You wake when the rooster crows. Your hut is made of mud and straw. Cow dung cakes burn in the hearth.
Your grandfather cleared this land long ago. Fire burned the forest back then. Trees became fields for wheat.
You walk to the fields with father. The sun is not yet hot. Dew sits on the green grass.
Two oxen wait at the edge. Their necks are thick with muscle. They will pull the plough today.
The plough is wood from the neem. An iron tip bites the soil. Your father calls this tool sira.
The plough turns the earth over. It makes straight lines in dirt. These lines are called furrows.
You drop seeds into the furrows. The seeds are wheat and barley. Your hands know this work.
The priest reads the Panchanga almanac. He watches the moon and stars. He tells when rains will come.
The sky turns gray in Varsha. This is the season of rain. First drops hit the dry earth.
The fields drink for three days. The soil turns dark and soft. Now the seeds can wake up.
But the rain stops too soon. The earth cracks in the hot sun. You carry water from the well.
The well is deep and cold. You use a rope and bucket. This is called lift irrigation.
Your shoulders hurt from carrying water. The king takes one sixth of grain. This tax is called bhaga.
Canal water costs you extra grain. The old books set these water rates. You pay what the king asks.
Birds come to eat the seeds. You build a fence from thorns. You shout to scare them away.
Weeds grow faster than the wheat. You pull them out with hands. Your back hurts in the hot sun.
Rice seedlings grow in the nursery. You move them to the big field. This is called transplantation.
You plant pulses between the wheat. This is mixed cropping. The soil stays strong and healthy.
Cow dung is spread on the field. It makes the soil rich and dark. The Greeks called this manure.
The tank fills from the river. Sluice gates control the water flow. Your field gets its proper share.
The clouds look like towers today. Varahamihira called this type Drona. It means heavy rain is coming.
The wheat turns gold in sunlight. You cut it with a sickle. The sickle is called datra.
You tie the wheat into bundles. The oxen walk on the threshing floor. Their hooves separate grain from husk.
You throw the grain into air. The wind blows the chaff away. This is called winnowing.
The grain goes into clay pots. Some grain goes to the king. The rest feeds your family.
You take cotton to the market. Traders speak of faraway Romans. Even they want Indian pepper.
The village celebrates with drums and song. The priest offers rice to Indra. You dance until the stars appear.
You sit under the old banyan. Your grandfather sat here too. The tree watched many harvests.
You plant the Rabi crop now. Wheat and barley grow in winter. The soil gives two gifts yearly.
The black soil is thick and heavy. It holds water for many days. This is why you farm here.
Your children learn to scatter seeds. They are small but they help. The family works as one team.
The king builds a new dam. Water flows to fields once dry. More people can eat now.
A traveler speaks of crystallized sugar. The Guptas learned to make it sweet. Your sugarcane is worth more now.
You watch the stars each night. The nakshatra tells you when to sow. The sky is your calendar.
Bad years come when the rains fail. The tax man takes one fourth then. You eat less but you survive.
The village shares its stored grain. No one starves when neighbors help. This is the old way.
Your son sharpens the iron ploughshare. He will farm when you rest. The tools pass to his hands.
You remember the first seed planted. Now your grandchildren scatter grain. The cycle begins again.
India feeds millions from this soil. Your small field is part of that. Farmers built this civilization.
You are the earth. The earth is you. You plant. You wait. You harvest. You begin again.