But I Shall Tell

Chapter 20 - The Field.

 1995.

Harvest time in Lucknow is constant. As long as the wind blows - which is pretty much all the time. Farmers are the backbone of the Nation. The place is not yet fully developed, it's a part of a developing country, India. 48 years of Independence, from a group of merchants who wanted to do business/trade spices for other goods but found the opportunity and ruled, enslaved and drained the wealth of the country. People are working hard to build the nation from the scratch from where those merchants(Britishers) left. It was once called "Golden Bird." It is not a perfect place to live, but then no place is ever perfect.

Television can only be found in houses where a luxury life exits and bicycle is the most used means of transport.

"Grandpa, Grandpa," a little boy called.

It was the season of Mango. Every branch of each mango tree was covered with green, or yellow, or red mango. Though other fruits such as lychee, jack fruit, banana, or papaya were in abundant, the smell of mango over ruled those all.

"Grandpa, Grandpa," the boy called again.

The vast oceans of the world are dark, deep and mysterious places where eyesight counts for little as soon as you venture very far beneath the surface. So are the hearts of few people who do not know the difference between good and evil. To humans, who live in a world dominated by visual stimuli, to exist in such conditions would be impossible. But for whales and dolphins that live in the ocean or, in case of a few species, muddy rivers and estuaries, the darkness is unimportant. What is crucial to them is sound. There came a sound, a laughing sound of another boy, who was standing still with a grass cutter in his hand in a field.

A man who looked around 50 years old was running from a shed, a shed where the bundled cut grass is kept in villages. Surrounding the shed were neem and mango trees. The old man looked worried. He kept running north, towards the field.

"This is MY FIELD," said the boy with the sharp grass cutter in a harsh voice.

A few weeks ago, the field was full of rice plant ready to be harvested. The old man along with a lady who was nearly 30 years of age spent a couple of days cutting clean the field of the rice plant. And later two bulls, tied to an arc were used to plow the land for the next vegetation.

"MY FIELD," repeated the boy with the grass cutter.

"Grandpa, grandpa," said the first boy, with tears in his eyes.

"Oh, God!" said the old man, reaching to the little boy. The boy was sitting in the field.

"Grandpa, I told him that this is our field but he doesn't listen," said the little boy still sitting in the field. Tears were rolling down his cheeks.

"Old man, better tell your grandson to not pick up a fight with me," said the boy with the grass cutter. He looked around 9 years old. "This is my field and I'm going to call my father, you know who my father is, right?"

Ignoring the other boy, the old man slowly lifted his grandson off the field and held him around his chest with one arm surrounding the little boy. He placed the palm of his other hand, carefully on the boy's head. The weather was hot, and so was the wind. The field was at a distance behind him, and he was running. The field passed, a well surrounded by few banana trees passed, the shed passed, a lot of familiar houses passed. Muddy roads, narrow alleys, there were many old houses made out of bricks and mud. Just a few new ones. After around 15 minutes of running, the old man reached to the nearest doctor, the only doctor in the village.

Not a hospital, but a house where the doctor looked after his patients. Across the road, a small room in front of the house with an old door which was the entrance. The house was built around 20 years ago, and due to insufficient funds it remained the same. The doctor was a young man around 25 years old, a local resident. Most of the time, he visits the houses of his patients, so was the culture.

"DOCTOR, DOCTOR, DOCTOR," said the old man impatiently.

"Coming, hold on," came a voice from inside.

"DOCTOR, DOCTOR, HURRY UP, please." Said the old man.

"Oh, God!" Said the doctor, keeping a hand on his forehead. "What happened, Mr. Patel? Is that your grandson?"

"Please doctor, take a look at him, he was hit with a grass cutter by Mr. Sharma's grandson." Said Mr. Patel. His shirt was fully drenched in blood, blood dripping from his hand which was holding the boy's head.

"Bring him in," said the doctor. "How long has it been?"

"Around 15 minutes," said Mr. Patel. "He has lost a lot of blood, I am worried, doctor, he hasn't cried once." He looked terrified. His front shirt was covered in blood and back was covered in sweat. Sweat all around his neck and forehead. He was breathing heavily. His legs were covered in mud and there were no slippers.

After around 30 minutes. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Patel," said the doctor, coming out of the room and sitting next to the old man on a bench "but I had to do the stitches without any painkillers, I am out of painkillers." The doctor apologized, but was glad that nothing went wrong. "You have one brave grandson here." There was a happy smile on his face.

"How is he, nothing to worry right?" said Mr. Patel.

"Mr. Sharma's grandson is not the right company for him. You should keep him away from that kid." Said the doctor. "The cut to his head is very deep, I have cleaned the wound and done the stitches, so far everything looks good. Make sure to keep his head safe for about a month. I'm in my starting days of my practice, but for the worst case scenario there may be some side effects later in the future, which I'm hoping that it never happens."