Interdependence: Vignettes Of An Indian Farmer, Summer 2020

The farmer wakes up before the first streaks of scarlet have tinged the sky

loads his rickshaw with gourds, melons, okras and eggplants

While the village lights still dim and 

the reflection of the pearlescent moon still rippling in the Ganges River. 

In my imaginings, the air is silent, punctuated by the screeching of crows- as he bikes the 40 mile journey past villages and banyan trees, empty bus stops and train stations to the city of Kolkata.

I wonder if he occupies himself by making up stories to tell his children, the thought of their giggles bringing a light to his eyes and a smile to his lips. 

I can see the moonlight painting buildings in shades of muted gray and smudged charcoal

I can breathe in the lingering scent of night jasmine which perfumes the air, mingling with the smell of incense from morning prayer, as he follows the twisting ribbon of roads approaching the city. 

Perhaps, he arrives by dawn, 

as Kolkata wakes from its slumber, an ephemeral stillness split by the rising sun. 

In my blurred recollections of the city, the ink-drawn buildings are bathed in soft orange pastels, morning fog clears revealing graffiti on broken brick buildings and silhouettes of palm trees swaying against sleek five-star hotels. 

But in these times, the streets are unrecognizable: only a few passersby hurry on their divergent paths, faces masked.

I’ve seen the pictures of markets, looking as deserted as ghost towns, silent without the echoing of boisterous customers bartering with vendors

The glowing screens advertising designer dresses for parties and weddings now postponed, and the billboards for canceled tours are all reminders of a world at pause. 

In this new normal, the farmer comes to the people who cannot come to the market. 

Beyond the facade of urban high-rises, he goes to flats, narrow alleys and gullies-- to the homes of the elderly, like my grandparents--delivering burlap bags of vegetables on their verandas and doorsteps, bringing the market to them so they will not have to risk their lives doing so.

These acts of kindness do not go unnoticed- the smile in their eyes convey gratitude that blue mesh coverings cannot conceal. 

But for every picture I paint, there’s another side to the story:

For his goodwill is also about his survival

His struggles are relentless, so he has no choice but to be resilient

This is a job first and benevolence is only a benefit

Because by the time he reaches the city, the sweltering July sun is burning, the midday heat is blistering and his feet are calloused from pedaling for hours on cracked asphalt and uneven earthen paths 

Maybe he never noticed the twilit buildings, or the jasmine or the incense– 

Because he was too worried about when the monsoon season would finally come and ensure his children would be well-fed.

In this city where two worlds collide, he feels like a forgotten voice,

Because for him, being someone’s hero was never a choice

The farmer is one of millions- both a drop in the ocean and the entire ocean in a drop 

Still treading this unforgiving maze of gullies and alleys 

In the hopes that one day his children will not have to do the same, 

With passion and hard work, all his dreams will be theirs to claim

I imagine he bikes back home at dusk, his rickshaw is empty and his body weary,

the sky flooding with crimson and indigo once again,

the sun– our shared solitary sentinel sinking into the horizon,

the day bleeding into night.

A soft melody playing on the radio drifts out from a street-side store.

The acoustic guitar track recorded in a studio across seas sounds at once foreign yet familiar, 

the universal feeling it carries transcends all borders,

binding the moment in time and space.