Rains whip the soil: silent yet strong.
Rains cover for my tears, from all the stares.
I can’t spare myself from the stares completely, though,
I can’t leave everything and run away to the farthest place, though,
I can’t be courageous enough to face everything, too, though,
Because I am, the Son of a Farmer.
So I sit.
I sit and I think.
I think and I recall.
I recall and I cry.
I cry and I run into the Rains.
Rains, that cover for my tears.
My Father, The Farmer.
The Farmer who made it sweat and blood to green the fields.
The Farmer, who worked endlessly to feed him and his family and even others.
The Farmer, who never mastered the skills of trade.
My Father, The Farmer, who thus succumbed on his own.
That year, the Rains weren’t bountiful.
It resulted into a severe draught.
I missed seeing the green fields so much,
But The Farmer, had greater worries.
The Draught was merciless.
It provided no crop to reap, no grain to gather, no harvest to sell.
No sell, and No money.
No crop, and a hell lot to worry…
For there was a loan,
A loan to be repaid.
And there were aspirations,
Aspirations of My Father to see his son grow big, and grow literate.
But the Draught had other intentions.
It made The Farmer plead to the Landlord.
It made The Farmer beg to the others for money.
It made The Farmer defamed, and cursed, and hated.
None helped My Father,
None granted Money or even support.
And all those wicked Kings men and Landlords,
They took away the fields, the home and the dignity of My Father.
For The Farmer was claimed to be a Drunkard,
A drunkard who lived on loans for his habit.
“DRUNKARD” was written on the walls of The Farmer’s home, his face colored black,
And was cast away from the village,
The Village thus claimed to be prevented from undesirable people.
My Father, The Farmer.
The Farmer who fed the village.
The Farmer, who was now undesirable.
My Father, The Loser.
We all went away from the Village with The Loser.
The Loser and we stayed in cottage by the outskirts,
Devising and thinking of methods to repay the loan,
And make The Loser, The Farmer once again.
But it never happened,
The Loser hanged himself a day later.
And took My Father, The Farmer, with him.
All hopes shattered, I ran for the Rain.
And Rain came at last,
Not from the heavens, but from me.
It poured down through the eyelashes, down on the soil.
Silent, yet Strong.
I told you, I recall, and I cry.
It’s been a year,
And the draught is over.
The Rains are not greening the fields,
And are covering for my tears.
Rains whip the soil: silent yet strong.
Rains cover for my tears, from all the stares.
I can’t sit and think and recall and cry, though,
I can’t grow big and grow literate, though,
I can’t fulfill My Father’s aspirations, though,
For I’ve Mouths to feed and Money to earn,
For I can’t be anyone else apart from this,
Because, I am, The Son-of-a-Farmer.
