That's a far away village in Punjab. It is enriched with fertile soil, fertile enough to cultivate almost everything that's sown. It is called Shapoor. A village once filled with people who were content, happy and everlasting.
Its 6.00 am now. That's too late for any villager to cuddle his blanket and sleep. So Rudra Singh woke up; in no haste, but with a sense of anxiety, a little tension at his temples & made his way to attend nature calls.
Its a big day for him. His relentless, untiring efforts which lasted almost for half a year are going to pay off today. He may pass or fail, which is still uncertain. It is the day on which he's supposed to pluck the ripen corn sticks off from his field, load them up, travel a good 250 miles to reach Ghanpur, where the market yard is set up. He need to auction his download, sell it for a profit which is usually sufficient enough to buy peanuts barely, or at least to reach the break even price. No profit - No loss: which leads into another half year of just survival. To get back what he invested, along with his forgotten patience, unnoticed sweat & an endless hope.
By 7.00 am, Rudra is ready to plunge into the field to start plucking. He had the typical Indian villager's breakfast of starch. All that he can afford now is that. Hopefully, that can change in a day. His idea is to finish loading the crop into a truck before its noon & start hitting the road so that he can reach there by late night, do a sleepover & hit the market yard early tomorrow, sell off what he's got as early as possible before competition intensifies, & make a come back to Shapoor at the earliest.
He reached to the steal box in an old cup board which served its purpose of a safety locker for generations together, his father's & forefathers'. He counted what all he saved in this year. It ended up at 6,000 rupees; which is exactly he's supposed to pay to the truck's owner to send it with him to unload his load at Ghanpur yard.
He let out a deep sigh, forecasting a day filled with hunger, hard work & hope - laid ahead. He is hoping for a decent pay off.
He could have sold the corn right here in Shapoor but the reason he chose to take the pain in going all the way to Ghanpur is his hope for a little profit he could possibly make. He's a man with a wife & 2 little, lovely kids, with strong wish in their eyes that the time of a year has come when their father would buy them new clothes & some barfi. He's a family man.
By 12.30 pm, he's done uploading stacks of corn into jute bags. There are 100 of them. 60 rupees a bag & he'd crack the break even. If he makes somewhere around 80-90 a bag, he'd be moderately rich; rich enough to buy rice for at least next three consecutive months. His chest expanded with hope, as he looked the road ahead. He dozed off somewhere in between.
The truck came to a sudden halt jolting which shook Rudra from sleep. He rubbed his eyes, opened wide to see its dark. Ghanpur it is.
He got down from the truck, looked around to find some water to wash his face. He eventually did & cleansed his face.
He checked his weary, torn wallet to see if he could find any coins to feed his belly. Unfortunately, he didn't. He sighed as he expected the empty lips of his wallet opening itself to his face to mock him. He drank a jug full of water, leaned himself against the last pillar of the market yard, slept off waiting for the dawn to break.
It being summer, the sun broke into lives of Punjab very early in the morning, & it is gleaming sharply through the closed eye lids of Rudra, which eventually opened after 8 hours. He looked at the skies with clinched eyes, slid a smile across his lips, hoping for the best.
In an hour, he's in the yard with his 100 bags placed in front of him, shouting aloud their quality & price. His voice echoed energy, he looked consummated with hope. A couple of hours passed by & not anybody seems interested in his corn. He started to grow nervous, impatient and ironic. He could see that he & his efforts aren't going any where.
After 3 hours, a man came by, with a bag tucked safely under his arm. He was chewing beetle leaves & his mouth is thick red. As red as Rudra's face. He is spitting out the beetle extract once every minute. He seemd so business minded, cunning, smart enough to rob off framers like Rudra for unbelievable & deceivingly cheap prices. Farmers are stabbed in India.
He approached Rudra with a splenetic smile, which is sure enough to say that Rudra becomes his first scapegoat to open his till today. Rudra couldn't care less. He asked what Rudra is quoting & a skeptical Rudra yelled out '90 rupees a bag'. He laughed as if he's gone mad which is driving Rudra mad now.
'30 a bad or nothing. You see there's no other corn seller in the yard other than you. Corn sucked this season. You did a mistake by choosing it & its too late to rectify. Its a costly mistake, you see', he said in one go.
There is a terrible silence & an air of tension between the two. That man is checking his mobile phone with his left hand, trying to pluck something out of his infected mouth with a toothpick with his right one. For a moment, his two kids, their wish filled faces, his wife's involuntary stalk when he reaches home & the silent question her eyes shoot - all such things flashed across his brains. He didn't say a thing. That man took Rudra's long silence for approval. He smiled & yelled out for his boys to carry the load to their truck. He placed 3,000 rupees in Rudra's hand & walked away.
Rudra removed the folded kerchief which has been tied around his head all this while ago. He wiped his forehead & the kerchief drenched itself in the freshly wiped off sweat.
He sat down, leaned against the same pillar to which he did the last night. Numb, motionless, dumbstruck. Darkness slowly scampered. Lights went off in the yard. Ghanpur fell silent. As deafeningly silent as a graveyard.
The next day, his wife & his kids walked back out of a graveyard. Silent & hopeless. Rudra's cremation was done by the 3,000 rupees.
Its 6.00 am now. That's too late for any villager to cuddle his blanket and sleep. So Rudra Singh woke up; in no haste, but with a sense of anxiety, a little tension at his temples & made his way to attend nature calls.
Its a big day for him. His relentless, untiring efforts which lasted almost for half a year are going to pay off today. He may pass or fail, which is still uncertain. It is the day on which he's supposed to pluck the ripen corn sticks off from his field, load them up, travel a good 250 miles to reach Ghanpur, where the market yard is set up. He need to auction his download, sell it for a profit which is usually sufficient enough to buy peanuts barely, or at least to reach the break even price. No profit - No loss: which leads into another half year of just survival. To get back what he invested, along with his forgotten patience, unnoticed sweat & an endless hope.
By 7.00 am, Rudra is ready to plunge into the field to start plucking. He had the typical Indian villager's breakfast of starch. All that he can afford now is that. Hopefully, that can change in a day. His idea is to finish loading the crop into a truck before its noon & start hitting the road so that he can reach there by late night, do a sleepover & hit the market yard early tomorrow, sell off what he's got as early as possible before competition intensifies, & make a come back to Shapoor at the earliest.
He reached to the steal box in an old cup board which served its purpose of a safety locker for generations together, his father's & forefathers'. He counted what all he saved in this year. It ended up at 6,000 rupees; which is exactly he's supposed to pay to the truck's owner to send it with him to unload his load at Ghanpur yard.
He let out a deep sigh, forecasting a day filled with hunger, hard work & hope - laid ahead. He is hoping for a decent pay off.
He could have sold the corn right here in Shapoor but the reason he chose to take the pain in going all the way to Ghanpur is his hope for a little profit he could possibly make. He's a man with a wife & 2 little, lovely kids, with strong wish in their eyes that the time of a year has come when their father would buy them new clothes & some barfi. He's a family man.
By 12.30 pm, he's done uploading stacks of corn into jute bags. There are 100 of them. 60 rupees a bag & he'd crack the break even. If he makes somewhere around 80-90 a bag, he'd be moderately rich; rich enough to buy rice for at least next three consecutive months. His chest expanded with hope, as he looked the road ahead. He dozed off somewhere in between.
The truck came to a sudden halt jolting which shook Rudra from sleep. He rubbed his eyes, opened wide to see its dark. Ghanpur it is.
He got down from the truck, looked around to find some water to wash his face. He eventually did & cleansed his face.
He checked his weary, torn wallet to see if he could find any coins to feed his belly. Unfortunately, he didn't. He sighed as he expected the empty lips of his wallet opening itself to his face to mock him. He drank a jug full of water, leaned himself against the last pillar of the market yard, slept off waiting for the dawn to break.
It being summer, the sun broke into lives of Punjab very early in the morning, & it is gleaming sharply through the closed eye lids of Rudra, which eventually opened after 8 hours. He looked at the skies with clinched eyes, slid a smile across his lips, hoping for the best.
In an hour, he's in the yard with his 100 bags placed in front of him, shouting aloud their quality & price. His voice echoed energy, he looked consummated with hope. A couple of hours passed by & not anybody seems interested in his corn. He started to grow nervous, impatient and ironic. He could see that he & his efforts aren't going any where.
After 3 hours, a man came by, with a bag tucked safely under his arm. He was chewing beetle leaves & his mouth is thick red. As red as Rudra's face. He is spitting out the beetle extract once every minute. He seemd so business minded, cunning, smart enough to rob off framers like Rudra for unbelievable & deceivingly cheap prices. Farmers are stabbed in India.
He approached Rudra with a splenetic smile, which is sure enough to say that Rudra becomes his first scapegoat to open his till today. Rudra couldn't care less. He asked what Rudra is quoting & a skeptical Rudra yelled out '90 rupees a bag'. He laughed as if he's gone mad which is driving Rudra mad now.
'30 a bad or nothing. You see there's no other corn seller in the yard other than you. Corn sucked this season. You did a mistake by choosing it & its too late to rectify. Its a costly mistake, you see', he said in one go.
There is a terrible silence & an air of tension between the two. That man is checking his mobile phone with his left hand, trying to pluck something out of his infected mouth with a toothpick with his right one. For a moment, his two kids, their wish filled faces, his wife's involuntary stalk when he reaches home & the silent question her eyes shoot - all such things flashed across his brains. He didn't say a thing. That man took Rudra's long silence for approval. He smiled & yelled out for his boys to carry the load to their truck. He placed 3,000 rupees in Rudra's hand & walked away.
Rudra removed the folded kerchief which has been tied around his head all this while ago. He wiped his forehead & the kerchief drenched itself in the freshly wiped off sweat.
He sat down, leaned against the same pillar to which he did the last night. Numb, motionless, dumbstruck. Darkness slowly scampered. Lights went off in the yard. Ghanpur fell silent. As deafeningly silent as a graveyard.
The next day, his wife & his kids walked back out of a graveyard. Silent & hopeless. Rudra's cremation was done by the 3,000 rupees.
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