Poor, Old Indian Farmers
By Alan Saldanha
Kashirao Pawar harvested barely enough to feed himself, as his land was arid and almost always parched. Then, once every two to three years, after a decent monsoon, he would grow the millet that would keep him stocked with grain and flour for another thousand days or so.
He was poor but it mattered little. He knew what it was for others to be rich, to be the people that glanced out of the first-class compartment windows of the Kachigudda Passenger train that stopped by twice every day. He watched them eat fruit and other goodies. The express trains simply ignored him, flying past with steamy callousness.
Kashirao was aware of his role in the scheme of things: He knew that he came into the world unheralded, and one day he would fade away like the smoke that blows from the pyre. When his bullock died, it was the final straw. He would plough the land no more. His loneliness cried out for a canvas. From dawn to dusk his poses struck notes of isolation. But it mattered little; he didn't know any better.
He wore torn khaki shorts reminiscent of the days when Gandhi had contemporaries who posed as militants. Under those baggy apertures was a half pajama suit that served as underwear. His khaki shirt bore hallmark lapels ― a reminder that it was presented to him by an ex-Home Guard who had no further use for it. In his hand was a wooden staff: he leaned on it when his age bore down on him.
He came out of his dilapidated brick and mortar shanty outside the picket fence of a non-descript train station on the Manmad ― Kachiguda line. The station had no name ― at least, so it seemed. The faded paint only revealed years of neglect. For a passenger to get off he would have to jump to the railway track. There was no platform! Kashirao's farm bordered the railway track.
He looked up at the heavens and squinted at the bolt of lightning that lit up the thickly overcast night sky. The next moment there were noises that compounded into a deluge of rain. There was an earthy smell that suffused with gentle wafts of air. The monsoons could not play truant any longer.
Kashirao stood erect and held onto his wooden staff to look up at the dark heavens. Suddenly, a celestial flashbulb popped and a multitude of raindrops hit his old eyes. He licked his lips. The water quenched his thirst. Soon, there would be water from the hand pump, and the cobra that lived nearby in harmony with him would come out to show off its scales and slimy side.
The author is an Indo-Canadian freelance writer and was editor of Daywatch newspaper from 2006 to 2007. Now semi-retired at the age of 61 and in Surrey, British Columbia, Canada, he can be reached at alansdaywatch@gmail.com.