The Scarecrow

The Scarecrow

WC:1000


A river passes through a wide farm land surrounded by three gigantic mountains in the Western Ghats of the Indian subcontinent. The farm land around the river is extremely fertile, and the villagers that own and cultivate the land live on the decline of the mountains, to leave as much land as possible for farming. The villagers have constructed their mud-homes in rows, very similar to the steps on a stairway, in such a way that the ground in front of each row of homes is the roof to the ones below.

It was a week before the Holi festival, the play of color in celebration of the coming spring, and the village was ecstatic.

At the crack of dawn the Sarpanch - head of the village - stood in front of his house, sipping on a cup of tea, watching the descent of the mountains into the fog below. As the fog cleared something peculiar caught Amrithlal's attention, something colorful. Amrithlal grabbed his stick, put on his Ghandi hat, and took to the little common path in between the rows of houses that ran all the way down into the farms.

"Sarpanch-Ji, I see you have made some changes to your farm," yelled one of the villagers, puffing at a Hookah in front of his house.

Amrithlal payed no attention to the man and kept walking.

Another villager called out, with a smirk on his face, “Amrithlal, I did not know you had a knack for art and color."

Amrithlal hastened his pace, but said nothing.

"Oye!" shouted a village elder, "The spring will bring its own color, Sarpanch. Your job is to do the watering not the coloring." Laughter rang out through the valley.

The embarrassed leader began an awkward wobble down the hill side; a mix of walking and running. He entered the farm, and there before him, right in the center was his Scarecrow, dressed in a colorful Saree.

"A female Scarecrow?" Amrithlal murmured to himself angrily, and stripped the lifeless figure furiously. The laughter died. The Sarpanch then climbed back up the hill, not even once looking up.

"Which one of you kids is trying to tarnish my reputation around the village? Eh?" Screamed Amrithlal, as the kids dispersed like running water.

"Leave the kids alone, husband, and if you continue screaming out loud like this, you will be the enemy of your reputation."

Amrithlal turned to look at his wife, standing right behind him, her arms and eye brows crossed.

"I dressed the Scarecrow. What makes you so angry, husband?" She said as the children ran out of the house.

For the next few hours the villagers heard the Sarpanch raise hell out of his little hut, but as expected, nothing of his wife.

The next morning when Amrithlal woke up there was no breakfast or tea waiting for him; the children were not fed, clothes were not washed, and bath water was not heated. Memsahib had gone on a hunger strike; she wouldn't speak a word and refused to perform her household tasks.

Quickly life got hard in the little hut and Amrithlal tried to force his lady to break her strike, raising his voice often, but the lady refused to retaliate. He tried the soft tactic too, but that didn't help either.

“Dear, what is all this? Where has all this come from? This stubbornness, this unhappiness? Please eat something...love... eat something."

The woman said nothing.

Days went by and Amrithlal's private home became the subject of public debate. Men, women and even children filled the recesses of their hardworking lives with the discussion of Sarpanch and his dilemma. Who was right? What is the right thing to do? Who is going to give in? Before long the whole village was divided into two groups: Those who thought the Sarpanch was right, and those who supported Memsahib. Whether for it or against it, everybody had an opinion about a subject they had never even thought about before. Amrithlal was not happy.

Four days passed and the lady's health began to deteriorate. She looked as if there was very little life in her, and the Sarpanch was worried. The village doctor was called upon to oversee the first lady's well being.

"Sarpanch… Memesahib's condition is critical. I am afraid if she continues with this...she will..."
"Bite your tongue medicine man. You have done your part. Now you can leave."

The Sarpanch gave it one more try,
"Woman, Holi is coming... Holi! It is a time of celebration and mischief. It is bad omen to sulk like this. You wouldn't want our spring to be fruitless, do you?"

She said nothing.

The day before Holi arrived, and the villagers were up early, preparing for the big day. Fragrance of various delicacies enchanted the morning air, Sarees were tried on, colors passed around, drum skins tightened, and dances were being organized.

The Sarpanch stepped out of his house, and it all came to a halt. Amrithlal stood there, expressionless with a Saree on his shoulder. Everybody gathered outside their houses, lining up the hill sides with belts of people; like spectators to a play. Amrithlala looked around; the hills looked back at him, in absolute silence. He walked down the muddy road all the way to his farm, straightened his hat, and draped the Saree around the scarecrow.

The Sarpanch walked back up the path, stood in front of the house, cleared his throat and declared, "Memsahib is indeed a committed and forceful woman." He then walked into his house.

The next morning, morning of Holi, the Sarpanch walked outside, and there was his tea, sitting on the stool. He began to sip on it and amuse himself with the play of the morning mist. Once the mist cleared he saw that the farmland was more colorful than ever. Every farm had a Saree-draped Scarecrow. Ah! It was spring.

Four springs later the first Woman Sarpanch was elected to head the village.