Here begins the story of Meri Mati, written like a journal—the sacred diary of a land and the soul that chose to walk with it.
Day One: The Land Was Bare
There was no welcome.
Only silence.
The kind of silence that hums in your chest, that makes your breath feel too loud. I stood at the edge of this land—twenty acres of scarred earth—dry, cracked, and emptied of trees. The villagers had taken what they needed. I did not blame them. Survival writes different rules.
But this land… it was tired.
And still, it called me.
I bent down, scooped a handful of dust, and whispered the only prayer I knew: I am here. I will stay.
I had no machines. No masterplan. Only seeds in my pocket—wild ones, native ones, forgotten ones. I threw them like hopes into the wind. The kind of madness only someone in love with the earth could understand.
And then I waited.
Here flows the second entry in the journal of Meri Mati—where the sky answered our whisper with its first song.
Entry Two: The First Rain – When Grass Remembered
The clouds came without warning.
Thick and dark, they rolled over the horizon like ancient caravans returning home. The wind changed first—cooler, wiser. The scent of wet dust reached me before a single drop had fallen. And then, as if the sky itself bowed to the land, the rain began.
I stood barefoot in the downpour.
No umbrella. No shelter.
Only my heart, swelling.
The seeds I had scattered weeks ago—casually, almost carelessly—had been sleeping. Waiting. And now, in the days that followed the rain, I saw it:
Green.
Soft. Gentle. Determined.
Grass.
Tiny blades, like forgotten memories, pushing up through the cracks. Within a week, the brown canvas was stitched in green thread. The land had remembered. It was always capable of life. It just needed a reason.
That day, I learned something vital:
Nature does not need saving.
It needs space.
It needs patience.
It needs love.
Here unfolds the third entry in the journal of Meri Mati, where the first trees dared to rise and name the land sacred once more.
Entry Three: The First Children of the Land – Palash and Sagon
After the grass came color.
It began quietly—little shoots with reddish tips, nestled between tufts of green. I didn’t expect trees so soon. I hadn’t planted them with my hands. But I had scattered their seeds—Palash, Sagon, Neem, Khejri—all native, all woven into the old songs of this region.
But it was Palash who rose first.
Its leaves unfurled like flames in slow motion, each one soft and sure. The tree seemed to carry memory in its sap. As if it knew this land. As if it had grown here before, in another time, under another sky. It returned now like an old friend reclaiming a seat by the fire.
And then came Sagon—Teak. Sturdy, straight-backed, slow. It didn’t rush like Palash. It simply arrived, calm and rooted, as though it had made a pact with time itself.
These two—Palash and Sagon—became the first children of Meri Mati. I watched them grow with a kind of reverence I can’t fully name. Not like a gardener tending plants. But like a pilgrim watching a shrine rebuild itself.
With every leaf, I felt the land writing its own story again.
I was only here to witness it.
Here comes the fourth entry in the living journal of Meri Mati, where even the thorns learned to love.
Entry Four: The Living Fence – Thorns that Guard the Dream
There was no barbed wire.
Not because I couldn’t afford it—but because the land deserved something better. Something alive. Something that wouldn’t just protect, but participate.
So I planted cacti.
Agaves.
Aloe.
Every xerophytic warrior I could find.
I placed them close, shoulder to shoulder, across the boundary—soft enough to grow, sharp enough to defend.
And they rose.
Spiny, thick-skinned sentinels with silver-green arms. Some bloomed with strange flowers—small, bright, almost shy. Others stayed quiet but watchful. In time, they formed a wall. Not of steel. But of soul.
Then came the guests.
Sunbirds sipping from cactus flowers.
Hummingbirds, like dreams with wings.
Sparrows nesting in the sheltering hollows.
Rabbits darting between the thorned arches.
Even snakes found silence among the roots.
And quails—tiny, earthy birds—scurried freely like secrets in the grass.
The fence became more than protection.
It became a perimeter of possibility.
A sanctuary in itself.
It reminded me:
Defense doesn’t have to be violent.
It can be beautiful.
It can be blooming.
Here flows the fifth entry in the soul-journal of Meri Mati—where water found its way home, and life gathered around it like a secret hymn.
Entry Five: Ponds and Puddles – Where the Sky Meets the Soil
The sky gives freely.
And so, I had to learn to catch it.
I began digging—not with machines, but with hands, shovels, and faith. Small ponds. Shallow puddles. Gentle craters in the land, designed not for beauty, but for belonging. When the rains returned, they didn’t run away. They stayed.
Water pooled, shimmered, and slowly sank into the earth.
Not wasted. Not rushed. Just absorbed.
The soil softened.
Microbes awakened.
Ants built bridges.
Frogs croaked from hidden chambers.
And dragonflies arrived like flying gems, hovering above the stillness.
Birds began to visit at dawn and dusk.
Deer came softly, their hooves imprinting gratitude into the mud.
Even monkeys took to swinging from nearby branches, pausing for a sip and a moment of reflection.
The ponds became mirrors.
Not just of the sky, but of everything this land was becoming.
I learned that water doesn’t only quench thirst—it calls forth memory. It helps the land remember how to live again. Every puddle became a heartbeat. Every ripple, a reminder:
You don’t have to flow fast to matter.
Sometimes, staying still is enough.
Now unfurls the sixth entry in Meri Mati’s journal—when the wilderness came walking home, not as a threat, but as kin.
Entry Six: The Return of the Wild – When the Land Became a Home Again
I never built cages.
I never put up signs.
Still, they came.
First the sparrows—bold and gregarious. Then the rabbits, shy but curious. Peacocks arrived like royalty, trailing iridescence behind them. Quails scuttled in groups, whispering among the grasses. Deer began grazing in soft dawnlight, eyes wide and ancient.
And once, under the hush of a low sky, I saw a spotted deer look at me—not with fear, but with knowing. As if she understood that this land, once stripped and aching, was healing again.
Then came the monkeys—mischievous, agile, utterly unapologetic. They claimed the branches of Sona Jhuri like they had planted them themselves. I laughed more often after they arrived.
Even snakes curled into the corners—silent guardians, unnoticed and essential.
Meri Mati was no longer mine alone.
It had become a living parliament of species.
A whispering, breathing democracy of life.
I did not tame the wild.
I welcomed it.
That’s when I understood: Home is not what you build for yourself.
Home is what grows when you make space for others to belong.
Here blossoms the seventh entry in Meri Mati’s journal—when a tree from distant soil found its place and planted magic in the air.
Entry Seven: Sona Jhuri – The Tree from Elsewhere That Chose to Stay
She was not born here.
Sona Jhuri—slender, golden-hearted, native to the damp woods of Bengal. A tree used to fog-kissed mornings, songs of riverboats, and the soft hush of eastern forests. I didn’t know if she would survive the harder heart of this central land.
But I planted her anyway.
Not with certainty—
With hope.
And not just one. A handful, scattered with the same quiet trust I had placed in every Palash and Khejri.
To my wonder, she not only survived—she thrived.
Her branches raced skyward with a quiet fire. Her foliage rustled like silk in the wind. She began blooming fast—light yellow flowers like whispered lanterns. She brought birds I hadn’t seen before—sunbirds flitting like tiny sparks, hummingbirds drinking from the bloom like old worshippers at a new temple.
Rabbits rested in her shade.
Bees found their rhythm in her petals.
Even the wind began to hum differently when passing through her arms.
Sona Jhuri reminded me that sometimes, what feels foreign is simply a future waiting to take root.
She did not ask to belong.
She grew into belonging.
And that is love, isn’t it?
Not needing to be native—only needing to be nurtured.
Here unfurls the eighth entry in the heartbeat-journal of Meri Mati—a quiet ritual, a dance with the unseen.
Entry Eight: Seed Scattering – The Ritual of Letting Go and Trusting the Earth
There is a kind of prayer you can’t speak.
You can only scatter it.
That’s what seeds are.
Tiny, wingless prayers.
I never made neat rows. No labels. No markers. I’d walk barefoot across the land with a cotton pouch swinging at my waist—filled with dreams disguised as seeds. Palash. Teak. Neem. Albizia. Wild grasses. Fruits dropped by birds. Forgotten pods found on forest floors.
I’d toss them across the soil with the same abandon that a tree shows when it drops its children into the wind. I didn’t stand and wait. I didn’t check who sprouted first. I let them go.
Because the act wasn’t about control.
It was about trust.
I trusted the earth to choose.
I trusted the rains to remember.
I trusted time to unfold without rush.
Some seeds disappeared.
Some lay still for months.
And some—some cracked open at the first sigh of moisture and reached for the sun like they had never known fear.
Each seed I scattered was a surrender.
And slowly, over seasons, they returned—not as they were, but as trees, shrubs, vines, grasses, homes, shadows, songs.
This is how Meri Mati grew—not by planning, but by partnering.
With wind.
With water.
With waiting.
Here rustles the ninth entry in the soulwoven journal of Meri Mati—an ode to the unnoticed, the ever-present, the gentle green beneath it all.
Entry Nine: The Grass Beneath It All – Silent Weaver of the Land’s Spirit
Before the trees.
Before the deer.
Before the birds found their song again…
There was grass.
It came first, like a hush before the hymn. I hadn’t planned it—I simply scattered the seeds in hope. When the rains came, the grass rose like a tide. Not dramatic. Not showy. Just persistent. Soft. Absolute.
It held the soil in its arms, shielding it from erosion.
It wrapped around roots like a blanket.
It covered the naked land with dignity.
And underneath that humble green—life stirred.
Beetles, ants, worms began their work.
Sparrows nested in the thickets.
Quails found sanctuary.
Snakes slithered through, unbothered and unseen.
Even the sunlight changed—dappled, diffused, gentle on the baby plants sprouting beneath. The grass was not decoration. It was a foundation. A living skin for the land. A heartbeat in blades.
Many visitors asked me to “clear” it.
But how could I remove the very breath of the earth?
No one celebrates grass.
But at Meri Mati, I bow to it every morning.
Because sometimes, the smallest things hold everything together.
Sometimes, the green beneath is the guardian of the green above.
Here opens the tenth entry in the living diary of Meri Mati—where mud became a mirror, and every footprint led inward.
Entry Ten: When the Land Became My Mirror – Lessons from the Soil
I came here thinking I would heal the land.
I didn’t know the land would heal me.
In the silence between planting and rain, I began to hear things—not in words, but in whispers. The soil had a memory older than mine, and it spoke through textures: the crumble of clay, the softness of humus, the crackle of drought.
I knelt often—not to pray, but to touch.
And with every touch, something shifted.
I learned that growth is slow.
That death is part of design.
That stillness is not the same as failure.
Some days I cried into the mud.
Some days I laughed under a tree like a child lost in play.
And on other days, I simply watched a leaf fall and felt… complete.
Meri Mati became a mirror.
Every sapling I nurtured revealed my own resilience.
Every dry spell tested my patience.
Every bloom reflected a part of me I didn’t know was waiting.
This land did not just change its color.
It changed mine.
Now when I look at the soil, I don’t see earth.
I see stories.
I see scars.
I see strength.
Here breathes the eleventh entry in Meri Mati’s journal—where trees became lungs, and every leaf whispered a promise to the world.
Entry Eleven: The Oxygen Factory – Breathing Life into the World
During the days of still streets and masked silences, we realized something we had long forgotten—you cannot buy breath.
I remember watching the news. Hospitals gasping. Cities choking. People trading money for air.
That’s when it struck me:
This land is not a farm.
It is an oxygen factory.
Every tree here is a worker—quiet, tireless, green.
Every leaf is a lung.
Every branch, a breath.
Every forest patch, a choir singing life into the wind.
Palash, Sagon, Sona Jhuri, Neem, and Khejri—all of them, laboring in silence to produce what we can never manufacture:
Pure, living air.
And they asked for nothing in return—no salary, no spotlight.
Just space to grow, and freedom from harm.
Now, every time I walk through Meri Mati and feel the breeze graze my cheek, I know it isn’t just wind.
It’s a gift.
A breath that could belong to a deer, a bee, a sleeping child in a distant city.
This place is no longer just my home.
It’s a sanctuary for breath.
And I protect it not with fences or locks—but with roots, rain, and relentless love.
Here blossoms the twelfth and final entry in the living, breathing journal of Meri Mati—a full circle in soil and soul.
Entry Twelve: The Sacred Loop – When Nature Became My Everything
It began with emptiness.
A barren land, stripped bare.
But now, it sings.
With birdsong and rustling leaves.
With rain tapping on ponds.
With wind weaving through branches.
With silence that is full—not hollow.
I didn’t come here to build a legacy.
I came to listen.
To observe.
To unlearn.
And what I found was not just a forest, a farm, or a piece of land—
I found the sacred loop.
Where seed becomes tree.
Tree becomes shade.
Shade becomes shelter.
And shelter becomes home—not just for me, but for all life.
Here, nothing is wasted.
Everything returns.
Leaves fall, decompose, and become food.
Water flows, rests, and rises again.
Even pain dissolves into purpose.
Meri Mati is not a project.
It is a relationship.
An unfolding love story between a woman and the wild.
A vow etched in roots and rain.
I came to plant trees.
But in truth—I was the one who was planted.
And now I grow, season by season, hand in hand with the forest.
This is my prayer.
My protest.
My offering.
My freedom.
This… is my everything.