The paddy fields on the edge of the village have turned a lush green. Above, the sky of Asadha month is a deep blue—sometimes clouds drift by, casting fleeting shadows. Here and there, patches of white clouds float dreamily, and when the sun sinks behind them, the light softens, falling gently upon the earth. Far in the distance, amidst groves of trees, the outlines of villages blur into the horizon. The wind blows steadily, carrying with it the scent of the fields. Over this green expanse, the air is heavy with life. The sky seems endlessly high, endlessly blue. Looking upon this handiwork of man upon the earth, one feels a strange awe, as if the heart itself wishes to dwell in this home forever.

Across this expanse, here and there, in the midst of the fields, a few dark creatures can be seen, busy at their work. Somewhere, a flock of birds pecks at the ground; elsewhere, a fox or a jackal prowls—rising from the fields, they vanish into the distant village groves. The eyes do not notice the dark creatures nestled at the roots of the paddy plants. Just as these birds fly from field to field, just as the sun moves across the sky—so too, these creatures are eternal. There is no end to them, no season of rain, no winter, no summer—throughout the year, they live in this one world, day after day, in the same way. Time passes, unchanging. Sometimes, for a moment, they might wish for a different life, but they cannot become anything else—neither can they grow hands to plough, nor wear fine clothes. For this reason, they are not men, but creatures of the earth. They eat soil, their mother is the earth itself—their only attire is the dust of the fields—from birth to death.

Born in the middle, sleeps in the middle, rises, sits, toils in the middle— If the mother feeds, only then do four sons survive—

Among these creatures, the bullock is the chief from birth till death— In the yoke, it grinds the earth, from the village to the threshing floor it drags the load, On its head rests the yoke’s burden...

Man of the Soil

The broken paddy lies scattered at the roots of the plants. From time to time, a crow or a vulture lands with a sudden flap on the muddy field, searching for food—there is no hope, no chaff—nothing. Their eyes can no longer see, their ears can no longer hear, their tongues have forgotten the taste of speech—dark, blind, mute. The suffering of the dust, they do not understand; the dust cannot speak its pain—helpless, dumb, like cattle. For no reason or for some reason, the burden of five mountains falls on their backs, the cows grow thin, the calves are not allowed to graze on the grass or the leaves—there is no escape from misfortune.

Jadu is threshing at the edge of the field—writing on the earth—nearby, he is choosing the best