20 The Fields
[Deshgoan, Khandwa] There is a village here, which lies on one side of the river, while the ashram and the peasants’ land is on the other side. In the morning the ox-carts are to be heard fording the river as the villagers start a new day in the fields. Once across there is a large cart road that heads north into the countryside for some distance, eventually leading to the next village in the interior. The ruts that were formed by the ox-carts when the rains were here have now hardened, making the track, or tracks – for there are several of them – uneven and cumbersome, even for the primitive traffic that uses the path. Lining the road, and indeed studded throughout the landscape, are Mowa trees which, when in flower, provide the farmers with a reputably strong liquor, as well as with oil. Traditionally each of the trees belongs to the person who planted it, and even if the land is sold they retain the right to its produce.
Some of the land is government owned and is used as common pasture land by the villagers, and small herds of buffalo and goats roam around looking for grass. The barren land is punctuated by thorn bushes and cactii which stand out tall and green, protected as they are from the attention of grazing animals. Farming is a family activity here and children do their bit keeping watch on the animals, while the adults engage in more labourious work. In fact, though, the animals more or less look after themselves, and the children are more interested in their games; groups of them gather in a circle to encourage pairs of youngsters in their wrestling.
On either side of the road lies the farmers’ land; maybe a small holding of about a few acres, as much as a peasant and his family can comfortably manage, sometimes one family has been able to accumulate more, and the headman of the village who recently died owned over 60 acres. The most common crops to be seen are maize and soybean, groundnut, dill, and cotton.
There is only one monsoon in this part of the country and that started late this year, heavy rains arriving only in August. It’s now the beginning of September, which sees the end of the monsoon, and crops which should be well on the way to maturity, lie stunted in growth, in some cases only a few inches above ground. If they survive they will be ready for harvest only very late, probably too late to put in the usual winter crop of wheat.
After a mile or so there is a plateau, the highest point around, and from there the unbroken plains of central India stretch to the horizon on all sides. To the west the sky is blue and dotted with white clouds, while to the south and east rain clouds gather promising more that they will deliver as they ponderously pursue their course. As the sun descends a bush-lark courts it’s mate in characteristic fashion, climbing to a height and closing it’s wings, it falls back towards earth uttering a long whistle as it goes, it breaks it’s fall before disaster strikes, and repeats the performance time and again. The sound of tin bells tied to goats’ necks blends with the evening birdsong and the voices of children playing. In the distance the green orchards of the Hermit’s Wood stand out on the plains.