Chapter 9

Dust clouds rose high behind the rear tire, drifting lazily off the narrow unpaved lane as the black Royal Enfield Bullet 500 thundered past towering walls of emerald green sugarcane.

Summer heat pressed down over the estate, baking the clay tracks into hard, rutted earth. Air swept over his face in a warm, dry envelope, rustling the edges of his black cotton parna.

A turn to the east brought the main canal feeder line into view. Gliding to a halt on the high embankment, the motorcycle’s front tire settled into a patch of dry grass. The ignition key clicked off. The deep piston pulses died instantly, leaving only the sound of rushing, muddy water surging against the concrete sluice gate below.

Decisive steps carried him down the sloping bank. Leather juttis crunched against the dry gravel, stopping beside the cast-iron handwheel that controlled the primary water distribution valves.

A weathered figure sitting on an inverted wooden crate turned his head, setting a brass tumbler down on the concrete ledge.

“Greetings, Sardar Ji! Today your round happened at midday.” (Sat Sri Akaal, Sardar Ji! Aaj te dopehar da geda lagya ae.)

A relaxed, dimpled smile touched his cheeks as he leaned broad shoulders back against the iron railing of the bridge.

“Greetings, Respected Elder! How is the water flow running today? Is full water reaching the outlet?” (Sat Sri Akaal, Baba Ji! Paani da bahaav kivein chalda ae aaj? Taak te poora paani aunda ae?)

The old gatekeeper spat a stream of reddish tobacco juice into the dry weeds near the ditch, pointing a gnarled finger toward the churning brown froth surging through the concrete sluice.

“The water has full force, Sardar Ji. Full head has been received from the canal today. The morning turn was given to field number four, now the next turn goes toward your main plot.” (Poora zor ae paani da, Sardar Ji. Canal ton poora head mileya ae aaj. Svaare da vaara khet number char nu de ditta si, hun agla number tuhade pakke khata de wal jaana ae.)

“Just great, Respected Elder. This water turn should finish right on time, further ahead the cotton also needs water.” (Bas wdiya, Baba Ji. Eh paani da vaara bilkul time te mukan chaahida ae, aage kapaas nu vi paani di lorr ae.)

Broad fingers reached into his track pants pocket, retrieving the thick leather-bound notebook and a slim brass pen. Opening the stiff pages, calloused thumbs flattened the paper while he noted down the intake levels, recording the valve height markings carved into the wet concrete wall.

From down the boundary track, the deep, heavy chug of a diesel tractor engine rattled through the warm air. Exhaust smoke puffed in dark rings against the bright blue sky as a bright red Mahindra tractor rumbled over the wooden bridge planking, its massive rear tires grinding through the powdery dirt.

The engine idle dropped with a mechanical thud. A tall, broad-shouldered man in a dusty khadi kurta-pyjama cut the ignition, stepping down off the steel running board with an easy, practiced grace.

“Greetings, Sardar Ji! I thought you would be right here in the fields.” (Sat Sri Akaal, Sardar Ji! Main keha tussi khet vich hi hoyoge.)

“Greetings, Sukhdev Singh! Tell me then, what is the condition of the fields?” (Sat Sri Akaal, Sukhdev Singh! Dass fer, ki haal-chaal ne khetan de?)

Sukhdev wiped his sweaty brow with the end of a faded cotton chunni, stepping over the canal culvert to stand beside the iron handwheel. He gestured toward the wide expanse of paddy fields stretching across the northern sector.

“Sardar Ji, canal head intake is full, but in the cotton block soil moisture testing is pending. Also today from the revenue department new crop registry records are to be checked.” (Sardar Ji, canal head intake poora ae, par kapaas waale block vich soil moisture test karna baki ae. Naale ajj revenue department walon naye Khasra Girdawari de record check hone ne.)

A quiet, carefree laugh rumbled deep in his chest. Sliders on the brass pen clicked shut as he tucked the leather notebook under his arm.

“No big deal, Sukhdev Singh. We have kept all records ready. Come, first we will check the soil moisture.” (Koyi chakkar nahi, Sukhdev Singh. Aapan saare record tayyar rakhe ne. Chalo, pehlan mitti da moisture vekh lene aa.)

Walking side by side along the raised earth embankments, broad strides easily cleared the narrow muddy water cuts branching off from the main channel. Midday sun baked the lush foliage around them, releasing the pungent, sweet scent of crushed sugarcane stalks and wet clay.

Reaching the main paddy sector, dense green shoots rose ankle-deep out of shallow, standing water that reflected the brilliant sky like sheets of glass.

Stepping off the dry mound, he squatted near the edge of the flooded plot. Broad palms reached down into the cool water, fingers digging deep into the rich dark silt beneath the surface. He lifted a clump of dense, mud-heavy soil, crumbling it slowly between calloused thumbs to test the texture and moisture retention.

“The soil is absorbing fully, Sukhdev. Let the water dry after two days, then we will have the new fertilizer sprinkled in this plot.” (Mitti te poori peena le rahi ae, Sukhdev. Do din baad paani sukkan de, fer is plot vich naye khad da chidkaav karawange.)