The Jeera Farmer
The plight of the farmer
written by: Prafulla Vyas
The old man hoisted a sack of potatoes on his sinewy back and plodded towards the bullock cart. Neither the hustle and bustle of the afternoon traffic nor the hot tarmac that seared the calloused soles of his feet deterred him from his mission. If he did not deliver forty sacks of potatoes by evening, his ailing wife would die of starvation. The sun blistered his tattered back and bright red angry sores glared mercilessly at the sun. Sweat streamed down his face. He took a piece of rag, wiped his forehead, and then leaned against the loaded truck.
The owner of the godown sat under the cool shade of the banyan tree, fanning his bald head that glistened with sweat. His eyes rested on the old man weak from exhaustion. He saw his legs tremble and buckle under. He is going to collapse any minute now! Thought the bald man. He beckoned him over, to sit beside him under the coolness of the shade. The old man was grateful for the short respite. His lips were dry and cracked and his throat was parched from thirst. The bald man yelled at the servant boy.
“Get some lassi, quick.”
The servant boy darted into the shabby restaurant nearby and emerged with two glasses of lassi tinkling with ice, a frosty froth that floated and brimmed over. The old man gulped it with rivers of white, dribbling down the sides of his mouth. He belched loudly.
The bald man laughed. “Hits the spot every time!”
The old man smiled at him gratefully. “Thank you.” He whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion.
The bald man scrutinized him with the intensity of a hawk. His face was rugged and hard as granite and his grey-blue eyes shone like marbles. His earlobes were extended with heavy, silver earrings, usually worn by women and his hands were as brown as the earth. Not from my part of the neighborhood, he concluded.
They sat in silence under the banyan tree, listening to the birds flutter above them as they savored the cool breeze of the north. The old man lit a bidi and offered it to the man beside him.
“My name is Gafoor Khan,” said the bald man, holding the bidi in his left hand. Then he waved at the godown and the truck. “I am the owner.”
The old man immediately jumped to his feet muttering words of apology. He felt embarrassed for slacking on the job. He knelt down and touched his feet.
“Please don’t fire me,” he pleaded. “My wife is very ill.”
Gafoor bent over to pick him up. “What is your name?” he asked gently.
The old man refused to sit next to him. “I am Abhay.” He stood there, shifting his position nervously, his eyes fixed on the bullock cart.
Gafoor followed his gaze. “Are they yours?”
“Yes,” he said miserably. “And if I don’t feed them they will starve to death.”
Gafoor gaped at his tattered clothes, crisscrossed over his bony frame, and the haunted look in his eyes. He hadn’t eaten for days. He snapped at the servant boy.
“Two plates of biryani.” And once again the servant boy disappeared into the shabby restaurant.
He insisted. “Please sit down and eat something.”
Pangs of hunger abated his fear of the rich and powerful. He ate ravenously like a tiger tearing away the flesh of its victim. Gafoor watched in dread as he licked the plate clean. He offered him water in a cool, steel tumbler.
“Please tell me all about it.” He whispered in a shocked voice.
The old man finally relaxed. “I am a doomed jeera farmer. The locust destroyed most of my Rabi, my winter crop. I have a few gunny bags left but they will be ruined too.”
“Why?” asked the owner.
“It’s the lockdown! I can’t transport them to the Unjha Mandi. The monsoon rains will destroy what’s left.”
He flayed his arms in desperation. “There is nothing left except my wife and my bullock cart.”
He straightened up in rigid determination. “I must save them.”
“How?” asked the bald man.
Abhay stood there defeated. He looked into the bleak horizon. The birds had flown away.
“I must do something- anything.” He insisted.
Gafoor offered to help.
“You can store them in my godown.” He waved excitedly at his store. “It’s dry in here.”
Abhay stared at the fat, bald man in consternation. His thick gold chain gleamed on his hairy chest and the round pendent flashed brazenly at him. He did not trust rich men. They make use of you and discard you like an onion peel. The rich zamindar in his village had looted his farm, taken everything from his house, his wife’s jewelry, and their meager savings. Then he had insisted that he work for nothing on his farm.
Abhay had deserted his land, stacked up his bullock cart with the remaining gunny sacks, and escaped to the big city, hoping to sell at the Unjha Mandi. The zamindars were cruel and ruthless. He wept when he thought of his green, lush farm with acres of mango grooves and jeera fields. They had been so happy there- he and his wife, after the children had left. But all that had changed. The zamindar’s greedy son, with slick, oily hair had confiscated his land and driven most of the farmers out of the village.
He stared at the bald man again. The sweat still glistened on his head, giving him a slick, oily look. He is not Rajasthani after all, nor a farmer. His hands are weak and pale, like a pampered, rich old woman. He can’t be trusted. Maybe he wants to steal my gunny sacks, my rabi which could bring him five lakh rupees! He is no better than the Zamindars, only his technique is different. A weasel feigning sympathy, offering food to desperate men. A guile to worm into my heart. The slimy, little rat.
Abhay averted his gaze, afraid that the bald man might read his thoughts. But I mustn’t offend him. The bald man offered him a paan. He faltered for a moment baffled by the man’s generosity. Should he cast his suspicions aside and trust this man? He was torn between the thorns of suspicion and his desire to trust this man completely. He thought of his wife, huddled in a blanket on the platform of the railway station. How long is she going to wait there without food or shelter? He had promised to be back within an hour and it was almost afternoon. The station master might mistake her for a beggar and kick her out. He winced at the thought of his frail wife handled roughly and spoken to in a coarse manner. Abhay’s old fears returned. She was all he had and losing her meant death. He chided himself for mistrusting this gentle man. He knelt in front of the fat man.
“You are so kind to me. How can I ever repay you?”
The bald man lifted him up and led him to the back of the godown. He pointed to the servants’ quarters. A dilapidated building with two rooms and a water tap outside.
“You can stay here with your wife.” He insisted. “Until you find better lodgings.”
Then he took him inside the restaurant and ordered a tiffin packed with curry and parathas. He shoved it into his hands.
“Take it to your wife.” He ordered like a big brother, “And bring her here.”
Abhay hurried towards the railway station, the tiffin swinging in his hand like a lantern illuminating the darkness ahead. He maneuvered through the traffic lights, the rickshaws, and the buggy carts waiting patiently for the passengers to arrive. The Victorian building loomed in front of him like a giant glowering at an ant. He climbed the stairs, cramped with beggars and passengers alike, and hurried towards the isolated corner behind the building. She was huddled against the wall, a frail and pitiful sight. Mosquitoes swarmed around a piece of chicken thrown carelessly aside. She hadn’t moved from the spot where he had left her, beseeching him not to leave her alone.
She had fallen asleep from exhaustion. Her soft grey curls flirted with the red bindi on her forehead. Beads of perspiration had gathered on her brow and her lips were a deathly bluish, color. He shook her.
“Wake up, Rukhmani.
She did not stir. He panicked. He ran to the cooler and splashed water on her face. She stirred slightly and gazed at him like a stranger. He shook her again.
“It’s me, Rukhmani!”
Her eyes grew wide with fear. “Abhay! Thank God you are here. Take me away.”
She darted nervous glances at the strangers around her. A vicious-looking man with dark-furrowed eyebrows and decayed teeth kept eyeing her from a distance. She shivered again.
Abhay opened the tiffin, dipped a piece of paratha into the curry, and placed it into her mouth.
“Eat something. It will give you strength,” he said.
She gulped it down with a grimace. “Too spicy.” She murmured. He offered her some water.
“Eat it,” he persisted. “It will give you strength.”
The sweet aroma of the curry wafted towards the man with the decayed teeth. He edged in closer. Rukhmani covered her gold bangle, the only piece of jewelry that had escaped the greedy eye of the zaminadar’s son. She had tucked it under her sari blouse where he wouldn’t dare to look. Abhay fed her until she choked.
“Enough!” she protested. “I can’t eat anymore.”
“But there is half paratha and curry left.” He argued.
“No more!” And she pushed the tiffin away.
The man with the bushy eyebrows pounced on it like a hungry bear. Abhay watched him bury his face into the tiffin box. It reminded him of a stray dog in his village. He looked on sadly as the man licked it clean and pushed the tiffin back, flashing his decayed teeth gratefully at Abhay. He leered at Rukhmani and sprinted away.
“Another lost soul,” murmured Abhay.
Rukhmani watched in horror. “Throw the tiffin away,” she cried out. “It’s contaminated.”
“I will do no such thing,” said Abhay, his anger rising. “It belongs to a good, decent man who is offering us shelter. He picked up her belongings. “Come I will take you to him.”
They walked back to the banyan tree and the truck loaded with potato sacks.
Abhay waited patiently until the sun set and cast its golden glow on the branches bowed down with the weight of its burden. The traffic noise slowly diminished as the crowd abandoned their favourite spots and hurried to the comfort of their homes before nightfall. The street looked isolated with debris scattered all over. A gust of wind lifted a piece of paper as colorful as an autumn leaf, swirled it high up into the sky, and then brought it crashing down into the gutter. The branches above him shivered as the birds settled down for the night. Abhay heard the godown door slam shut and the truck throttled into life. It lurched forward and spat fuel into the air. The acrid smell of the petrol lingered long after the truck disappeared around the corner.
The restaurant light still glimmered in the dark, long after the customers left. The cook was probably cleaning up. He could see the shadow of the servant slouching on the steps. Abhay glanced down the street, hoping to see the bald man. His eyes settled on the empty spot where his bullock cart was standing a few hours ago. Who could have taken his cart loaded with potatoes and gunny sacks? He still hadn’t made his delivery and his bulls were not fed. He thought lovingly of his two bulls, Bahadur and Bhim. Without them, he couldn’t have survived the long trek to the city. They took the brunt of his burden. They needed food and water. Where were they?
Abhay looked at the dilapidated building with longing. A faint light glimmered invitingly. Should he take his wife inside? He hesitated. Not without Gafoor’s permission. But where was he? Doubts of Gafoor’s loyalty and honesty assailed him. Fear quickly turned into anger. Had he made a fool of himself again? You can’t trust anyone these days. That slimy weasel had stolen his gunny sacks and his bulls. Probably sold them to a slaughterhouse and pocketed the profit. The sly dog. How could he have trusted him? They were all the same, the rich and the powerful.
He glanced at his wife. Should he confess his fears and doubts of the bald man? But she had fallen asleep like a baby – the frown lines had disappeared, and a peaceful radiance illuminated her face. He shook his head. He can’t imbue her with his fears. She was like a sponge with a soft and palpable heart that would absorb his tepid fears and regurgitate into a torrential flood of trepidation and disasters. She would throw him off course and insist they return to the village and beg forgiveness from the zamindars. His blood boiled at such a thought, of prostrating in front of the fat, greedy man. Never!
He walked over to the slouching figure on the steps of the shabby restaurant. The servant boy had fallen asleep. He could hear the gentle snores as he rolled his head from side to side. He shook his shoulders and the boy sprang up, frightened.
“Where is the godown owner?” he cried out.
The servant boy’s eyes grew large with fear, afraid that the old man might hit him. He whimpered and shook his head.
“I don’t know, sahib.” He wrung his dirty dishcloth, squeezing the last drops of water.
“But, didn’t he tell you where he went?”
“No! I was busy inside,” and he pointed to the kitchen window.
Just then he heard the jingle of the bells as Bahadur and Bhim slowly plodded towards him. The bullock cart stopped abruptly and Gafoor jumped out. “Why are you still outside,” he cried out in alarm. “Come inside,” and he led them into the servants’ quarters.
“I delivered your potato sacks and found a buyer for your rabi.” He dropped a few coins in Abhay’s hands. “Rest now. We will talk tomorrow about your new job.”
- The Jeera Farmer - July 24, 2024
- The Pink Rose - September 30, 2022
- The Value of A Bird - March 4, 2022
