(Hey Folks! This poem is about the heart wrenching situation of farmer suicides occurring every year in India. Agriculture in India is mainly dependent on the monsoon rains from June to September. Most farmers are dependent on this rain to earn their daily bread. In a situation of delayed rains, the farmers who are unable to bear the burden of their debts, commit suicide.

We all keep complaining about small problems like not getting a promotion or not getting enough sleep due to long working hours. Today, let us spare a thought for an ordinary farmer leading an ordinary life. Its time for us to take out some time to appreciate our blessings and thank God for the lives we lead.)


The tingle of her bangles

Woke him up every morning

Before the sunlight touched his face

She would keep warm water ready

For him to bathe,

She would make round rotis

For him to eat,

She would wake up their four daughters,

Bathe them, clothe them, feed them

And see them off to the faraway Government school.

He used to start his work, every morning,

With a prayer on his lips

On the small piece of farmland

Just beside his hut,

Ploughing that land and

Harvesting the crops it bore,

He managed to feed his family

Atleast, every night and morn.

Every noon she came,

With a roti and some sugar,

Under the shade of the majestic Banyan,

With long and sturdy boughs,

They ate little, but happily enough.

She helped him nurse the tiny saplings

Swaying in the mid-day sun,

With her small, frail hands,

Burnt by the sweltering heat.

She toiled with her husband

Whom she so dearly loved,

Humming a sweet song about her longing

For the coolness of the monsoon winds,

And the Petrichor.

Then, Summer set in.

Wells ran dry, cattle died,

And alas! Their four daughters’ throats

Were drier than the dry, parched land.

He was drowned in debt,

Helpless, desperate, depressed.

The Monsoons were late that year.

She skipped meals every alternate day

To feed him and the girls,

He couldn’t see her frail brown hands,

Quiver with weakness and disease, anymore.

Next morning found him hanging,

From a strong and sturdy branch

Of the majestic Banyan tree,

Leaving behind a grief stricken family,

Their only hope of living, now gone,

That noon they had their last meal,

Poisoned berry fruits. 

Finally, that night it rained.

The cool monsoon winds had arrived,

But she no longer hummed

The sweet song about the winds

And the Petrichor.

Farmer - 1.jpg

– Confused Earthling

2 thoughts on “Petrichor

    1. A quick “Hello” to you, too
      And thank you for your appreciation
      You can also share your ideas, if any, with us


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