{"id":27883,"date":"2014-02-05T19:40:05","date_gmt":"2014-02-06T00:40:05","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/dbsjeyaraj.com\/dbsj\/?p=27883"},"modified":"2014-02-05T19:40:05","modified_gmt":"2014-02-06T00:40:05","slug":"tears-sweat-and-blood-unending-spirit-and-will-of-the-rural-farmer","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/dbsjeyaraj.com\/dbsj\/?p=27883","title":{"rendered":"Tears, sweat and blood……..Unending Spirit and Will of the Rural Farmer"},"content":{"rendered":"


\nby<\/p>\n

Vishnuguptha<\/strong><\/p>\n


\n“Other lands have their vitality in a few, a class, but we have it in the bulk of our people.”<\/em>
\n ~Walt Whitman <\/strong><\/p>\n

The setting sun with its crimson glow and a radiating circumference had a final peep at the green paddy fields that lay about the vast expanse. The entirety of the field that expanded across the valley is rich with irrigated water and had the luxury of a modernly designed and a well-structured main and sub canal system. This immense span of greenery was fruits of hard labor, immaculate engineering planning and huge capital outlay. <\/p>\n

In the olden days, the subject farmers of the Kings would have worked on this land to make it bloom with paddy, kept his share and given the rest to the exchequer. No historian has expressed any view on the psychological make-up of the farmer when he had to part with the Crown’s share. In a real hard sense, it was tax that the farmer was paying, for the farmer did not own the land. Nor did he own the irrigation canal and the massive tank that was located far away from the fields, on a plane much higher in elevation and surrounded by thick woods, both natural and man-grown. An ancient land that nourished and preserved a proud irrigation civilization which one could brag about being the ‘Granary of Asia’, has been enriched and given new life to preserve that same civilization.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Instead of the buffalos and sickles and ploughshares of an era passed by, today, the latter-day tractors, threshers and fans are doing the hard labor. However, despite the invasion of contemporary machinery and scientific planting and Twenty First Century’s harvesting methods, preceded by fertilizing of the soil with the latest products of manure enriched with urea and other chemical compounds, the harvesting ceremonies and other religious rituals have not been forgotten. A grateful farmer is indeed a ritual-ridden creature. Although not totally enslaved by superstition, the Sri Lankan farmer is not the Russian peasant; neither is he a serf of landed gentry that presided over vast expanses of English meadows that fed a sizeable segment of the rural and a promising urban population.<\/p>\n

Although the ancient Ceylonese farmer may have been wedded to the land he tilled, he was never enslaved by it; he withstood the tempests and heat of brutal droughts; he endured many a sleepless night when droughts continued mercilessly yet his stubborn spirit that was never brittle held on and guided him towards whatever lay at the end of the passage and ride. Whether at the end he found a bowl of rice or an empty cup, he enjoyed the voyage for the storms and currents had helped him discipline his conduct and calm his nerves and with a resolute and unyielding spirit he realized that, to quote from The Discovery of India by Jawaharlal Nehru, “in this vast expanse of the universe, he is but less than a speck of dust.” So he understood his scope and he strove to attain a dynamic equilibrium between his wants and his needs. When such a harmonious balance is struck, man, whatever his mundane pursuits are, becomes at peace with himself. He replaces ambition with daily needs; avarice with great indifference and violence with ahimsa. <\/p>\n

When he is alone in his ‘kamatha’ in moonlit nights, performing sentry duty to drive away the wild game and other creatures who step out in search of food for their own empty stomachs with the invading dusk, he takes his flute and plays the notes of an enchanting sonnet, sometimes punctuated by a haunting melody and its caressingly soft and magical timber would be heard by his lonely wife who had been waiting to hear those mesmerizing lyrics so that she could welcome slumber with the assured thought that her spouse is safe and awake. Those magical moments of rural life still linger on, despite the offensive excursions of modern technology and crackling of machinery. No nightmares would disturb her sleep with only enthralling dreams to occupy her semi-conscious being with inviting imagery of the coming of a new-born.<\/p>\n

These are the heroes in our midst. For them a hard day’s work and undisturbed rest at night is more significant than a ‘Smart TV’ or an ‘I phone’. For these lads of rustic genre, no amount of Black Label or Chivas Regal whiskey would intoxicate their ‘unintoxicable’ spirit; an innocent sip of illicit arrack on New Year’s day or a gulp of the same on the occasion when a neighbor’s daughter ‘comes of age’, are among their infrequent indulgences. Yet their hopes and aspirations are no less ambitious; their dreams no less grand and their nightmares no less gruesome. <\/p>\n

They breathe the same air and drink the same water. They too sweat and when they sweat they dip their heads in a village tank or wash it off a roadside spout. The same winds caress their rough skin and darken the complexion but they don’t complain; they have no modern-day beauty salons to rejuvenate the burnt skin and no hairdo to keep their coarse hair straight. But once the dirt and muddy soil is washed off, they are fit to enter the most august of august assemblies with their heads held high and chin unbowed, for the pride that they carry on their shoulders are strong enough to carry the heavy crosses that the city lads stoop to worship. <\/p>\n

They should not be forgotten. They should not be neglected. They may not preside over million dollar-decisions that sway the stock markets and make investors run to their accountants and attorneys but they do take decisions that swing the pendulum of life one way or the other. Their children may not dine and wine at five-star restaurants but they sit around ramshackle table with their own parents to partake of the food- not Caesar’s Salad and Clam Chowder and a well done Steak- but a delicious meal of rice and curry that nurtured and nourished generations that preceded them on the same soil and tilled the same earth with guts and glory. Their trumpets were not blown by court jesters; they were not coaxed into unbecoming ventures by an army of cohorts. They lent their ears to their parents and elder siblings and they consulted the Chief Monk of their village temple who never pretended to be the custodian of ‘the land, the race and the faith\u2019 but an equal partner of the destinies of the village.<\/p>\n

That glorious culture may be seeing its last days; that humble upbringing might just be breathing its last and that proud heritage may have lost its indomitable spirit. But man is a different animal. In the face of insufferably unkind circumstances he has withstood adversity and decay. He has fought aggressive and cruel rulers and overcome them with barely any strength and yet has resumed his long voyage of life. With each painstaking step he will revitalize his determination and courage, with each droplet of sweat he will be bathed with immense resolve and fortitude. No tempest could bend his will nor would any flood immerse him. The spirit that kept man on his feet all the time would not make his knees bend. No ruler or his henchman could deceive him forever, for he knows for sure as his ancestors understood centuries and eons ago that ultimately truth shall triumph. It\u2019s indeed a privilege to pen some thoughts in recognition of that unending will and spirit of the rural man! <\/p>\n

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by Vishnuguptha “Other lands have their vitality in a few, a class, but we have it in the bulk of our people.” ~Walt Whitman The setting sun with its crimson glow and a radiating circumference had a final peep at the green paddy fields that lay about the vast expanse. The entirety of the field …<\/p>\n

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