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Content Tip |
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Children's
Story Writing is a good creative outlet and can be used to
inspire others. |
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Rain That Never Was..Dreams That Never Were
Clear,
blue skies with a searing sun had become a regularity in Kumarappan’s
life. As he squatted on his paddy field thinking about the recent jolts he
had experienced, the pain of failure was slowly setting in.
Kumarappan was a farmer, he was never meant to be anything else. With
dutiful diligence, he had followed his ancestors’ footsteps in taking up
the family profession. The love that he cultivated in his heart for his
land, the soil it contained and the crop it heralded was unsurpassed. He
had a vision when he was young…it became his mission as he grew. The
vision was to own a piece of land. And own he did. He became the first
person in his family to harvest rice on his own land. But all that seemed
decades ago. ‘What is the use of being a good farmer if you are a failure
at becoming a good father?’ he thought. Frustration was the only feeling
he had, when he thought about Kannappan, his only son.
At the age of 6, the age
when he had started to farm, his son had shown not even the slightest
inclination towards it. Tinkering with the tools, tweaking the plough and
repairing the cycle seemed to interest him more. Not taking this aspect
seriously was a big mistake on the part of Kumarappan. When, at the age of
16, Kannappan announced that he was going to pursue diploma in mechanical
engineering, it was the first dent to his fatherhood.
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Self pride withheld him
from stopping his son’s career plans, which flummoxed him in whichever
respect he tried to see it. How could he have not fallen in love with
Mother Nature after having lived with it for so long? What more values
were there which these beautiful greeneries couldn’t teach? The earth
beneath you taught you patience; the soil it held taught you the virtues
of filtering, the good from the bad, be it impurities or even people. The
harvest on the whole taught you the value of hard work.
Even with all these
lessons staring right at his face, Kannappan had failed to grasp them.
Kumarappan was abashed at the idea of his son venturing off to some city
leaving their family tradition hanging in the balance. But he remained
stoic and continued his passion-farming- with silent vigour.
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It was about a decade
later that he received a bigger jolt, in the form of his son’s
Marriage. Marriage was something which Kumarappan once again related
to the maturity of a crop. When the seedlings are first planted in the
nursery, they grow into small shrubs which have no value as such. It
is when these shrubs are plucked and replanted in the harvest field
that they mature into a crop giving sizeable yield of paddy.
Similarly, when a girl grows up in her own house, the significant
title of womanhood is not attached to her. It is only when she marries
and enters her husband’s home that she blossoms into a woman, bearing
the burden of the family synonymous with the way mother earth bears
the burden of its children. But when his son made a lettered account
of his supposed ‘love’ in the city and his plans of marrying the girl
and settling there itself, Kumarappan knew that he had made some
serious mistakes as a father. He also knew that it was too late to
correct them.
Not only was his son breaking the family tradition of marrying inside
the clan, but he was also putting a barricade to his father’s wishes
of being a family again. Ever since his wife’s death, Kumarappan had
longed for the day when his son would marry a girl inside the clan and
get settled in their village itself, aiding him in the fields and
raising a healthy family. That day would remain a dream, he thought
sadly. |
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Compared to all these
jolts, this season’s monsoon or, to be specific, the lack of it landed him
the biggest jolt. Rain had never been his friend all these years, but it
had never been a fiend either. He had managed to reap a decent harvest
every year so far, at least a yield that would cover his loan interests
and mortgages. But, this year was different from any of the previous ones.
The scorching intensity of the sun combined with the staunch indifference
of the rain was proving to be a disaster. It was October and there were no
signs of rain. The water table was just a table, with no water to spare.
Hence the bore pump he had installed in his field failed to produce any
water for irrigation. The pride he placed on his land and his abilities as
a farmer abstained him from offering himself to work on other peoples’
fields for money.
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’30 days…’ thought
Kumarappan pensively. Only 30 days were left for harvest. His crop was
already bearing a yellowish tinge. The miniscule supply of water he got
from the government was of no use. The field, which should have been
flooded with water at this point of time, was almost dry. He would have no
other option but to sell his land if his harvest failed this season. He
would rather die, for his life was in the land. He would be a soul-less
wanderer without it. His eyes swept over his beloved field. He longed to
see the silent gushing of water through nooks and crevices in the field,
energizing the soil, filling the crop with life and fuelling his heart
with hope. But all he could see was an arid piece of terrain with almost
lifeless crop.
The pain of failure seemed to expand in his chest. His son’s negligence
towards farming coupled with his negligence towards his father…the fact
that he would never be able to play with his grand children on his own
field…the incessant absence of rain…the eventuality of selling his land.
All these demons filled his heart with excruciating pain.
It happened like an explosion…all the built up infliction seemed to tear
his chest spraying its fragments to the surroundings. As he lay on the
field clutching his chest, his eyes looked up into the vast expanse of
sky. It had become a murky grey. The last vision his eyes saw was that of
a pearl like drop making its way towards him.
As the final vapour of breath left his body, the first drops of rain hit
the scorched field sending up vapours of repressed heat…repressed
sorrow…repressed dreams…
Contributing
Story Teller Jagannath, a Mechanical Engineering
graduate. I developed an interest in short story writing after reading
Satyajit Ray's and Saki's works, both being my inspirations.
jagannath.87j@gmail.com
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