By Anirudh Khatavkar
That day, worry was visible on Babuji’s face. Mataji and Babuji were talking in very low voices, sitting on the cot in the courtyard. I thought of going to the ground and playing with my friends, but my curiosity to listen to Babuji’s words stopped me. Upon asking Babuji what the problem was, he lovingly turned down my request. Still, on my repeated insistence, he made me sit beside him. After my insistence once more, he began talking about the incident that happened in the morning.
His best friend, whom I called Dinu Kaka, had his farms interfered with by a moneylender. The moneylender seized the land because Dinu Kaka could not repay the money he had taken from the moneylender to pay the tax increased by the British government. Babuji began to reminisce about his childhood days when all the farmers in the village grew food grains for themselves and their families and saved the surplus produce for future drought conditions. But due to the British government, the farmers had to cultivate only indigo, cotton, and opium according to their wishes. This was done so that the British could obtain cash crops. Farmers were unable to grow bajra, jowar, and pulses for their livelihood. The plight of most farmers in the village was worsening. I carried Babuji’s concerns inside me. Some of Babuji’s friends were even committing suicide due to debt. After saying this, Babuji started crying bitterly.
Suddenly, my hands felt wet on the pillow. I was drenched in sweat, woke up, and suddenly sat up in bed. I looked around the room, and Babuji was reading newspaper with a sip of tea as per his daily habit.
“Hey Jatin! Have you woken up? Why is sweat shining on your face? You have a history test today, right? Don’t you want to go to school?”
It took me a few moments to come back to reality. I thought in my mind, was this all a dream? Just then, the sound of Dinu Kaka’s tractor stopping came from outside.
“Jatin! This time there has been a bumper crop of mustard. To sell the same, your Babuji and I are going to the grain market, and then we have to arrange seeds and fertilizers for sowing corn.”
Smiling a little at Dinu Kaka’s words, I reassured myself that it was just a nightmare. Realising the plight of the farmers during British rule, I silently walked towards the courtyard. Today, in free India, like my Babuji and Dinu Kaka, farmers can do their farming. Today, I realised how sweet the taste of freedom is.
