#ShortStory #life #death #village #tragedy #thoughts

The farmer, Yoka, was clearing the fields. It was harvest season and this time the crops were good. The weather had been perfect except for strong winds now and then, although not strong enough to uproot the crops.

Yoka scanned the fields in delight and mumbled After so long… Even last year was not as good as this one. Thank you.

He had went to the bank earlier in the morning and had overheard many conversations on the way regarding the crops this year. Apparently, many farmers in the area had had bountiful harvest and were planning to sell most of the lot to the government institutions for money.

Yoka had to decide yet, whether he wanted to sell the lot to the institutions or keep most of it to sell in the local market. After a long hour of contemplating, he decided. I will sell half the lot to the government and will keep half for the local market. This will let me have more share in the local market.

He worked till 6 in the evening, and was too tired to go any further. It is just about the time I can see the sunset again across his fields He thought The sun seems like it is going to drown at the edge of my field and burn everything down. Ah. I shouldn’t think such thoughts. Let’s call it for the day.

Being single at the age of 30, he didn’t have the luxury of sharing his meals or getting any love from another person. He would often rely on his neighbors to teach him the necessary household things, like the first time he learned how to make lentils and cooked rice, and on another occasion he learned how to make an omelette.

He made lentils, rice and a vegetable dish for dinner. When he was going to sit down to eat, he brought a book on Vedic Mathematics. His neighbor had lent the book after Yoka had been constantly staring at the cover of the book.

Yoka had already gone through the addition section and needed to read multiplication next. He was often surprised how easy it was to calculate, and the mathematics often helped him to keep stock of the produce in his field.

At around 8 he got up, washed the dishes and kept them upside-down on a towel to let them dry. He went to the room, and lied down on the mattress, while still holding the Vedic Mathematics book in his right hand, debating whether to read another chapter, as he was done with the multiplication section, or leave it for tomorrow.

After about five minutes of thinking and staring blankly at the ceiling, he decided that he was too tired to read, so he kept the book aside and dozed off.

It was a peaceful night, no wind blew, no birds crowed and no other sound can be heard.

The next day when Yoka woke up, the book wasn’t there. He checked both sides, just to make sure, but no, he still couldn’t find the book. He got up and was sitting on the mattress now.

Mattress…. He thought. What is this?

He moved his hands down to feel what was it exactly he was lying on. It feels soft. It is not soft like the mud like in my fields, but something else. Something even softer, like foam.

He looked down and saw that he was sleeping on a bed. A bed!? I have just seen these in newspapers. I don’t think anyone in my village has a bed. And with a color as white as an egg.

What is this? Where am I? He looked up and couldn’t believe his eyes. He had failed to notice earlier, all the walls in the room were high and white as an egg. It wasn’t his room.

Where the hell am I?