The solitary reaper (of grief)
"I have nothing to gain"
The woman was probably in her late fifties. She had kind eyes and a smile that can be best described as sad. She was reclining against one of the poles of a ragtag makeshift tent. A variety of pieces of cloth were laid on the ground with different vegetables arranged or sorted in no particular order.
The place was literally the middle of nowhere, at least from my perspective. Somewhere along the way as I drove from one small town to another, places that were well away from Hyderabad to be considered remote though not too far from it. The winter sun was kind yet scorching and it was still early in the noon. As I drove through multiple tiny hamlets, I stopped at this lady's makeshift store hoping to buy some good quality vegetables that are farm fresh. I had to ask her if she got them from Hyderabad to sell because then they would be from some freezer and can no way be called fresh.
"I will tell you which ones are fresh and which ones are not. I have lost two sons recently - one drank poison and other hanged himself. I have nothing to gain from this world", she repeated.
My question was merely casual in tone and purpose. The place was so removed and isolated that it'd make no business sense to get stuff from Hyderabad to sell there. I was taken aback by what she said though.
"Lost two sons? And both committed suicide? That's unfortunate. Why?", I had to ask.
"Look around. All the land around here, almost four acres, belongs to us. These vegetables are grown right here though some I got from Ranganna's farm"
I had no interest in the vegetables or their origin anymore. Why did two of her sons commit suicide? I did not ask again but looked at her hoping she'd find enough strength to recount the sad and life shattering episodes. Money was not the issue, I deduced from what she said about the land. The reasons for the suicides must be even more heart wrenching then.
Her eyes were large and kind. That sad smile came over her face even as a faint hint of a potential flood of tears appeared when she looked up. The broken teeth and ragged face betrayed a life of struggle and sorrow. And yet the large red bindi on her forehead indicated persistent belief systems at work. Hence the strength too, I figured.
"My tent was on the other side of the road. I just moved it here because the heat was too much to bear and was also drying up the vegetables. All are from our land or from Ranganna's farm. Except, of course, the carrots and beetroots"
"Give me whatever is good and whatever quantity is left with you. Not the tomatoes though. There are too many of them. Maybe just one of kg of those", I forced a smile myself and decided not to pursue the topic of her children anymore.
She started weighing the beans and tomatoes while I picked couple of cabbages. "That's not how you choose the good cabbages" she smiled and picked a fresh cabbage. "Take some leafy vegetables too. You won't get them good in Hyderabad". She went on to add some of those. I watched quietly as she did all the work.
"One son was married and had a son too. Don't know what happened. People told us that some villagers were harassing him about something. We never got to know what happened but he came home one day, two years ago, and just hanged himself"
'Village life', I sighed to myself. Maybe she didn't want to know what happened because, no matter what, her son wasn't going to come back. There is so much sadness in human life. My own recent and continued struggle with grief seemed small and inconsequential in comparison.
"What about the daughter in law and grandson?" I decided to limit my questions to what she could answer.
"They went to live with her parents. I hope they are doing well. God hasn't been kind to me but He was cruel to them"
I didn't prod about her other son who took poison. Maybe he was the youngest and closer to her heart. Maybe it'd break her to talk about him. My mind spun its own theories.
"Give me some potatoes too", I tried to change topic.
"Those aren't good. Buy somewhere else". These people can make you cry with their simplicity.
"I also have three daughters. All married and settled in Hyderabad", she moved onto the probable happy parts of her life.
Just then a mobile icecream store on a cycle rickshaw passed by. "I bought one kulfi from him couple of kilometres from here. Looks like I have stopped for too long. Or he just is a fast rider", I tried to make her smile with some humor.
"They keep passing by through the day. Village is quite far from here. Only some highway riders stop to shop with me or them" she said matter of factly.
Another car stopped just then and two more shoppers came in. They started negotiating for tomatoes straight away. I decided to leave.
"How much?"
She did some math. "One hundred and thirty. Or give whatever. Like I said, I have nothing to gain from this world"
The woman was probably in her late fifties. She had kind eyes and a smile that can be best described as sad. She was reclining against one of the poles of a ragtag makeshift tent. A variety of pieces of cloth were laid on the ground with different vegetables arranged or sorted in no particular order.
The place was literally the middle of nowhere, at least from my perspective. Somewhere along the way as I drove from one small town to another, places that were well away from Hyderabad to be considered remote though not too far from it. The winter sun was kind yet scorching and it was still early in the noon. As I drove through multiple tiny hamlets, I stopped at this lady's makeshift store hoping to buy some good quality vegetables that are farm fresh. I had to ask her if she got them from Hyderabad to sell because then they would be from some freezer and can no way be called fresh.
"I will tell you which ones are fresh and which ones are not. I have lost two sons recently - one drank poison and other hanged himself. I have nothing to gain from this world", she repeated.
My question was merely casual in tone and purpose. The place was so removed and isolated that it'd make no business sense to get stuff from Hyderabad to sell there. I was taken aback by what she said though.
"Lost two sons? And both committed suicide? That's unfortunate. Why?", I had to ask.
"Look around. All the land around here, almost four acres, belongs to us. These vegetables are grown right here though some I got from Ranganna's farm"
I had no interest in the vegetables or their origin anymore. Why did two of her sons commit suicide? I did not ask again but looked at her hoping she'd find enough strength to recount the sad and life shattering episodes. Money was not the issue, I deduced from what she said about the land. The reasons for the suicides must be even more heart wrenching then.
Her eyes were large and kind. That sad smile came over her face even as a faint hint of a potential flood of tears appeared when she looked up. The broken teeth and ragged face betrayed a life of struggle and sorrow. And yet the large red bindi on her forehead indicated persistent belief systems at work. Hence the strength too, I figured.
"My tent was on the other side of the road. I just moved it here because the heat was too much to bear and was also drying up the vegetables. All are from our land or from Ranganna's farm. Except, of course, the carrots and beetroots"
"Give me whatever is good and whatever quantity is left with you. Not the tomatoes though. There are too many of them. Maybe just one of kg of those", I forced a smile myself and decided not to pursue the topic of her children anymore.
She started weighing the beans and tomatoes while I picked couple of cabbages. "That's not how you choose the good cabbages" she smiled and picked a fresh cabbage. "Take some leafy vegetables too. You won't get them good in Hyderabad". She went on to add some of those. I watched quietly as she did all the work.
"One son was married and had a son too. Don't know what happened. People told us that some villagers were harassing him about something. We never got to know what happened but he came home one day, two years ago, and just hanged himself"
'Village life', I sighed to myself. Maybe she didn't want to know what happened because, no matter what, her son wasn't going to come back. There is so much sadness in human life. My own recent and continued struggle with grief seemed small and inconsequential in comparison.
"What about the daughter in law and grandson?" I decided to limit my questions to what she could answer.
"They went to live with her parents. I hope they are doing well. God hasn't been kind to me but He was cruel to them"
I didn't prod about her other son who took poison. Maybe he was the youngest and closer to her heart. Maybe it'd break her to talk about him. My mind spun its own theories.
"Give me some potatoes too", I tried to change topic.
"Those aren't good. Buy somewhere else". These people can make you cry with their simplicity.
"I also have three daughters. All married and settled in Hyderabad", she moved onto the probable happy parts of her life.
Just then a mobile icecream store on a cycle rickshaw passed by. "I bought one kulfi from him couple of kilometres from here. Looks like I have stopped for too long. Or he just is a fast rider", I tried to make her smile with some humor.
"They keep passing by through the day. Village is quite far from here. Only some highway riders stop to shop with me or them" she said matter of factly.
Another car stopped just then and two more shoppers came in. They started negotiating for tomatoes straight away. I decided to leave.
"How much?"
She did some math. "One hundred and thirty. Or give whatever. Like I said, I have nothing to gain from this world"
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