For the 32nd consecutive year, the farmer saw the almanac. Peering closely, he realised that the rains this year would not be kind either. He looked at the distant horizon, watching the young man in the next plot till his land with that huge city import tractor. Did horizons lie? Or simply refuse to cooperate with the almanacs?
Life was turning turtle.
The eastern sky was cloudy, and in between gasps of breath, the farmer walked along his field to bring back his old bull that was, like him, too weak to do anything by itself.
“Oiye old man, what are you running away for? Afraid of the noise?” The young man spoke with the arrogance of the rich folk.
The farmer shook his head, pointed weakly at the sky, and muttered, “It is going to rain very soon. I’d shelter the salt bags in your truck now if I were you.”
The young man let out a roar of derisive laughter, and with a pointed look at the Almanac that the old man held in his hands, he jeered, “That book told you it will rain this year too? And you are going to wait for it?”
Smiling to himself slightly, the farmer closed the book and raised his face to the sky, smelling the storm in the air. The first drop of rain fell inconspicuously. And then the downpour came, all at once. The air crackled with the thunder and the torrential rain intensified. The old farmer watched with worry as the precariously perched salt bags toppled over, drenching the next plot in a slush of salt.
In the distance, his bull was raking through his field, its steps energised as the rain fell on both of them