A Personal Essay On The Memories Of Rain: Gods Never Rain On Us

In March when we all were happy that we would reap some gain from potato cultivation, the only profitable harvest in North Bengal. The untimely rain at the end of March wasted our hope. The rotten potatoes were the hopes that we, the farmers, left behind and moved on. In Bengal, the farmers believe in a proverb, "আশায় বাঁচে চাষা।"( "the farmers live in hope'').  So leaving behind the rotten potatoes and garlic we kept our fortitude and moved on to the jute cultivation that usually begins in my part of the land from the end of March to April. Again an incessant rain ruined our hope. All jute saplings drowned. We shifted our hope to the next, paddy cultivation. But again now when we are going for paddy cultivation, no rain is in sight. The thirsty dry land is looking at the sky for respite. The sky is frowning with a large fiery sun inside her belly. Paddy cultivation is our last hope in this agrarian calendar. I was despondent and asked a seasoned farmer what would happen next!

With hope, he replied, " আল্লাহ তাঁর বান্দাকে মারে না গো, বৃষ্টি হইবে।" (Allah never let the worshippers die, the rain will come soon)

I didn't know what to say. I only know if it doesn't rain next week, the loans will pile up and the farmers who are solely dependent on farming will have a tough time ahead. A large number of the farmers of my district, Jalpaiguri and the neighbouring district Coochbehar depend on microfinance loans for potato farming. The interest rate of these loans is very high(20-25%). I tried to believe what the seasoned farmer said but the voice of Osman, another farmer, rang in my ears. He often repents,

"গরিবের আল্লাহ নাই গো।" (Allah is not with the poor)

Between the existence of god and hopelessness, between the existence of a believer and a non-believer, there exists a reality that is called climate change. But none of my fellow farmers is much concerned about that. They live in compromise. They live in prayers. They know sarkar(government) is a big thing. Their prayers will not reach sarkar. They read about packages that never reach them. I know some will lose hope and leave and some will still retain hope for the next harvest.

Their voices will reach nowhere! Only their sighs will make some invisible webs in hot, humid air before perishing forever in the dungeon of million unheard voices. 

And I, a half farmer, a full-time teacher and a half-baked poet will search for words to write about grief and loss, and will ponder over the question again and again: in what language do the gods listen to prayers!

Gods never listen to or have very bad timing. So in untimely rain, the farmers lose all and in a rainless village, the trees/farmers appeal for Euthanasia. Again here is the inevitable question, 

Whom to appeal for death? Gods or Sarkar?

1.

Untimely Rain
(For a farmer poet)

The untimely rain
spoils the crop.
The rotten garlic stalks 
are snapping their ties from the bulbs.
Shredded hopes are debris left
by the words on her pages.

The potatoes are wobbling in the mud.
The old skins are scaling off
worms feasting on them.
The jute saplings tried hard to stay afloat
before drowning on their deathbed.

The unannounced, unwanted rains
are washing away the sweat of
innumerable days of labour.
A void named starvation
swells up a mortgaged belly.

Deadlines are hang ropes
etched on blank paper.
Words are stinking cloves
loosened from rotten garlic.

Her mother is cursing the clouds.
Her brooding father is sitting on his haunches
on their muddy floor.
He has exhausted his bidis.

And the untimely rain is lashing on the tin roof.

2.

Euthanasia 

The trees have a dwarf growth  
in my rainless city, 
trees with monkeypox boil on their skins. 
The finger - leaves are all withered 
and the scorched tree -eyes 
are the eyes of the god-dolls
my daughter moulds with clay. 
The heads of the trees have tongues, 
black tongues popped out of the dried river - mouth. 
The air is heavy with Methane and Hydrogen 
of the decomposed tree bellies. 
The cracked heels of the roots are 
still deep inside the mother earth. 
The trees are all hanging from the blue, brazen sky 
with their hair roots tied with scorching sunshine. 
They appeal for euthanasia.