Small Harvests

Its been a while since I last visited my farm in Vardhenhalli. So, it was with a sense of excitement that I woke up at dawn last friday to catch a Magadi bus. Vardhenhalli handpost is now a prosperous T-junction with three shacks that all offer chilli pakoras and tea-an irresistible combination before ambling along the village road, through its jumble of mud homes, cows tied outside, goat kids skipping, dogs loitering or catching flies, cats napping and villagers sitting out on the jathi calling out to each passing visitor, asking about family, outside world and inviting for a cup of coffee. There is now a sense of familiarity about this village walk- chirping birds have replaced the usual city sounds, Savandurga is now a familiar rock dominating the landscape, there is an ease about the little children that run after me shouting 'aunty, bye,bye' or ignoring Johnny-that hateful dog who still does not accept my presence and bounds towards me for a sharp nip. Soon, even the homes and the children disappear around the bend and a solitary walk bellowing "man anand, anand chayo" in Raag Ahir Bhairav till I cross Prakash's farm with Anna, Akka, and then the tiled roof top of my home. Muniamma, my girl friday, has heard my singing and comes out to greet me with a smile and takes my bags.

This time around, Muniamma has plastered my home's threshold with a slurry of cowdung and mud, drawn intricate kolams in white and scattered marigolds around in honor of the recently past harvest festival. Marigold bushes circle the house, in full bloom, roses are creeping up the entrance, tall, sturdy, thorny and full of pink, red and white blossoms, lemon grasses are now over 10 feet tall, full of red and maroon small grass flowers that attract bugs, butterflies, papayas are in fruit, heavy and laden, and the single broad bean creeper has covered most of the tiled roof, entwined, circling, and dropping bean laden tendrils into the open central courtyard of the home. Time for harvest- a first small harvest.

Muniamma hitches her saree, I tie back my clothes and we both clamber up the roof on an unwieldy, tall bamboo ladder. The world from top encompasses my small farm, dry now for most part, colored in shades of silken straw and brown with a backdrop of the evergreen forested area. Peace and beauty fills my silent world as Muniamma and I start harvesting the beans, slow, careful, she surefooted and I wary of a slippery fall down. We keep dropping the gathered beans in folds of our clothes, now becoming a fat bundle on our back, as we move along. Several tiles have been broken by the creeper, the roof is a mess of shed leaves and decay-we pick it up, sniff and laugh-thats good 'gobara'(compost) thats happening on the roof top. We manage to harvest 4-5 kgs of beans and return to the top to cut down the creeper, roll it over
-it requires the two of us to shove this massive entangled mess down the slippery rooftop. I am thankful that I have not fallen off yet. Then sweeping the top, replacing broken tiles and we are done-ready for the summer and the next monsoons.
A couple of hours on the rooftop in all and I have harvested beans for many kitchens, quietness for my heart, silence for my soul and love for this life of mine, on my little farm