By Disha Pegu
After a long drought, the skies break
and rain pours down in endless streams,
my father’s eyes shed tears
the tears of joy, of life reborn.
He sets aside his conical hat, jaapi, we call it,
then silently reveals his desire,
steps into the rain, letting it embrace him
like an old friend.
When he holds the handle of the plough,
drawn by a pair of oxen,
the veins in his arms resemble a map,
tracing unseen roads of toil and hope.
"Please put the Jaapi on again," I said.
"Aren’t the farmers suffering from cold and fever?"
He smiled, like the fresh scent of earth
carried by the wind and added,
“My fields thirst, my home and family thirst
Why shouldn’t I?”
With a sip of apong brewed from bora rice,
an evergreen bihu-geet he hums is unrehearsed,
he has his own way, in joyous refrain,
with open arms, to welcome
the torrents of monsoon rains.
“Maa, does the restless downpour not quiver your heart with fear?”
Each year, it drowns our land and
washes our home below!
My mother wove wishes while chewing
a betel nut and leaves,
in Assam, we call it tamol-paan,
served on a traditional xorai-bota,
to share greetings, regardless rich or poor, hand in hand.
And she replied to me:
“This year, I shall toil to sow paddy
beneath the vast sky with rain’s grace.
Hurrah! It will rise, grow, and flourish
not merely crops, but gleaming beads of fortune.
Some we will store in our fond granary,
some we will sell.
With what earned, I will bring you books and papers.
Besides, if we could repay the debt
borrowed from the Mahajan,
our burden would grow a little lighter.
With remaining money, I will buy a goat,
high yielding like the one we once had,
before the flood swept her away two years ago.”
Yet, despite it all,
the peasants of Assam still lift their hands to the sky,
longing for rain.