Surendra Gautam
Autumn, the season of harvesting, approached. Pasang wasn’t sure if the crops would limit his expenses. He was only anxious if that year he could easily garner his crops or not. “Whether the weather withstands the yearly morsel?” Pasang suspected the possible raw weather. He had sensed the turbulence, felt overcast and endured aridity. He could barely understand the unnatural weather shifts. Sometimes the scorching sun pierced the planet earth as if it steams on the oven. The other days, downpour had spilled as though the whole world will submerge into it. The fog blanketed the atmosphere very often. Pasang, a village farmer, depended on subsistence farming. Nonetheless, he knew the ins and outs of cultivating several crops. He could predict the fortune of crops by observing the weather. Oftentimes, he visited his farms, looked after his livestock, and dreamt of well-being. Even so, he seemed desperate because of unpredictable weather cycle. His contemplation for good meteorological conditions was turning into thin air. He had little understanding of human-induced climate chaos.
The morning was gloomy. The territory made up for the adverse working day. Pasang, however, planned to get to the field. He tightened the rope of sheath around his waistline, inserted a sickle into it, and proceeded towards the field. As he climbed up to the field, he observed the mountains. The mountains were worn out as they are only ruins. He felt sorry for the withered beauty of the crowns of the earth. He continued to walk upward. As he reached the field, he ran his eyes through the paddy crops. He went through the ear of rice, squeaked in discontentment as he only got the pile of husks. He couldn’t imagine the fertility of the soil would have been worsened in such a way. Pasang, as a gullible farmer, had no other thinking except cursing the evil forces for the depreciation of crops.
As he lamented the loss of the crops, the day becomes more frightening with the heavy thunderstorm. Pasang’s agility was interrogated with the stormy clouds. The sky spilled vehemently on his plight. The remained husk field jeered of at Pasang along with the heavy downpour. He yielded to homewards as he was weak in his knees. He hoisted a haystack on his head and darted like a scalded cat. As he reached his home he collapsed on the floor like a house of cards. His heart palpitated like a howling mob. He leaned against the wall and shrieked, “Could someone pacify my thirst? Lakpha, the son of Pasang, was observing the pale face of his father. The son brought water in a brass vessel and gave it to his father. The father gulped as if he found the elixir.
The atmosphere seemed even more dangerous. It looks as though the entire earth was covered with toxic fumes. The sun vanished, and the day turned as dark as ink. Pasang asked his son to tune on the F.M. Radio and lied on the floor. The news rendered, “The climatic chaos worsens the Mother earth. The ice sheets melted, sea level rose and put a threat to the coastal areas. The world should be aware before the threat is staked at the living species. There should be a limit on burning fossil fuel and biomass, the production of CFC2 should be discouraged …” Unbeknownst to the news jargons, Pasang sniggered in illiteracy. Lakpha was also listening to the matter. Mean a while, Pasang asked his son to sit next to him. He then inquired his seventh standard’s son, “What was the news babbling about? Did you get it?” The question of the father tensed Lakpha’s nerves. He fussed with a deep inhale, “Huh! Hardly. It’s about an environment and mainly it’s about the weather and climate change.”
As Pasang listened about the weather issues, his curiosity heightened like a tower. He got up from the floor, crawled towards his son, and asked, “What did they mean by CFC2 and fossil fuels? Why did that stake the ‘Life’?”
The poor son couldn’t ravel the query of his father. The core concept of climate was not the bread of his curriculum. Lakpha, therefore shifted the matter and questioned in return, “Wasn’t the paddy being ripened to harvest?” Pasang gave a sharp look to his son and replied, “I’m afraid I could not handover you the soil as it had been before”. The father grunted with disappointment. He knew the decadence of nurturing soil but couldn’t imagine the rationales behind it. He had only taken over the belongings of his descendants. And, he could only handover that property to his son. But now, unknowingly, he put doubt in the sustainability of the natural resource. Neither he was aware of global warming nor the reasons for it. He could only leave his fortune in the hand of fate or God. Even so, his customs and traditions led him to be eco-friendly. It was not his knowledge or some activism for the climate. But it was his naivety to live a life as his ancestors lived. Wherever he went, as a Magar of Hills, he wrapped a cloak around his shoulders. He didn’t even take the plastic bags as he could carry much stuff from the market in his cloak.
Again, the thought of paddy field wrestled in his mental horizon. His heart pounded with an abrupt doubt, “Was it my action that sparked the soil’s infertility? Couldn’t I grow my crops without germicide? Unanswered thoughts kicked his mental sphere. But, nobody ever told him that the exploitation of nature was started somewhere ahead with the evolution of humankind. He was still unknown about the happening of the world. His soil felt erosion, the water he uses mixed up with animal manure and chemicals, his sight of the mountains melted with the scorching hot. The snowless mountains look as though a heap of charcoal. The woods around his surroundings were wiped out, an incurable malady spread away. An unpredictable weather’s transfiguration screwed up the freshness of the environment. Still, he was unknown. It seemed as the ‘Time’ whispered to his patience, “What a pity! The urbanization wiped out the entire forests like a vacuum cleaner. But, people still entreated to God to save the Earth. And, you still bemoaned for the paddy crops.”Â
Pasang was unknown to the changes of biosphere. His soil, his hard work, and his plight were shaped somewhere in the peak of fossil age. The nuclear age surpassed the aura of nature. Birds died away with the hem of radiation. Marine life threatened with the heaps of plastics and industrial wastes. People were ravaging trees on Earth, but they dreamt to plant trees on Mars and Moon. ‘What a heck?’ The circumstances appeared as if the Patience implored to the idleness of Pasang, “Woke up! If the farmer turned their blind eye, there would one day the Oxygen also staked at price. You need to lead a campaign to unknot the human ‘ego’ for a balanced ‘eco’. The daily morsel is just a parcel if nature regained its mystique. If the farmer set out for climate activism, there would some silver lining for a better world.” Pasang still stared at the adverse weather. The nature was also sorrowed like Pasang was in deep aches. In the meantime, a gloomy sad note echoed in the nerves of Pasansg just as though ‘Time’ had crooned some verses to his ears:
The honey bees would at stake,
The birds would on the verge of extinct,
And, the earth wouldn’t be a homely planet,
Unless you forget your ego.
The plants would dry out,
The soil’s aeration would be declined away,
And, there wouldn’t be single-cell living,
Unless you forget your ego
The water would be immersed within,
The air would group into toxic chemicals,
And, lives wouldn’t be straight-away,
Unless you forget your ego.