This is how S.R. Dongerkery saw and described it in his poem entitled The Real India. How did India appear in the 1950's? How did he see it?

India of the fifties gets expression in the villages, hamlets and thorps. The huts, mud houses and cottages are but common scenery. The bullock-carts plying on the winding roads reveals the harvest to be carried on. The golden harvest will be carried through it.

The solitary well with cool waters dries it not even during the summer where the village maids come to fill their water pots with water.

On market days the maids go to as for selling or buying the stuffs as for the hearth and the homely joys to be nurtured in.

The lowing herds returning at twilight are but scenery which the poet wants to view it. The plumaged birds singing the songs of freedom in a full-throated way engage the poetic spirit of the poet.

India cannot be India without the cool wells and summers parching when sizzling heat does the rounds. The tracts full of the idyllic pictures and images of the exotic running wild and mesmerizing show it the fair and fine world of Nature.

Real India is there where there lie in mud houses, bullock carts, huts, cottages, muddy ways, farms, lowing herds of cattle returning at twilight and agrarian set-ups revealing all that. Wherever roam you, the north or the south, the east or the west, India is same.

Give me the ancient bullock-cart
That crawls along the winding road, 
Conveying to some distant part
Its spilling golden harvest-load.
 
Give me the solitary well 
That even in summer drieth not, 
Whose waters cool the village belle
 Stirs gently with her burnished pot.
 
Give me the market-day, when streams
Of maids, with basket poised on head,
Move forward,  bandying thoughts and dreams
Of homely love, its hope and dread.
 
Give me the lazy, lowing herds
That in the twilight darkly stray ;
Give me the gaily plumaged birds
That sing their unspoilt freedom’s lay.
 
Give me the common sounds and sights
That make the village brim with life, 
For these are Nature’s true delights
That smooth the edge of worldly strife;
 
For this is India, mother mine,
Who gave me birth, ’tis here she dwells. 
Here throbs her heart with love divine
Beneath these fading rural spells!

This is India where he got his birth. She is his mother and how can it be that he will forget her bonding with him.