The Barren Field - Dr. Bhaskar Bade

I had come home to the village for my weekly leave. From the main road junction, I looked towards my village, and my heart filled with joy. But then my gaze drifted eastward, and the very water in my heart seemed to melt away. My mouth went dry. It felt as though the sand were slipping from beneath my feet. I had to steady myself. Ganpatrao Nagargoje’s farm was no longer a verdant green. Why did his perennially lush fields now look like they did in the peak of summer? A thousand questions flooded my mind. As I neared the village, I saw Yakubbhai at the , the communal platform. “When did you arrive?” he asked. “Just now.” “Took some leave, I see?” “Yes. Yakubbhai, what happened to Nagargoje’s farm?” “You don’t know?” “How would I?” “A dam was built on the farmlands… a dam!” The words struck me like an unexpected blow to the head. Why would such a fate befall Ganpat Tatya? What wrong had he ever done to anyone? Barring a few village gossips, the entire village revered him. Now, time had swooped down upon his family like a hawk. I went home, dropped my bag, washed up, and drank some water. Then, I set out for his old farm. As I walked the familiar footpath, memories came rushing back. Our village, Loni, was nestled by a stream, surrounded by high hills. The land was fertile, the fields dotted with trees, and the wells were always full. Farming was the lifeblood of our people, and everyone lived in peace. I belonged to this village. And in my time of need, it was Ganpat Tatya who had helped with my education. He never once treated me as if I were from a Dalit family; he considered me his own son. I had free access to his home, right up to the where the pots were stacked, and I would eat with his children. His home felt like my own. This was the treatment all Dalits received at his house. Our elders would whisper among themselves, calling him a god-like man. It was because of the five rupees he gave me that I could travel to the district headquarters. I was easily recruited into the army. If he hadn’t given me those five rupees that day, I wouldn’t be an officer today. I would have ended up as a bonded labourer in someone’s house. He had helped countless poor families just like mine. Whether it was lending his bullocks during sowing season, helping with the ploughing for a neighbour, or offering his horse-cart in times of illness, his genuine kindness had made the name ‘Ganpatrao Nagargoje’ famous in all the surrounding villages. His land was just below the village, by the stream. Prime soil. The whole village was envious of that land. He had purchased it in instalments, with the advance money he earned from taking his bullock cart to Belapur for the sugarcane harvest season. Eventually, he left that life in Belapur behind. He would get two good crops a year, but still, there was never much cash in hand. He observed that many villagers who had vegetable patches earned weekly cash by selling their produce. He thought, if I also start growing vegetables, I too could earn well. He decided to dig a well on the bank of the stream. He called four neighbouring farmers and shared his idea. They all agreed to put in the labour. They didn't need money for the well, only hard work, unity, and mutual trust. It was also decided that they would call upon their relatives to help. A week was spent in preparation—sourcing pickaxes, fitting handles on spades, and gathering basins. One morning, at the stream, they marked the outline. As he struck the first pickaxe into the ground, Ganpat Tatya cried out, “Mahatma Phule ki…” “Jai!” the other farmers roared in response. In four days, they had cleared the loose topsoil. Soon, they hit damp earth. The thirsty pickaxes seemed to race towards the water. The men with spades worked tirelessly, filling the basins, and those carrying the soil away never faltered. The excavated earth piled up on the bank like an anthill, where small children played, jumping and throwing cool mud at each other, crying for a moment, and then laughing again.

They dug a well one and a half man-lengths deep. Water began to seep in from the sides. Joy erupted among the workers. The pickaxes fell faster. Cries of “Here it comes! Quick, throw it out! Heave!” echoed from within the well. As the water level rose, the farmers were ecstatic. Each one began to dream: of growing sugarcane, planting vegetables, sowing sunflowers. Some already felt like prosperous irrigated-land owners, walking through the village with a new swagger in their step and confidence in their voice. The fortunes of the farmers on that side of the village began to change.

They moved beyond traditional crops to cash crops. People began to call it the well that gave a year-round harvest. At the weekly market, produce like okra, cluster beans, brinjals, coriander, and onions were predominantly from these farmers. The smiles on their faces after a sale were as bright as the coins jingling in their pockets. Ganpatrao Nagargoje was one of these farmers. His farm was born of sheer toil. He had divided it into sections—a sugarcane field, a papaya orchard, a patch of alfalfa, and a vegetable garden. He had just two bullocks, named Khilarya and Rabillya. They were magnificent Khillari bullocks, powerfully built. Once yoked, they never faltered. You could load the cart as much as you wanted; they would pull it through mud and rock with ease. He never needed a whip. A soft ‘choo’ would get them moving, and a ‘ho’ would bring them to a halt. He built a small tin shed on the upper side of the farm and a cattle shed next to it. Life became easier. Living in the old in the village had its difficulties—it took time to get to the farm, he couldn't keep chickens, and manure couldn't be transported to the fields in time. To solve this, Ganpat Tatya built a homestead right on the farm. He raised chickens and started getting eggs. The cow dung and urine went directly into the soil, enriching it. As a result, his yields improved. People from the village now started visiting him at his farm, sharing their troubles. No one who came to his farm ever left without a cup of tea. Yakubbhai owned ten acres of barren, rocky land on the hillside. Only wild cattle would graze there, and nothing but coarse grass grew. One day, Yakubbhai started building a house in the village and needed money. He brought up the subject with Ganpat Tatya. “Tatya, what have you decided then?” “About what?” “About the barren field…” “No, my friend! What good is it?” “What do you mean, no? It’s close by for you. Take it.” “Don’t force me.” “Then do this for me, lend me two hundred rupees.” “Take the money, but I don’t want the barren field.” Yakubbhai built his house and invited the neighbours for tea. Ganpat Tatya was like a member of his own family, checking who had come and who hadn’t. In fact, no event in the village, no matter whose it was, felt complete without Ganpat Tatya. If he couldn't make it, people would invariably say, “It would have been more fun if Tatya were here.” Tatya wasn’t just a social figure; he saw everyone as his own. If there was a quarrel, he would speak to both parties, offer sound advice, and resolve the dispute. I remember once, the villagers had decided to banish Manikrao Palve. His crime? He had refused to let them cut grass from the land belonging to the shrine. The Patil, the village headman, was enraged. He stormed into the village, shouting, and a crowd gathered at the . Manikrao Palve was a man of few words, a devout Varkari who would cite Tukaram’s verses in his speech. But as the saying goes, the talker sells his hibiscus flowers while the silent one can’t even sell his wheat. That was his predicament now. The crowd turned against Palve. “Palve must apologize!” shouted Kondiba Gadade. “No, he must rub his nose on the ground,” demanded Raosaheb Kedar. “He must be fined,” said Dattoba Kendre. “I won’t give a broken cowrie,” Manikrao Palve declared. “How dare you refuse?” “What is my crime?” “Why did you curse the Patil?” “I never cursed him.” “So, will you pay the fine or not?” “Not even if I die.” “Let’s go to his house! We’ll drive him out of the village!” A mob formed, incited by troublemakers. They ran towards Palve’s house like a troop of monkeys and began throwing his belongings onto the street. His wife and children started wailing. The neighbours merely watched the spectacle. I was a child then. I left my game of marbles and ran to Ganpat Tatya’s farm to tell him what was happening. He dropped his work and sprinted towards the village. Seeing him run, the neighbouring farmers followed. Half of Palve’s belongings were already on the street. Some men were dragging out his grain bins and trampling them. Fury shot up from the soles of Tatya’s feet to the crown of his head. “You scoundrels! What is this drama you’ve staged?” he roared. “Tatya, save me! They want to banish me,” Manikrao Palve cried, his eyes filling with tears. “Who has such courage?” Tatya challenged. “What will you do?” Gadade’s son shot back insolently. Smack! Tatya slapped the boy hard across the face. “Break the hands of anyone throwing out his things!” he commanded the farmers with him. The farmers charged forward. The onlookers who had been watching from a distance now came forward to help. Everything was put back inside the house. That evening, a meeting was held. The Patil was summoned. “Forget the past. Times have changed. The Nizam’s rule is over. People know the law now. Don’t pick fights with anyone needlessly,” Shamrao Karad advised the Patil and his faction, his hands folded. “Ganpatrao Nagargoje travels to the taluka and the district. He’ll have all your families handcuffed. Mend your ways. Live with integrity.” From that day, Ganpat Tatya’s authority was established in the village, and the injustices against the poor and the marginalized stopped. The treated him with affection. After that, people like Yakubbhai and the Kambles faced no trouble in Loni. Everyone began to draw drinking water from the same public well. I remember visiting Ganpat Tatya’s well one day. The embankment had collapsed. The retaining walls were in disarray. The stone slabs from the well’s edge had been taken for the dam’s embankment. Some that wouldn’t come out easily were broken with crowbars. The fertile soil from the green fields was dug up and carried away. The mango trees were broken. The well’s structure had crumbled like a dead snake. Tatya’s family was devastated. Their faces were drawn. The well they had built with their own hands was destroyed in a flash. It was as if pieces of their very lives were being torn away. They were like a boat caught in a storm. Their land, earned through hard work, was gone. Their life was now adrift. His bullocks, who were like family, were wasting away, their bellies sticking to their spines. Their shoulders, worn down from tilling the land, now yearned to plough a field that was no longer there. The thorny fences around the homestead were broken, and a cat had killed most of the chickens. The remaining thatched roof had been blown away by the wind. The house and the farm seemed to want to devour the very people who lived there. The dam’s embankment was being packed with the prime soil from the streamside farms. The dam had brought a living death upon Tatya’s family. I couldn’t bear to look at it. My whole body trembled. There was only one question: what would become of the dam-displaced Tatya? My leave was ending. I left the village carrying a great sorrow. What would happen to Ganpat Tatya’s family? They were used to working on irrigated land, accustomed to the jingle of cash from vegetable sales in their pockets. Those pockets would now be empty. The stacked pots would be bare, the grain bins overturned. The bullocks would grind their teeth in hunger. When would they get green fodder again? The Loni dam remained in my sight for a long time as I traveled back to my post. The government built the dam. Even if they received compensation money, would it bring happiness to Tatya’s family? What about Khilarya and Rabillya? Could money buy such a well, such a farm, such a green oasis? Could the broken spirits of the displaced ever be mended? Could money ever bring back the family’s smiles? Ultimately, Ganpatrao Nagargoje’s family had to go and work as labourers on that very dam. The stomach doesn’t let anyone rest. When hunger calls, you must move your limbs. From morning till evening, Tatya’s family toiled, earning just enough to survive. In the village, their situation was a topic of hushed conversation. “Will Nagargoje leave the village?” “Good riddance to bad rubbish.” “They had become too arrogant.” “Does the money from sugarcane and vegetables ever let one rest easy?” some sneered. But others said… “Ganpat Tatya must not leave the village.” “I’ll give him my five acres. If Ganpa is here, the balutedars are safe.” “Whatever happens, we won’t let him leave.” “A true heir of Ambedkar and Phule must remain in this village!” some declared forcefully. The government paid the compensation for the land before impounding the water. With money in hand, Tatya began looking for a farm towards the Godavari river basin. He visited relatives and looked at lands for sale. “Brother-in-law, you will find land and wells here, but what about humanity?” one of them told him. “Meaning?” “They look down on us. They don’t invite us for auspicious ceremonies. They don’t let us sit in the same row to eat at feasts.” “Then I don’t want it,” Tatya said, and returned. He scoured many villages—Papalner, Pargaon, Anandgaon—but couldn’t find a farm to his liking. What is a farmer without a farm? The villagers looked at him differently now. Some showed sympathy, but empty sympathy couldn’t solve his problem. He needed land to work on. His bullocks were wasting away, their ribs showing. They would just stare at Tatya. Despite having money, he couldn't find good land. Tatya began to consume himself with worry. Unable to bear his bullocks’ suffering, he too began to wither away. He no longer spoke or smiled as he used to. He avoided gatherings. The man who once spoke with authority on any subject was now silent. He was just watching, facing the calamity with quiet courage. The monsoon was approaching, but still, no suitable land was found. Then the government served them a notice to vacate the submergence area. Where could they go now? Back to the village? He didn’t want to. What was there in that village? Family feuds, women quarreling, gossip, card games, betting, tea stalls, liquor shops, and sleeping on the . Did he want to waste the remaining days of his life? No. He wanted to live on a homestead. But for that, you needed your own land. As usual, Yakubbhai went to meet Tatya. After tea and talk, he asked, “Did you find any land?” “No, Yakubbhai.” “Then?” “Then what? We’ll have to move the cattle shed.” “Where will you take it?” “There’s no place.” “Here, in this village?” “Is it feasible?” “Don’t other people live in the village?” “I’m used to the farm life now.” “The reservoir caused great ruin.” “What’s the use of saying that now? The reservoir belongs to someone, the gardens to someone else!” “Can I ask you something?” Yakubbhai’s voice softened. “Tatya, you haven’t recognized me. You are my brother. I have been so worried for the past few days.” “About what?” “I just don’t feel like you should dismantle your homestead and come to the village.” “Then?” “Take my barren field—for you to live on, just until you find another farm.” “Take the whole thing. What use is it to me? Better that my brother’s cattle graze on it than strangers’. If you stay here, we will all stay here.” “Don’t talk like that. I am here for you.” “You won’t leave the village?” “Why would I leave? Where will I find people like you who would give their life for me?” “Then do one thing.” “What?” “I’m giving you this barren field. For the money from our old deal.” “A transaction?” “To hell with the transaction. I’m going to announce to the whole village that you are not leaving.” “Hey, wait, wait.” “I’ll be back.” The poor and the of the village were overjoyed that Tatya was not leaving. Some celebrated by treating each other to tea. Those who were jealous of Tatya were silenced. They just watched, many of them plotting to deceive him in the future. The next morning, the sound of a drum echoed from the village. The drummer had set a fine rhythm, and the hills carried the sound all the way to the barren field. About a hundred people arrived at the field, carrying spades, pickaxes, and axes. Tucking up their dhotis, they began working to the beat of the drum, clearing bushes and cutting down trees. Some started leveling the small mounds. They wouldn’t let Ganpatrao Nagargoje do any work. Some brought the tin sheets from his old homestead. Others set up the posts and erected the sheets. A few got busy building the cattle shed. The rugged, barren field began to look like a cultivated farm. By afternoon, all of Tatya’s belongings had been moved to the barren field. The smile that had vanished from his face returned. Yakubbhai, Yadaji Waghmare, and Kisan Dhoble worked tirelessly in this effort. The rumbling of machinery at the dam site stopped. The sluice gates were closed. The reservoir was ready to hold the monsoon waters. The people living downstream were happy. They would come to walk on the embankment, look at the submerged, scarred land within the reservoir, and remark how good it was that the reservoir was in Loni’s own backyard. As usual, Tatya yoked his bullock cart for the Monday market. He paid Yakubbhai some more money and completed the purchase of the barren field. He bought a few select goats, a billy goat, and a dozen hens. Tatya immersed himself in setting up his new life. The hens, released from their journey, scurried about, shaking off the dust. The goats were let loose and began nibbling on the leaves of the bushes on the boundary. Colour was slowly returning to the barren field. A few days later, the sky turned black. Lightning flashed, thunder rolled, and the rain began. The rivers, streams, and brooks flowed with fury. The reservoir’s spillway overflowed. The abundant rain brought satisfaction to the people. Tatya’s income grew. He started earning cash from the hens’ eggs and the goats’ milk, and later from selling the young goats and billy goats. His empty pockets became heavy with money. His sunken chest swelled with pride. Slowly, Tatya’s life was getting back on track. The heavy rains resulted in a good crop. Whatever was sown, grew well. The ten acres that used to grow only coarse grass now yielded a harvest, thanks to the manure. He got thirty to thirty-five sacks of bajra, and plenty of other grains. The barren field had eased Tatya’s anxieties. A new confidence grew in him—this was land that could yield. In truth, Tatya was a man who could draw water from a stone. People now started making their way to the barren field again. Visitors were offered tea, just like before. The poor and the began to gather around him, just as they always had. Six months passed. I felt a pull to go back to the village, to see Tatya’s happy life. I had no idea if he had found a farm or what had transpired. I felt a pang of guilt that I couldn’t help him in his time of need. I took another week’s leave and traveled through the night. I got off at the junction. “Bhagwat Kamble has come,” some of the men there said to each other. As I walked down towards the village, I saw the full reservoir. A homestead was visible on the slope of a hill. My heart fluttered. What had become of Tatya? On my way, I stopped at Yakubbhai’s house. He was knitting a muffler. “What are you doing?” “Just something to pass the time.” “What do you sell them for?” “Fifty rupees apiece in the village.” “Can you make one a day?” “Yes, even two if I try.” “Let’s go to your place.” “You go ahead, I’m coming.” “Let’s go then.” “Let’s go.” “How is Tatya doing?” “Fantastic. I sold him the barren field. The harvest was incredible.” “Tatya agreed?” “We made him agree.” “Did he set up a lift irrigation scheme from the reservoir?” “No.” “Why not?” “I don’t know.” I went home and dropped my bag. The whole village was filling water from the handpump in the Mahar quarter. My heart felt at peace. With Yakubbhai by my side, I walked towards the barren field as if my feet had wings. Tatya was busy filling in a trench. I called out to him. “What’s going on, Tatya?” “What else for us farmers? Toiling in the fields until the end…” “Why didn’t you go for the lift irrigation scheme?” “Who will do it? I am tired. To get a single paper from any office, you have to make ten trips. And then there’s the bribe!” “That won’t do. If we implement a lift irrigation scheme, all this rocky land will yield crops. Everything will be green.” “So?” “Look, Tatya, when you find the time…” We talked it over. I took down the names and signatures of those willing to participate in a lift irrigation cooperative on a blank paper. I got everyone’s land records from the Talathi. I obtained the 'dam-displaced' certificates. Then, I got a written guarantee of water availability from the Irrigation Department. With all these documents, I submitted a proposal to the District Deputy Registrar of Cooperatives to register a lift irrigation society. We made Tatya the chairman. After receiving the registration certificate, we applied for a loan from the Land Development Bank. The loan was sanctioned. The society and its members received all the benefits available to the dam-displaced. Farmers who had never owned irrigated land now became owners of it. All the barren fields turned into lush green carpets. Now, when we look at the dam, it feels like our mother and our father. Jowar was sown in the barren field. It had grown beautifully and was ready for . Tatya called us over. A fire was lit, and the tender cobs were roasted. They were then rubbed on a jute sack, and pearl-like grains of emerged. Yakubbhai ate them with great relish. I ate them too. Together, we fed some to Tatya. His eyes filled with tears. We were speechless. “It’s nothing, sons,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “These are tears of joy from the barren field.” - Dr. Bhaskar Bade (This article is the translated version of the original article बरडाचं शेत written byDr. Bhaskar Bade published in the Sahitya Chaprak Diwali Ank 2025 )

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