This early on a North Indian winter morning, only thebrave venture out. Or those who must.

He starts from his village at 3 am, just as the priestof the gurdwara wakes up. He reaches the city outskirts as the priest, aftercompleting his morning ablutions, switches on the loudspeaker of the gurudwara andstarts reciting gurbani.  Thevillage wakes up to gurbani.

The tempo he has hired to bring the produce to thecity mandi, marketplace, has threatened to break down multiple times. Onthe empty city roads, this early in the morning, it is a wake-up alarm to thesleeping city.

He pays the vehicle entry fee at the gate of the mandi.The driver helps him unload the sacks of produce. He moves the sacks to theauction area. The driver will wait for him. He waits for the traders.

He looks at the sacks like a proud father. Five monthsof sweat and toil. Five months of caring for the seed and the soil. Weather godswere kind, and the yield is plentiful. The extra cost of high yield seeds andexpensive pesticides was a good decision, he thinks, even though the interestthe moneylender would charge is a big worry. Plus, the balance of his earlierloans, costs of the failed summer crop and this year’s rent on his own land,which is pledged with the moneylender. All his hopes are on this crop.

One by one more farmers and their tempos and trolleysarrive. The auction yard fills up and is soon overflowing with the produce. Ithas been a good season all around. His face suddenly has a worried look. Willhe get a good price?

As the village priest winds up morning prayers and ashis wife, after putting feed to the cattle and having made tea, goes inside theironly pucca room to wake their children, three daughters and a boy, the tradersstart arriving. The munshis serve their masters steaming hot tea and report thequantity of produce arrived. A good season means a buyers’ market, theirmarket.

By the time the first trader and his munshi reach hispile of sacks, he already knows the prices have crashed. The munshi carries acurved knife, to make a small cut in some sacks for checking the producequality. He rips the heart of a few sacks and pulls out few samples. ‘Daagihai.’ Blotted. ‘Keeda hai.’ Worms. ‘Daana kamjor hai.’ PoorQuality. The trader rips his heart. Today the traders can be as picky as theywant to. He listens with bent head and folded hands. The trader makes his bid.He gasps. It’s so low, he can’t even pay the due of the seeds and the pesticides.One by one other traders give their verdict at his pile. One by one the munshisand the traders rip apart his sacks and his heart.

He does what he has come to do. He sells.

He walks back to the tempo, light without sacks, heavywith burdens.

The driver has been a witness to mandi’s ways for longand knows that a mandi can make or break. Mostly the traders make. Mostly thefarmers break. They drive back in silence. The stray dogs chase their tempo andthem out of the city, out of their city.

He closes his eyes and leans back. Outstanding loan ofthe moneylender, rent of the mortgaged land, his wife’s medicine, the daughtersare of age, the boy wants a mobile and a motorcycle, the tubewell needsrepairs, dues of the kirana shop, money he borrowed from his neighbour,his cycle needs a new tyre, the roof needs repair before the coming rains,seeds and fertiliser for the next crop. His hand grips the pocket and keeps hismoney safe from his expenses.

The tempo driver drops him at the village square. Hepays him his fare.

The village kirana shop is open. The sethis at his seat.

“Come Mohan Singh. You had a good crop. Please clearmy dues now.”

He pays him. Hesitantly.

There is one currency note left with him. He looksaround the shop and at all the things his wife has asked him to bring.

He steps out of the shop. His feet refuse to turnhomewards. Across the road a small group is warming themselves around a fire.His neighbour greets him from the group and seems to be asking him something. Hestands there, glued to the ground.

The gurdwara loudspeaker croaks to life and the priestmakes an announcement. ‘Officers from town are visiting today for enrolments toPradhan Mantri Jeevan Bima Yojana.’ The sarpanch had taken histhumb impression on these papers last time the officers were here.

His feet move. He enters the shop and asks for alength of strong nylon rope. He hands the last note to seth and hurriedly walkstoward his field.

His grandfather had him plant the tree next to theirtubewell when he was ten. He watered it regularly, protected it from the goats,and grew up with it. The little stem with few tiny leaves turned to a talltrunk and many wide branches, green and laden with fruit. The tree had been hiscompanion.  It is old and withered now,like him, but he knows that one branch, where he put swings for his children,is still strong enough to carry his weight. One last time.