The Village After Sunset

I eat dinner very early every day. After eating, I take a walk along the road at the edge of the village, watching the sunset slowly descend. The autumn fields are golden; after the sun sets, the whole village is gradually swallowed by the night. Autumn insects chirp unhurriedly. For some reason, the streetlights in the village are all off; on my walk back I can barely see the road and need a flashlight. On the rural road at night there are no neon lights, no traffic, no office workers hurrying home—only a sky full of stars visible when one looks up.

Rural people still live by the rhythm of "rising with the sun and resting at sunset." After six o'clock, the village quiets considerably, and there are basically no pedestrians on the road. I fall asleep earlier in the village than in the city—around eight o'clock every night—and wake naturally at four or five in the morning. The nights here are truly nights: on moonless evenings it is pitch black outside, and there is no noise pollution, so the quality of sleep is very high.

Here, thoughts and worries have no place, and impassioned ideals have become distant things. Returning from an after-dinner walk, taking a hot bath, and slipping into a warm bed, every pore of the body relaxes. Falling asleep in such a state is truly one of life's greatest pleasures.

Young people have basically left the countryside; in the last two Spring Festivals, few have returned. So the road along the embankment that was passable for cars three years ago is now overgrown with artemisia and weeds taller than a person, making it hard even to walk. On the riverbank many new plants I had never seen before have appeared; reportedly floods carried their seeds from afar. The self-healing power of nature undisturbed by humans is truly astonishing.

I told my father that the monks in the temple are nowhere to be seen now. Father said wild boars on the mountain have become numerous, and living in the mountains at night is not safe, so the monks no longer dare stay in the temple. It seems that in a few years, wild boars might make their lairs in front of that small mountainside temple I often visit; by then, if I still want to go there to sunbathe, I will have to ask the boar brothers' permission.

Villagers like to build their houses close together; this way neighbors can look after one another and there is some deterrent against wild beasts, keeping them from frequenting our homes. When I was a child, we had dholes in my hometown—we called them "dhole dogs." This fierce canid has been extinct here for many years. When I was small, pigs were often carried off in the night by "dhole dogs." Now our houses are built more sturdily than before, and sleeping at home at night is safe; no wild animal can endanger us.

The night in the village is very different from the night in the city. At this moment my brain already feels heavy with sleep, but I can imagine that many people living in the city are probably still preoccupied with endless matters, and it will be a while before their brains can quiet down.