I wake up to the sharp rays of sunlight breaking through the cracks in our wooden window. The rooster crows, a daily alarm clock that my family never seems to turn off. It's still too early to be up, but life in a small village doesn't care about my preferences. As I rub the sleep from my eyes, my mother's voice cuts through the morning stillness. "Eshan! Jaldi kar! Khet ka kaam hai!" (Hurry up! There's work in the fields!)
Ugh. Every single day. The rooster wakes me up, and my mom reminds me that I'm supposed to be a farm boy, destined to spend my life under the scorching sun. I roll over, wishing for a few more minutes of sleep, but then the reality sets in. If I don't get up now, I'll hear my mother's voice again, and then my dad's disappointed sigh. There's no escape. I drag myself out of bed, my body protesting, and shuffle toward the door.
The house is small—just one room where my family lives and sleeps, a kitchen tucked at one end, and the worn-out wooden walls tell stories of countless seasons of sweat and struggle. My father's clothes, always simple and sturdy, hang by the door, reminding me that there's no room for weakness here. He's already out, doing the hard work in the fields before the heat hits.
My mother is in the kitchen, humming softly as she prepares breakfast. Her saree is faded, but it's worn with pride. "Aaj kaise thoda jaldi kaam khatam ho jayega," she mutters, trying to reassure herself that there's always a way to get through another day.
I step inside, and the warmth of the kitchen greets me. "Good morning, maa," I say, though it feels more like an autopilot response. She glances at me, eyes sharp with concern, and then back at the stove. "Eshan, tumhara dimaag bhi khaali hai jaise ghar ka sab kuch. Agar tumne thoda zyada mehnat kiya hota toh zindagi kuch aur hoti," (Eshan, your mind is as empty as this house. If only you put in a little more effort, life could be different.)
She says it with the same tone she uses for everything—gentle but heavy with expectation. Expectations that weigh down on me, a constant reminder of the life she wants for me, but that I can never seem to give her.
"Ya maa, main try karta hoon," (Yeah, mom, I try) I reply. It's not that I don't try. It's just that there's always something holding me back, a fear that whispers in my mind. What if it's too late for me to make something of myself? What if I've already reached my limit?
"Chalo, jaldi se nashta kar lo," she says, pushing a plate of parathas and achar toward me.
I sit down, the usual routine playing out. My little sister, Disha, comes running in, her hair in a messy ponytail. She's the only one who seems to enjoy mornings. "Bhaiya! Bhaiya! Tumne sunna! Humare school mein naye teacher aane wale hain!" (Brother! Brother! Did you hear? Our school is getting new teachers!)
I smile at her enthusiasm. "Acha? Kahan se aaye hain?" (Really? Where are they from?) I ask, taking a bite of the paratha.
"Shayad sheher se," she says, her face lighting up. Disha dreams of becoming a teacher herself, but she's already aware that she might not have the resources to finish her schooling. Sometimes, I wonder if that's why she's so passionate about school. It's her escape, her hope.
I finish my breakfast quickly, just as my father's shadow falls across the doorframe. His broad shoulders fill the space as he steps inside, his face weathered by years of working in the fields. His hands, calloused like the tractor he drives, are rough as they grip the door. "Tum dono jaldi se nikal lo. Khet mein kaam zyada hai aaj," (You two hurry up. There's a lot of work in the fields today.)
I nod, and we head out, the early morning sun still mild, though I know it will be scorching by noon. My father doesn't say much, but his presence is enough. He works without complaint, like a machine that never runs out of fuel. Sometimes I wonder if he even knows what it's like to dream.
We walk toward the fields in silence. The road leading to the fields is long and dusty. The air smells like earth—thick, warm, and full of potential, but also of things that haven't been done yet. The soil is rich with memories of our ancestors, but I can't shake the feeling that it's also holding me back. My family has tilled this land for generations, and there's pride in that. But for me, it feels like a trap. Like this place owns me more than I own it.
As I work, the sweat drips down my face. The sun burns into my skin, and my hands ache from gripping the plow. I glance over at my father. His face is set in concentration, every muscle in his body working in rhythm with the land. There's something noble about his struggle, but I feel trapped in it. I don't want to be this man. I want more.
I try not to think too much, focusing on the task at hand. The sound of the plow cutting through the earth is oddly soothing, but it doesn't change the fact that I'm stuck. This land, this life, it's all too much sometimes. I can almost hear the voices in my head—what if I could be something more? What if I could leave this place behind?
As the sun climbs higher, the heat intensifies, making the air shimmer like a mirage. I take a break to wipe the sweat off my face, my shirt sticking to my back. I see Disha working nearby, her face determined. She's only sixteen, but she carries herself like she's much older, like she already knows what this life has in store for her.
"Bhaiya, dekhna. Main bhi teacher banungi. Tumhe pata hai, na?" she says, without looking up.
I smile at her, even though part of me feels like it's all just a dream. "Haan, Disha. Tum zarur teacher banogi," (Yes, Disha. You will definitely become a teacher.) The words leave my mouth, but I wonder if they hold any weight. Will she ever really get that chance?
As the day winds down and we finish up in the fields, I head back home with a sinking feeling. I overhear my parents talking in the kitchen, their voices low but tense. My father's tone is firm, but there's a hint of worry in it. "Tumhe pata hai, Shanti. Agar humne yeh zameen bech di, toh kuch na kuch naya karna padega. Kaha jaayenge hum, pata nahi." (You know, Shanti, if we sell this land, we'll have to do something new. Where will we go, I don't know.)
My heart drops. "Zameen bechne ki baat kar rahe ho?" (Are you talking about selling the land?)
I wish I hadn't heard it. This is all I have. Our ancestral land is everything to us. Without it, we are nothing. My mind races. Could this be the end of everything we've worked for?
I stand there, frozen in the doorway, my body too tired to move. My father's voice cracks the silence. "Shanti, yeh humari aakhri raat ho sakti hai yahaan." (Shanti, this could be our last night here.)