The Indian Backbone: A Farmer’s Diary

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I am a farmer whose life depends upon the land of my forefathers. For I sow the seed and reap the crop. I am called the god of food and the the mother of all humankind but today I think to end the life of the person who gives and sustains it.

I wish to die today, I wish to give away my soul for now I cannot hear the whimpers of my children at night as they sleep without food. I do not wish to be the cause of the pensive mood of my children who cannot get what they yearn. I cannot bear the fake humbleness of my wife with which she gives her food to the children, I cannot bear to see her bony structure and let her skin hang. Only because the land reaps food and not gold, only because I cannot sell the crop for that currency and provide for my family.

Here I stand in the hut, overlooking that cursed land which has cracked once again in this torrid climate. The cracks are swept under my feet looking like our lifelines, short and full of turns. The seed lies at my feet strewn across the sand, potentially unproductive. That is why I stand in front of the dangling rope today to end this hell some existence, end this life of a maggot and cease the existence of those bonds which bind me to this uneventful, sad and depressed state of being. And that is why I grasp the noose in my hands, the shade of the overhead straw-thatched roof casts the shadow in that scorching sun. The shadow in which I have cried for days before on end and salted the earth with my tears.

Then comes this day of my life which ends it straight. I must die to cleanse my sins if days past, sins of not giving the righteous caring family of mine a healthy lifestyle, and now today the noose shaped guilt suffocates me everyone I close my eyes and find their reproachful ones gazing into mine. I guess it’s time that the metaphor became a reality.

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