IDHAR UDHAR KI BAAT 156 -T SHIRT WALA FARMER Brig PS Gothra (Retd)

     

"You can't understand the miseries of a farmer. After all, no one in your family has ever been a Kissan.”

     My host made this observation over lunch at a five-star hotel. I was still recovering from the shock of seeing the menu prices when his remark brought me back to my senses.

     He was wearing a T-shirt displaying a magnificent tractor fitted with speakers large enough to address an election rally. The speakers proclaimed, “NO FARMERS, NO FOOD, NO FUTURE.”

   I felt guilty. My great grandfather had sold our agricultural land, thereby depriving three generations of our family of the moral qualifications to discuss farming.

    Fortunately, the waiter arrived with our food, giving me an opportunity to contemplate the farmer's miseries.

     The Bhindi Masala reminded me of the terrible itching caused by the tiny hairs on the plant while harvesting it. The chapati brought visions of a farmer threshing wheat in the scorching heat of May, with dust and chaff entering his eyes, nose, ears and practically every opening God had provided in the human body.

     Then there were sugarcane leaves cutting the farmer's arms, chillies burning his fingers and paddy fields shrivels and wrinkles his feet submerged in muddy water for hours.

I shuddered.

    My great grandfather had certainly shown remarkable foresight. By selling our land, he had ensured that his descendants would suffer from income tax rather than itching, cuts and muddy feet.

    I continued eating, chewing my food and my insult and guilt together.

    “Tea or coffee after lunch?” my host asked.

    “Tea,” I replied.

Another mistake.

    I imagined women plucking tea leaves on slippery hillsides, their fingers aching while leeches enjoyed a free breakfast on their ankles. Coffee growers battled insects and damp undergrowth. Cardamom growers spent hours bending to collect tiny capsules while mosquitoes collected their share of blood.

     And here was I, sitting in an air-conditioned room, occasionally complaining, “Chai mein dum nahin hai. Thodi kadak banao.”

    I looked admiringly at my host. He was enjoying his lunch with the satisfaction of a man who had already discharged his responsibility towards the farming community by purchasing the appropriate T-shirt.

    Meanwhile, the fish on my plate reminded me of the hard life of fishermen.

    “Yeh clear karo,” my host instructed the waiter.

    I looked up. Half a chapati, some dal, a generous helping of sabzi and nearly half the fish remained on his plate.

   “Didn't you like the food?” I asked.

   “Loved it. Excellent!”

  “Then why leave so much?”

   “Arre Tipu, I cannot afford to overeat. One must look after one's health.”

    “Then why take so much?”

He looked surprised.

    “What's the problem? I paid for it.”

    The waiter hesitated.

    “Sir, shall I pack the remaining food?”

    “Rehne do. Itna sa khana kaun le jayega?”

    I remembered a line from the Taittiriya Upanishad:

    “अन्नं न निन्द्यात्।” — Do not disparage food.

    Apparently, our ancestors had forgotten to mention five-star hotels.

    The farmer had done his duty by producing the food. My host had done his by paying for it.

    The dustbin, apparently, was expected to do the eating.