Went for a drive with family today into the scratchy highway hinterlands of Kongunaad and many mud roads in. Rivers of red in the sky and there we were between two plots of land, gated and strewn with thorns. Teak will grow here, and here a farm house; a half-court. Imaginations of the parents rise as we stare into the few acres emptily. Left for Sindhu, right for Mru. Where in the world is this land, one of the silent prides of my family, where the soft soil crumbles and reshapes constantly under our feet? I don't know how to own it, but here it is - piece of earth that is mine to keep. Our neighbour - a man of 80 who refuses to sell his land because it gives him something to do that money will not. He tills the land and tends to it by himself every day, 2 acres. When he dies, his children will split it, possibly sell it. Other descendants of agriculturalists will buy it. I know nothing about land but just one generation ago all of my family was knee deep in mud and paddy. Most of it still is. My parents say they will go back to agriculture when they retire. Not many will have the privilege of feeding the country in a few years, they say. The evening was my coming out party in my pyjamas. Our guests, in Mruthun's plot of land - a family of goats. For 15 minutes, brother, sister and father stood there bleating at goats, goats bleating back. Laughter and wind. A borewell, shut. Returned after sunset and no power in the house. Off into town to buy peanut butter and bread.
