“The courtesy calls stopped coming. The tragedy was forgotten and the world moved on. The eye balls drifted to other sections of the news and so happened with the media, or it was the other way around, or both happened simultaneously, we never understood. But one thing I knew for sure was that we were history all over again. The crisis stampeded in and out of our lives with every passing monsoon, the rain fed crops that we harboured rose and fell on to the very ground which we prayed, for fertility and for bumper harvest.
Prayers, prayers for impending prosperity, prayers to atleast make it out alive; I started having my reservations about it, about all of it and the futility it was all becoming into. My conversations with the village priest hadn’t helped either, we seemed to end up arguing without a tangible solution in place; how could we, faith still remained afloat, awry from my understanding. The pyres, meanwhile, had grown in number since the successive droughts; the flames that glowed in dark reminded us time and again about our own insecurities, our own probable fate but the beautiful faces of my children pulled me out from the viciousness of losing hope. How could I? Despite the white fly, the untenable heat, and the dying rivers, the hope of a future for my children, however wane it was becoming, just couldn’t let me give up. I just couldn’t.
However, the plough felt heavier the next day, the day after I saw my friend burnt to ashes, as the mind wandered far away into a never ending abyss while I passed by another pyre with crying children and a weeping widow, and all I could utter was Earth & Water…Earth & Water, before I reached my land and began, just like any other day, just like nothing had happened.”