandpa, I spent half the day at the beach, just sitting there, all by myself. It’s still one of my favourite places in the world, my grandpa’s beach. Untouched and still in its purity, I silently wished that it would never be discovered by tourists. I’ve been told that divers consider the beach there as one of the best diving sites in the world. And because I didn’t take any pictures when I was there, you will have to go here to see what my grandpa’s village looks like.
My grandma from Mum. Her house in the village nests between a lake and a hill. The area is surrounded by paddy fields and the air is so clean, you can breathe it in and feel it flow into your lungs. There’s a small well located just near the village gates and people use its water to wash, drink and cook. When she was little, Mum told me she would bring a rug and pack some hot rice wrapped in a banana leaf with sambal and fried fish and eat by the lake or at the top of the hill. How I wish I can do that someday.
You might be wondering why I’m talking about my grandparents and their villages. Well, I wasn’t able to sleep last night and was up until almost 3. As I sat and listened to the rain pouring outside my window, I tried to figure out why I love tranquility and the sound of nature so much. Could it be that my grandparents had anything to do with it?