A Happy Harvest

A HAPPY HARVEST

Under a burning sun in May,
A lone man pulls a plough,
Drawing furrows in the hard-baked soil,
Planting seeds in a straight-as-ever row.

He toils, the Indian farmer does,
Working with a pair of bulls,
Sweating from dawn to dusk,
Teasing out crops from the earth.

There comes his wife, all dressed and perky,
With a bundle of food upon her head,
A smile on her lips and a tear in her eye,
To feed her beloved and to touch him.

They eat together under a fig tree,
While he asks about his daughter,
Talking in a whisper, their faces aglimmer,
The fields ring with their laughter.

Back home, the farmer, all sick and tired,
Is hugged by Sunita, his beloved daughter,
His face is all lit up, his weariness gone,
As he transforms into a father.

Holding her hands in his own strong palms,
Helping baby walk with a pretty sway,
Sitting with her to tell tales of heroes,
Feeding her morsels of food by hand.

He knows he is also a great father,
And he has to do these paternal things,
Can he shirk his responsibility
And simply rush to bed?

I salute thee, O father,
O farmer, O husband,
You remember well the adage,
"With greatness comes responsibility".

© Dr. Taher Kagalwala, June 2007

Author's Note: This item was written on Father's Day.