This early,
on a North Indian winter morning, only the brave venture out. Or those who
must.
He starts
from his village at three, just as the priest at the gurduwara wakes up. He
reaches the city outskirts as the priest switches on the loud-speaker and
starts reciting the morning gurbani. The
village wakes up to gurbani.
The tempo
he hired to bring the produce to mandi has threatened to break down multiple
times in last one hour. On the empty roads of the morning, it is a wake-up
alarm to the sleeping city.
He pays the
vehicle entry fee at the gates of the mandi. The driver helps him unload the
sacks of produce. He moves them to the auction area. The driver will wait for
him. He waits for the traders.
Five months
of sweat and toil, five months of caring for the seed and soil. Weather Gods
were kind, and the yield is plentiful. The extra cost of high yield seeds and
expensive pesticides have been a good decision, even though the interest the
money lender would charge is a big worry. Plus, the balance of his earlier
loans, costs of the failed summer crop and this year’s rent on his own land,
which is pledged with the money lender. All his hopes are on this crop.
One by one
more tempos and trolleys arrive for morning mandi. Slowly the auction place is
overflowing with produce. It has been a good season all around. His face
suddenly has a worried look. Will he get a good price?
As the
village priest winds up morning prayers and as his wife goes inside to wake
their children, three daughters and a boy, the traders start arriving. The
munshis serve their masters steaming hot tea and report the quantity of produce
arrived. A good season means a buyers’ market, their market.
By the time
the first trader reaches his pile of sacks, he already knows the prices have
crashed. Munshi rips the heart of few sacks. The trader pulls out few samples.
‘Daagi hai.’ ‘Keeda hai.’ ‘Daana kamjor hai.’ Traders can afford to be as picky
as they want to be today. He listens with bent head, folded hands. The trader
makes his bid. He gasps. Its so low, he can’t even pay the due of the seeds and
pesticides. One by one other traders give their verdict at his pile. One by one
his hopes are shattered.
He does
what he has come to do. He sells. The driver knows. He drives back in silence. The
stray dogs chase their tempo and them out of the city, out of their city.
He closes
his eyes and leans back. Outstanding loan of the money lender, rent of the
mortgaged land, his wife’s medicine, the daughters are of age, the boy wants a
mobile and a motorcycle, the tubewell needs repairs, dues of kirana shop, money
he borrowed from his neighbour, his cycle needs a new tyre, the roof needs
repair before the coming rains, seeds and fertiliser for the next crop. His hand
grips the pocket and keeps his money safe from his expenses.
The tempo driver
drops him at the village square. He pays him his fare.
The village
kirana shop is open. The seth is at his seat.
“Aayo Mohan
Singh. You had a good crop. Please clear my dues now.”
He pays
him. Hesitantly.
There is
one currency note left with him. He looks around the shop and at all the things
his wife has asked him to bring.
He steps
out of the shop. His feet refuse to turn homewards. He stands there, glued to
the ground for an eternity. The gurdwara loudspeaker croaks to life - Officers
from town are visiting today for enrolments to Pradhan Mantri Jeevan Bima Yojana.
The panch made him put his thumb impression on papers last time they were here.
His feet
move. He enters the shop, asks for a length of strong nylon rope. He hands the
last note to seth and hurriedly walks toward his field.
Dada ji had
him plant the tree next to their motor when he was ten. He watered it regularly,
protected it from the goats, and grew up with it. The little stem with few tiny
leaves turned to a tall trunk and many wide branches, green and laden with
fruit. The tree had been his companion. It is old and withered now, like him, but he
knows that one branch, where he put swings for his children, is still strong
enough to carry his weight. One last time.
#HWR #FDC10 #prompt4