30 Harvest Time
There’s an ever-changing aspect to the countryside as crops grow, mature, and are harvested, and then a new crop takes its place, and it’s been a joy to watch this process in the ashram’s fields. There are just a couple of acres under cultivation here, and when I first arrived the main crops planted were groundnut, and soya bean intercropped with maize. Following the end of the monsoon we had the late Indian summer of September-October, during which time the crops ripened, and the latter field was full and golden, a delight to see in the evening light as I did walking meditation. When the crop was ready, some brothers who were in the area came and helped us take in the harvest, first with the soya bean, which when later it was gathered together, made a fine stack; then we went and stripped the maize of its cobs before cutting the stalks down. At a stroke the whole scenery had changed. Later the groundnut was ploughed up, and we seemed to spend endless mornings and evenings picking the nuts from the furrows, no matter how many times we had been over the land there always seemed to be more, and months later, after the next crop was planted, the crafty crow was still finding a packet or two on the land.
fall sets in
nights grow long
trees and grass
turn gold of hue
shades so rich
sign their end
out they go
in blaze of glory
days get short
life gives way
old now dies
so new may be
After the harvest the land was given a good ploughing over, and part of it planted with jak and rosewood trees, and then intercropped with channa, or chickpea. The main part of the land under cultivation was sown with the winter crop of wheat, and within a few days the brown of the land had once more turned green as this quick-growing cereal sprang up. Soon the greenery was to be seen swaying back and forth in the gentle winter breeze, and it was a lovely sight.
O where is Sundari
where has she gone
you know who I mean:
that pretty one
I search here and there
I look all around
but my little friend
can nowhere be found
I sit back and wait
but waiting’s in vain
my beauty has flown
I’ll not see her again
she was ate by a snake
who took her for supper
or maybe a falcon
made short work of her
O where is Sundari,
my pretty, my dove
she’s gone to my Lord
in the heavens above