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Dream of my father

In the village where I was born the sun came like a curse the land dried into fine powder the wind blew the dust like clouds. My father worked like an ant. He said, ‘Earth is our mother.’ I had seen him grow potatoes, carrots, millet, maize and yam. The land in my village was a miser it took more and gave less. Once during the marriage season the harvest failed. The field dried like a parched hroat, fissures opened up like wounds on the skin. Frogs tanned to their small, drydeaths people folded like monks and prayed. My elder sister had to stay home, the prince of her dreams never came, riding horses. Mother melted like wax in the summer heat. Father shrunk like a scarecrow scratching the hard, baked soil. All season, it never rained. One evening, my father went to the woods and never returned.     ekantipur.com nabin kumar chhetri
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