The Unadorned

My literary blog to keep track of my creative mood swings with poems n short stories, book reviews n humorous prose, travelogues n photography, reflections n translations, both in English n Hindi.

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I'm a peace-loving married Indian male on the right side of '50 with college-going children, and presently employed under government. Educationally I've a master's degree in History, and another in Computer Application. Besides, I've a post graduate diploma in Management. My published works are:- (1)"In Harness", ISBN 81-8157-183-5, a poetry collections and (2) "The Remix of Orchid", ISBN 978-81-7525-729-0, a short story collections with a foreword by Mr. Ruskin Bond, (3) "Virasat", ISBN 978-81-7525-982-9, again a short story collection but in Hindi, (4) "Ek Saal Baad," ISBN 978-81-906496-8-1, my second Story Collection in Hindi.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Just to Salvage it

This is a snippet I wrote some two years ago and finding it substandard and unpublishable I had chosen to stack it on my bookshelf. As I recall I used to think that blogs are no place for publishing lengthy texts; blogs should accommodate such writings as are crisp and relevant. Or else the readers won't drop by. Huh! In the meanwhile I have changed the way I see blogging. After going through a few blogs and seeing how the authors mindlessly use "keywords" to attract more viewers I've developed a kind of aversions to such type of "readers-whoring". Rather I find blogging an exercise in futility if it is only for writing to attract readers, even if the words written there bear no sign of the passion of the author. So, I thought to salvage my discard. I've seen people enduring the predicament of the last century and I can vouch for its authenticity. Truth being emphasized in the shape of fiction, maybe this piece of writing will enhance the readability of my blog.

In the seventies of the last century, India became self-sufficient in foodstuffs on the wake of the Green Revolution. The grain markets overflowed with piles of wheat and the government kept building up its buffer stocks to ensure food security. “From begging bowl to breadbasket”, the nation traversed a long distance to emerge victorious in its war against the hunger.

To a large extent that was true, but at the same time, the revolution was only an all-wheat affair. For the rice-eaters, the benefit meant nothing.

That is the backdrop of my story.

Age of plenty had finally dawned. Now the rice-eaters discovered on their plates a new thing called wheat. It was introduced rather suddenly through those fair price shops of the public distribution system.

Some started chewing the grain like they would munch peanuts; some took the pains to get flour out of the grains but did only the nominal kneading before actually gulping the stuff. Some even fried and roasted their quota.

But wheat was no substitute of rice and a sense of destitution ever haunted the poor rural folk. ‘What is this stuff—one remains still hungry even after eating whole load of that!’ Some would rather remain unfed for a day than eat the alien stuff called wheat! They would rather slog for a day if somebody gave them a kilo of rice than accept a quintal of those insipid grains called wheat free!

The womenfolk in the rice-eating rural households, too, had their tales of woes to tell. They were not cut out for kneading wheat for the entire household; it was so painful a chore. There were conjugal fights, sulking—all in the name of wheat.

However, the urbanites were quick to accept it.

One day an old woman visited her son’s place in the town where he was staying with his family near his workplace. The dowager was a rich fellow from countryside who had mounds of paddy in her granary, herds of cattle in her shed. She had a successful grain-lending business too. On the whole, she was contended and she took pride that her son was an officer living in the town enjoying a life of comfort.

In the evening when the dinner was served, the old lady came to join her son and grandchildren. She was expecting something delicious from her daughter-in-law.

She took a quick look at the plate. Oh no, something was amiss. For a moment she was not sure about it. Then she located the odd man out—it was a stack of chapattis, the unmistakable sign of poverty.

She started brooding over it. Where was the big point in her sitting over the heap of money when her own children were starving? The old woman could not help crying an agonized cry:

‘I never knew, my son, you’ve become so poor. You don’t even have rice at your place to feed your children!’
A. N. Nanda