Not a speck of cloud. No sign of rain. Second year in a row. Kishan looked up at the blazing sky in despair. It appeared to be a perfect canvas of blue. Yet the farmer was in no mood to appreciate the beauty of nature. Not when it was the monsoon season, and the rains were playing hooky. Another year of drought, no crops, and the burden of one lakh and seventy thousand rupees as a loan. Taken from the money lenders. What could he tell them this time? Goosebumps pricked his saggy skin. There was nothing to do but stare at the sky with the faint hope that the expanse of blue would miraculously turn into puffs of grey, accompanied by a rumbling sound of thunder. Kishan did that, and a small prayer escaped his lips – om gan ganpathaye namaha… om gan ganpathaye namaha… om–
While Kishan continued to pray, gaze at the sky, and tend his cattle, the ground beneath him was beginning to show signs of cracks. He missed seeing the green fields he had been accustomed to since childhood. How he’d run through the carpet of green and bask in the joy of seeing his father’s face beam with happiness. He was heartbroken to see the field now look parched and lifeless. He could almost hear the brown patch of land plead to the skies for a spell of rain. He looked at his cattle and noticed how their rib cages had become more prominent as the days passed. Kishan had lost almost all hope about the arrival of rain. Usually, the rains were punctual, and the month of Shravan (associated with the arrival of the monsoon rains in India) was already here. Perhaps the rain Gods were angry. Nature’s wrath was hurting him and his friends.
He wondered what his plight would have been if he had migrated to the city, like his friends had. Would he enjoy working as a factory laborer? Toiling in someone else’s land? And there was his wife, Gita, pestering him to move, saying she could work as a maid. Would she enjoy scrubbing floors in someone else’s home? While he missed his friends, he realized he would miss waking up to the rooster crowing in the morning. He would miss tending his cattle, looking at the skies, and watching his crops flourish with Bhuvan, his eight-year-old son. He felt a surge of energy rushing through his veins just thinking about his land.
How could he even entertain the thought of leaving it behind? Utter blasphemy! His eyes filled with tears at the mere thought. His land was his identity, soul, and connection to his ancestors. And that promise he had made to babuji? He had to convince Gita too. He couldn’t blame her for grumbling about the scarcity of resources, food, and Bhuvan’s future. Sometimes he felt useless for not being able to provide for his family adequately. And he wondered if his friends were happy in the city. And then he thought about his other friends who had left behind wailing infants and widows beating their chests loudly. What a sad plight. For a moment, Kishan had a fleeting thought. He wondered for the umpteenth time if the afterlife was the only place he could find solace. And then he smacked himself for letting in another set of blasphemous thoughts. He had always been advised to bide his time in tough times. Hadn’t his father told him that several times? Even until his last breath.
*
“Beta, promise me whatever you do, you’ll never sell this land,” his father said.
“I won’t, babuji,” Kishan clutched his father’s hand. He watched his father take hoarse breaths, his body weak after the flu attack and the numerous failed remedies.
“This land . . .” his father coughed. “This land is more than just mud and dirt. It’s an inherent part of you, part of your ancestors.”
He coughed more while Kishan tenderly stroked his father’s chest. Tears poured down his face.
“Don’t cry. You will face turbulent times, but it won’t be the end.”
“Babuji…I won’t sell the land.”
His father coughed incessantly and then stopped. Kishan watched his father’s eyes close, and his body became still.
Kishan whispered, “I promise, Babuji, I’ll never sell the land.”
*
Beads of perspiration began to form on his forehead and trickled down his neck. How could he repay the loan of one lakh and seventy thousand rupees? He wiped his sweat with the cloth he had tied around his head. A rumbling sound occurred. Kishan patted his stomach and sighed. All he had eaten since morning was a piece of roti and a small cup of milk. He noticed how the sacks which used to store atta (flour), onions, and potatoes in his house gradually depleted and shrank in size. Wrinkles formed on his forehead as he frowned. He felt his hollow, emaciated, and gaunt cheekbones with his fingers. He had noticed his reflection in the well behind his hut that morning. He remembered how his black hair had turned into a patch of white, making him appear forty years old, although he was a decade younger.
What was going to happen to his family? How will they get food? And what about his cattle? Suddenly, Kishan noticed the shadows growing in size around him. He looked up to see the sun reaching the other side. Soon it would disappear behind those mountains, leaving a streak of pink in the sky. Birds would soon fly back to their nests. It was time to return home, where Gita and Bhuvan would be waiting for him. He began to herd his cattle together. The two sturdy oxen, with their long thick horns, looked intimidating. They looked as though they could scare even evil spirits away. Only Kishan knew, however, how gentle they were underneath their tough exteriors. He patted their backs, just like he patted Bhuvan on the back. He left his two cows and calves to wander and graze whatever remained on the land. Kishan looked up at the sky one last time and uttered the prayer again. Surely God would listen to his pleas and shower the land with rain?
He trudged back barefoot with his white dhoti wrapped around him like a curtain. His right hand clasped a stick that he used to drive away anyone or anything that troubled his cattle. So far today, there hadn’t been any reason for him to lift his stick except to drive away a few stray dogs. They would occasionally come, bare their teeth, snarl, and growl. A gentle raise of his stick usually made them scurry away like frightened rabbits. He soon reached his humble, brick-and-mortar, thatch-roofed house. As he walked, his gaze fell on a big tree outside his house, whose branches spread in a manner that felt like an embrace. He believed that the spirits of his ancestors resided within the tree and sought comfort from the fact that they guided him during times of turmoil.
Kishan sat under the tree while his cattle roamed around it. He thought about those days when he’d accompany his father to the fields and tend to the cattle. And when he’d feel like a grown-up while accompanying his father to the Kholapur Mandi, watch him bargain with the traders for a reasonable price. His father’s face would beam with pride as they would bring in the largest produce among all the farmers. The traders wasted no time in showering praises on his father. Sometimes they’d hand Kishan a sweet or two, which he’d munch on the journey back to the village. There were times when he’d seen his father endure trouble, and those traders would come to his aid with loans. He’d seen his father sign some papers. Luckily, the weather Gods favored his father, who would repay the loan with interest. The same luck favored him, too, except during the past two years, until that day, when the men came to see him, and he watched them eye his land. That unmistakable look of hunger in their eyes was something he had never seen before.
“Your land will be your savior,” they’d said. At first, Kishan didn’t understand. “You can always count on it to fetch a fortune.” But why would he want to sell his land? “You never know,” they smiled. Only then did he realize the traders, whom he had considered angels, wanted to seize his land at the first opportunity.
The cattle shifted restlessly, and Kishan knew it was time for their routine. He went to the small shed next to the hut, where the cattle rested at night, and began his regular cleaning routine. He talked to them while he gently scrubbed them.
“So, Munna, you worked hard today. What would I do without you?” The white ox perked its ears and shook its head. Kishan turned to the other brown ox. “Raja, you and Munna are my pillars of strength. I just wish nature wasn’t so cruel to us.” Just then, a white calf with big brown eyes made a noise. “What is it, Mini?” Kishan asked gently. The calf nuzzled its head against his leg, and he leaned down and stroked her gently. Her mother, Rani, stood there watching him, blinking as she continued chewing. The other cow, Tani, stood in a corner with her calf, Mani. Kishan could feel their gazes on him as though they were waiting for reassurance.
“I know these are tough times. But this, too, shall pass. My father said that a farmer needs to endure such phases,” Kishan said. He finished scrubbing his oxen and poured some water on their backs. The cold water from the almost empty well would ease their tired muscles. How hard they plowed the fields despite not getting enough to eat! The fear of his cattle being reduced to skeletons made his eyes heavy with tears. He clumsily wiped a tear using the back of his hand. He began conversing with them again. “You must have a good sleep tonight. Let’s hope that tomorrow is a better day. Hope is the only thing we can cling to. Sleep tight, my beautiful ones. I’ll see you in the morning.” He patted each of them before he made his way toward the hut.
He noticed how the pink streak in the sky was gradually converting into ink blue. He could hear the chirrup of the insects. His heart skipped a beat when he noticed a slithering movement near the tree. He breathed a sigh of relief, realizing it was just a garden lizard making its rounds. Then he saw a silhouette at the entrance of his hut. He could identify the familiar veiled head and the wiry body, with her hair tied in a bun. Gita fanned herself with the pallu of her sari. Her breathing was rapid, and her eyes were red. He noticed how much weight she had lost and the haggard look on her face, which used to possess a certain glow before. She wore a mangalsutra – a gold chain with black beads hung around her neck, which she twisted around her fingers. He became aware of the streaks of grey in her hair. He felt sorry, thinking about her plight, and wished their troubles would end.
“About time,” Gita slammed the plate of rotis on the floor.
“It was a long and hot day,” Kishan wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Hard day for the cattle as well.”
“The men were here,” Gita toyed with her green sari.
“Let’s eat first,” Kishan sat down wearily.
He rested his back against the wall separating their hut’s front and back. A few sacks, vessels, and pans were beside him on the floor. He noticed a tiny spark coming from the small stove of dried cow dung. A roti was almost getting burnt to a crisp, and he signaled to Gita, who hurriedly smacked the roti with her hands after removing it from the stove to put out the fire. He was puzzled at her disposition, as she was usually attentive when cooking. He noticed her glancing at the picture of Ganesha and then at the back of the hut, where there were three sleeping mats. He saw her rummaging through their clothes, loosely piled in a heap in one corner. Gita muttered something about not finding a cloth and went to their backyard, which extended into the forest area. He was worried about Gita going outside when it was dark. He heaved a sigh of relief when she entered the hut again with a piece of cloth. The roti was half burnt, and Kishan chewed slowly, resembling how cows masticated their food.
“They are coming back tomorrow,” Gita said.
Kishan felt as if someone had planted a massive stone in his chest. What will the men say? What will they do to him? His breathing became rapid, and he almost choked.
“Can I have some water?” Kishan sighed. Gita poured water into a glass from a clay pot and slammed it on the floor. Kishan gulped it down.
“I know some good buyers for the land,” Gita stressed.
“The mud in the fields felt like ash today.”
“That’s how our life is now.”
“Not again, Gita. Where is Bhuvan?”
“Asleep. Do you know how scared he was on seeing those men?”
“The rains will come. It’s just a matter of time.”
“Our livelihood will not depend on the rains if we move to the city.”
“Will you be happy working as a maid, Gita?”
“Housekeeper. I’ll be working as a housekeeper! Are you happy being at the mercy of those brutal moneylenders? Don’t you care about Bhuvan’s education? Don’t you care about me?”
“I do care about both of you. We will be happy….”
“Over your dead body, Kishan?”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I don’t mean… I don’t want you to…,” Gita mumbled and bit her lip.
She clutched her mangalsutra. Kishan watched her press the sacred symbol of their marriage against her forehead, close her eyes and chant a small prayer. Kishan knew that Gita never took off the chain, even during bathing, for fear of losing such a valuable ornament. He felt guilty, thinking about his promise to her parents, who had been reputed schoolteachers in the village. Illness consumed them both, and he had promised them on their deathbed that no inconvenience would befall Gita. He heard an owl hoot outside and a dog bark loudly at some distance. He noticed that a lizard had found its way into the hut, and he watched it climb up the wall, stick out a tongue, and gulp down a fly.
“The village is turning into a ghost town,” Gita whispered.
“Maybe we’ll see clouds tomorrow. Dark, grey clouds. Just like old times.”
“Why aren’t you listening to me? We have no time. Would you rather part with the land respectfully or have it snatched from you, Kishan? The cattle must be sold too,” Gita threw her hands up in exasperation.
Kishan felt a sharp pain, like someone had stabbed him with a sword and ripped his heart into pieces. He placed his right hand over his chest.
“Have you forgotten how they gave us their share of milk every morning?”
“This is no time for emotions or sentiments.”
“Will you please, please, please understand my feelings, Gita?”
“And watch those men butcher you?”
“It’s just a matter of time.”
“We don’t have time.” Gita pranced up and down the hut. “A lot of people are fine and have moved on. Look at my sister and Jijaji. They are happy now.”
“You don’t understand my sentiments, do you, Gita?”
Gita began to scrub the plates furiously.
“Quiet. You’ll wake Bhuvan,” Kishan tried to pacify her. His face turned red, and his muscles tensed. His hands shook, and he clenched his fists. “Please understand, we must be like slaves in the city, Gita.”
Gita stopped scrubbing the plates and looked at him.
“It’s better than being at the mercy of those brutal money lenders.”
Kishan said nothing but simply looked around at the shrinking sacks of atta and potatoes. For a long time, silence lingered between him and Gita. He sullenly gazed at the view outside the hut and at the tree. He had half a mind to sit under the tree and mull over his heated conversation with Gita. But the thought of a predator roaming the village restrained him from venturing outside. In just a few hours, the sky would change colors. How he hoped he’d see those grey clouds again. Gita stood up and went to the back of the hut where Bhuvan slept peacefully. She picked up their belongings and began to pack them into bundles and bags.
“What are you doing, Gita?”
Gita looked outside. “Getting ready to leave. The men will be here soon.”
“Is this what you really want?”
“You should have seen their faces today.”
Outside, the rooster crowed. Darkness paved the way for the illuminating golden rays of the sun. Bhuvan stirred in his sleep.
“But will we really be happy there, Gita?”
“Nothing wrong with the city. Things will be fine.”
Kishan didn’t say anything. His gaze fell upon Gita’s mangalsutra, and a sudden thought occurred.
“What if you pledge that chain, and then maybe I can repurchase it once …?”
Gita’s face clouded in anger as she realized the import of Kishan’s scathing suggestion. She threw the bundle of clothes on the floor.
“If you don’t want to, you don’t have to. Please forgive me, Gita. I am unable to make sense of anything.” Kishan picked up the bundle and handed it back to her.
By then, Bhuwan had woken up. He rubbed his eyes sleepily. Kishan beckoned him over.
“Come here, beta. How are you feeling today?”
“Better, Babuji.”
“The cattle missed you yesterday. Even I did …”
Kishan’s voice trailed away at the sight of Gita’s pale face. Her voice shook as she pointed at a cloud of dust visible some distance away. With every ticking minute, the dark cloud was moving closer. Gita closed her eyes and uttered a prayer. Om gan ganpathaye namaha . . . Om gan ganpathaye namaha . . . om gan ganpathaye namaha . . . She fanned herself vigorously. Bhuvan looked confused, while Kishan wiped his forehead with his hand. Together they watched the sturdy, tall, muscular figures approaching, with faces sporting long thick mustaches and bushy eyebrows. Wearing pants and cotton shirts, they strutted with an air of confidence. A man amongst them, in a black shirt, was smoking a Gold Flake King cigarette. Kishan’s heart fluttered like a thousand moths flapping their wings, and his legs felt weighed down by some force beneath the ground. His breathing became hoarse like his father’s had on his deathbed. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he was about to die.
“Ah, there you are, Kishan. It’s about time,” the man in the black shirt said.
A cloud of smoke blew into Kishan’s face. He coughed and began to perspire. He clutched his son and whispered to him.
“Just take out the cattle and tend to them. ”
“Babuji . . .”
“Please, beta. Do as I say.”
Bhuvan nodded and went outside.
“Kishan,” the man with the black shirt held a sheaf of papers. “You took a loan two years ago. You were supposed to repay it in installments. Pay up with interest, or else . . .” Two men surrounded Kishan. Gita watched with terror, while Kishan prostrated himself at the man’s feet.
“Saab, please understand. There have been no rains for two years.”
One of the men pulled Kishan up and held him by the neck.
“You are left with no choice but to sign these papers.”
“No, Saab, no. Please. Please try to understand. This land is my life. My promise to Babuji.”
Tears flowed down Kishan’s gaunt face. He did not attempt to wipe them.
“I will sell myself, but I won’t sell my land. Don’t be heartless, Saab. Have mercy on our plight. We don’t have a morsel to eat. I have a son. My cattle are getting weaker and dying.”
The man in the black shirt dropped his cigarette on the floor. He crushed it with his foot. Smoke still emanated from it. He lit another one.
“Do you want to die as well?”
“I would rather die than give up the land.” Kishan wept, his eyes turning red.
If he cried anymore, blood would trickle down his cheeks instead of tears. He began to cough even more as the man blew little clouds of smoke into his face. He watched Gita clutch her mangalsutra while the man in the black shirt tried to get Kishan’s fingerprint on the papers. Kishan saw Gita cover her face in horror. She rushed inside and came back with some water. Another man, wearing a white shirt, was now reasoning with him.
“Look, Kishan, you are in serious debt. Selling your land will save you from all this trouble. We have no choice but to force you to sign these papers.”
Kishan leaned against the wall. One of the men lunged forward, but the man in the white shirt stopped him.
“We were on good terms with your father and grandfather. Don’t force us to do something we’ll regret later, ” said the man in the white shirt.
The images of Rani, Tani, Mani and Mini flashed across his mind. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. Gita handed him some water, which he gulped weakly. Outside, the sun had reached its highest position in the sky. Kishan could see Bhuvan tending to the cattle waiting for their owner. The ears of the oxen drooped, and the cows stood lazily under the tree, with the calves snuggling up to them.
Kishan’s voice sounded strange as he feebly said, “Take my cattle.”
He could feel Gita stare at him in disbelief. The men exchanged glances with one another. Finally, the man in the black shirt spoke.
“Call your son. Let’s see how much your cattle will fetch you.”
Kishan stumbled outside and called out to Bhuvan, who immediately nudged the cattle. Kishan watched the men scrutinize his four-legged family and discuss in hushed tones with one another.
“The cattle will fetch you a good price, but you can only clear 50 percent of your debts. What about the rest?”
“Saab, if the rains come . . .”
“No, Kishan, we cannot give you more time. Two years was the agreement.” One of the men grasped Kishan’s hand forcibly and held it tightly.
“Babuji . . .” Bhuvan cried.
One of the men shoved Kishan. He fell to the ground and hit his chin against a stone. Blood oozed out, and he cupped his hand on his chin. He saw Gita gasp in horror, and she rushed towards him, tearing a piece from her sari. Kishan’s eyes fell on Gita’s mangalsutra, feeling a heady rush of pain, blood and tears. His head swelled as he watched the beaded chain dance before him. He felt that it was almost begging him to get rid of it. Was it speaking to him, telling him his problems would be solved? All sorts of voices played in his head. Maybe he should offer the mangalsutra to these greedy men. Images of his dying father, his land with green fertile crops, and his cattle danced before him. Logic eluded him. All he could think about was his land, cattle, and ancestors. He could buy another chain for Gita, couldn’t he? It’s not as though their marriage would be any less sacred without the mangalsutra. He could explain this to Gita. Before he could change his mind, he uttered loudly.
“Saab, I will give you her mangalsutra—pure gold. Will fetch you a fortune,” Kishan cried.
He saw Gita’s face and hands freeze. A piece of her green sari was held to the wound on Kishan’s chin. She let go of it, and the drops of blood trickled onto the floor. The brown of the hut floor was stained with dark red spots. The men stared at Kishan in surprise.
“Are you sure about that, Kishan?” the man in the white shirt spoke up.
“Please don’t take my land, Saab.”
“But Kishan . . .”
“This is all I have,” and Kishan folded his hands.
The men once again spoke in hushed tones.
“Even then, Kishan, it all adds up to only one lakh rupees. What about the remaining seventy thousand rupees? We have no choice but to take part of your land.” The man in the white shirt forcibly took Kishan’s thumbprint on the papers. Kishan muttered an apology to his ancestors, stating that he had no choice and promised to buy back that piece of land.
Kishan looked at Gita, who stared at him, aghast. Wordlessly, she handed over her mangalsutra. Her eyelids grew moist with unshed tears, anger in her expression. There was a strange blaze in her eyes that Kishan had never seen before. “Sorry, Gita,” he muttered. “I’ll make it up to you. Please don’t hold this against me. Give me another chance to make amends.” She just stared at him wordlessly. The men took the mangalsutra and dragged away the cattle, which resisted and mooed the entire way. Kishan patted his four-legged family for the last time, tears trickling down his face. They looked at him with confusion in their eyes.
“Sorry, my beautiful ones,” was all he could say. “Forgive me.”
The departing image of the men and the cattle diminished as they moved away from the hut. The cloud of dust dissipated gradually. Gita dragged Bhuvan inside the hut while Kishan sat under the tree and wept. He lost track of the sun, which moved across the horizon. He failed to notice that the sky had turned pink or the birds were flying back to their nests. He hardly noticed the sky turning inky blue later, nor did he hear the insects starting to chirrup. The cattle were conspicuous by their absence. Gita and Bhuvan had already retired to bed when he entered the hut again. He reached out with his arm to shake Gita awake.
“Gita, I’m . . .”
“There is nothing left to say, Kishan.”
“Gita, our marriage will always be sacred, with or without the chain.”
“Mangalsutra, Kishan.”
“Gita, please understand. I’ll buy you a better chain once things improve.”
“It might be just a chain to you, but for me, its worth is something you’ll never understand.”
“But Gita . . .”
“I don’t want to hear another word.”
What could he say or do? Kishan retreated to the empty cattle shed and stared at its emptiness for a while before he broke down. Replaying the events of that day in his head, tears flowed down his face. He lay on a haystack, his mind running through his cleaning routine with the cattle. He hoped that he could somehow convince Gita. It would take days, months even. But he hoped she would understand his point of view someday. He would shower her with extra love and even cook meals for them if required. His eyelids began to feel heavy, and before he realized it, he drifted off to sleep. Dreams of Gita’s anguished face, the men’s angry faces, and Bhuvan’s quizzical face haunted him. A part of him felt relieved of no longer having to bear the loan burden. Yet, another part of him ached at the thought of Gita’s wrath because he sold her mangalsutra. Kishan shivered, and his teeth began to chatter. He tossed and turned. He began to hear different sounds in his sleep – the cattle mooing, Bhuvan crying, and then the rooster crowing. Suddenly he woke up with a jolt. He was surprised that it was unusually dark inside the cattle shed. How long had it been? Was it still night? He quickly got up to rush to the hut. Gita and Bhuvan would wonder about his whereabouts.
When he stepped outside, he blinked in surprise. It was morning. The blue canvas was replaced with a shade of grey. He stared open-mouthed as water dripped from his thatched roof. The rain kissed the parched ground. His heart did a little leap of joy within his chest. His prayers had been answered! He looked up at the heavens, folded his hands, and muttered a prayer of gratitude. He could grow his crops on the remaining land that he still owned. Next year, they will be in a better situation. He rushed inside the hut. Only when he went to the back of the hut did he notice that two sleeping mats were missing. Only his pile of clothes remained. The sight of the empty hut struck him like a bolt. He collapsed on the floor, clutching his head with both his hands. Even before he could get a chance to make amends, she had left him. He knew Gita was furious but never thought she would leave him. What use was life without Gita and Bhuvan? Where would he go to find them?
He looked at the dark clouds, which continued to gather outside. The rains lashed down furiously. Lightning struck and was followed by the rumbling of thunder. While the storm raged outside, another storm was brewing inside Kishan’s head. He had lost his cattle and now his family. If only he could get an opportunity to get Gita and Bhuvan back . . . The rains were here; he could cultivate his land like his father and make money. He could even buy his cattle back, but not his family. He felt an ache in his heart, his head spun, and he fell to the ground. He looked at the tree outside, sensing the spirits of his ancestors beckoning him.
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(Photo: Christiaan Kuun/flickr.com/ CC BY 2.0)
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- The Dark Cloud by Swetha Amit - August 3, 2023