Withered Crops, Weeping Hearts: A Farmer’s Vigil in the Heat

Summer is the season that erases what exists; the rains are what restore the missing.

There was once a time when the month of Chithirai was marked by the 'Golden Plough' ceremony, a sacred start to the farming season. 

I remember the rituals—lighting camphor in the northeast corner of the backyard, bowing to the sun before the blade touched the soil, and the simple joy of chewing on jaggery-soaked rice. 

Those cultural values, once so vibrant, have faded into mere memories. Today, the ploughing oxen have vanished, and because the summer rains have failed to visit, even the nostalgic scent of freshly turned earth has been forgotten.

Last year’s Northeast monsoon failed us. This year, the sky has been even more miserly—not a single drop of summer rain has fallen on this parched soil. The ponds have long since dried up. The silt in the lakes has crusted over, and the moss has cracked under the sun. Even the wells have hit rock bottom.

Only the Pungai (Indian Beech) and Neem trees extend a helping hand against the sweltering heat, spreading their green canopies to offer a sliver of shade. But what about the crops?

Usually, a visit to the countryside leaves me rejuvenated. But this time, the sights I witnessed were heart-wrenching:

• Two months ago, I was running back and forth with buckets of water to nurture over forty papaya saplings. Today, they have shriveled into nothingness. The papayas that once hung in heavy clusters have withered, leaving behind only barren, skeletal stems.

• Like humans collapsing from severe dehydration, the banana trees have bent and snapped under the scorching sun, their fruit bunches wilting before they could ever ripen.

• We can often find the strength to move past the loss of the elderly who have lived their full lives. But watching the young coconut palms wither and snap at the crown feels like the death of a young breadwinner—a life cut short in its prime. It was a sight that brought tears I could not hold back. The papayas, at least, gave some fruit before they perished; but to see a coconut tree die before it can even grow—who can endure that?

• The grapevine I had raised with such hope has vanished entirely.

Amidst these tragedies, I saw one mango sapling. Having pushed its roots deep into the earth to suck the last bits of moisture, it stood resilient, with a few mangoes still hanging from its branches. Seeing that spark of life brought a faint sense of relief to my parched heart.

Much like a frantic effort to save a young man injured in an accident, I have been buying water from tankers to keep these gasping plants alive. Some have been saved for now.

But for how much longer? 

It is not just the plants waiting; my heart, too, beats with an anxious ache, eyes fixed on the horizon, asking—"Will the clouds ever darken? Will the rain ever come?"

Hooran