Worried Farmer of Pakistan
You are a four-acre land farmer, this year you had your lowest per acre yield, and you are worried.
So what do you do? You wake up (very) early in the morning, bathe, get dressed, offer prayers, go for a walk, come back home, get fresh (again), have a (huge, steel) glass of lassi, and go out (again), this time towards your dera. You ask your kaam waala to prepare huqqa for you, which he does, meanwhile akhbar wala hand you over today’s paper. You open the paper, first with both of your hands then you adjust yourself so that in your one hand is the nozzle of huqqa and in another, the paper. You bring nozzle close to your lips, but you don’t inhale anything because your eye’s stick at something important.
An article. This article. Written by, some unknown student from a college on the canal road, me. So before you start reading this “how-to” article, let me give you a short disclaimer.
“This is not just another “how-to” article. It is different, reading it will have consequences and doing what you read, will have ‘severe’ consequences; result of this will not be the responsibility of an author. If you think that ‘only’ reading it will change your life, please stop. Application is must. And, application without faith is ‘useless’. Happy Reading.”
Now that you are reading this sentence, indicate that you have somehow agreed to apply what you’ll read and especially you’re ready to face ‘the severe’ ones. So we’ll start like most other how-to articles do:
Buy a book, related to commercial farming. You must buy it in a language you understand the most. Read it. Read it until you think that you can’t understand any more.
Consult someone you think would know about this “farming”. Who? Remember that boy with tight pale yellow trouser and oily hairs? Good, summon him. The boy comes. You ask him to explain what you read since he is doing ‘something’ in “bi-aalagy” from somewhere. He begins:
“Chacha jee, it’s a new and developing thing. People use hybrid see….
“Ha…brud”? You stop him, “what ha…brud”?
“Hybrid, means, umm, a seed, which is made up of two different seeds. Means, half Pakistani and half Chinese”. He tries to explain.
“Oh my God”, you’re shocked. But you continue, “you mean like….like…., God forbid. End is near. Get out, I will not use this ‘bi-sexual’, ‘multi-ethnic’, ‘mixed-religious’ seed. Do you have any idea, what type of kids will grow up in my home? Taubah, taubah (you touch your earlobes with your thumbs, as your arms make a cross). I don’t need such profit. I am happy with the loss.” You are upset and furious.
Boy tries to calm you down by handing you over a chilled glass of ‘rau’ (sugarcane juice). You drink it, in almost one sip. He then begins, again, this time speaking with caution:
“Chacha jee, hybrid means it will have qualities of two varieties. Means, it will produce crops more in quantity and high in quality. You will have your yield “quaaad…rupled”, he emphasizes the last word.
“Hain? Are you serious?” You’re shocked (again). But you need a proof, and that’s your right.
Boy gives you an address of one of the commercial farm, his relative owns. You go for a visit. Farm covers a vast area, workers are loading the harvest crop arranged in square-stacks on a trolley, as farm-owner gives them ‘un-necessary’, ‘un-wanted’ and perhaps ‘un-invited’ instructions. He then starts moving towards his office and asks you to follow him, with a wink.
You do. He sits right in front of you on a king-size chair, with his belly bulging out of his body and mustache getting loose from his skin.
“Baad-shaao”, he begins. “It is not a very easy thing, but not that difficult as well. You will have to work very hard, but not that hard. Get a license, import this seed, bribe two or more officers, and you’ll be fine. But not that fine because after harvesting, you might or you might not have any customers. People, you see, have no faith in ‘ha-brid’. They think it is not very healthy, they are right, but not that much. Look at me, he rubs his belly, I’ve been eating it for two years now. Bass, the first investment is a problem then it will be alright. 120 tons/acre. Imagine.” He stops, as if he hadn’t spoken for years.
You wonder how he can be so confusing, so irritating, so quiet and so fat at the same time.
120 tons/acre were the only words you liked from his mouth, and they keep echoing in your head. So you decide to give it a try. You go to the bank and withdraw your savings. Then, you head towards the market and buy enough ha-brid seed for one acre. You’ve bought seed for ‘only’ one acre, firstly because it will save you from ‘sarkari afsars’ hungry for bribes, as you’ll remain un-noticed. Secondly, you’re only just trying. Thirdly, you still don’t think that a ‘bi-sexual’ (even if it is a seed) will change your fortune.
You sow it, according to the guidelines given to you by that yellow-pant wala boy and that ‘belly-ous’, oxymoron-state-of-mind farm owner. You’ve spent almost all of your savings and you want a miracle.
Miracle does happen. Your acres with ‘uni-sexual’ seed, gives you 60 tons altogether. And, your ‘multi-ethnic’ acre, alone, gives you 96 tons. You’re joyous. You feel guilty, for whatever words you used against this ‘incredible’, ‘invincible’, ‘multi-factorial’ golden seed.
You go to market to sell your crop. A black, fat, oily broker greets you with a sweaty hug, diffusing a huge amount of under-arm smell onto your white cotton suit. You lose your olfactory sense for a while, and when you re-gain it, you hear him saying:
“Lo jee, 1100rs/ton for ‘original’ and, umm, chal koi nai, you are my ‘wadda’ brother, 160rs/ton for ha-brid.”
For a moment, you can’t believe what you heard. The rate is too low, it won’t even cover your expenses, and you will have to take loan for next year to sow your crop. You decide to talk to other brokers, you get different, strange, and even in-appropriate, R-rated replies, some of the censored, GP-13 answers are:
“No license, no trade”. (For a while you think, he is asking for your driving license.)
“One acre, only, you must have to be Sharmila’s brother to trade with me.” (His condition is strange because you are a Punjabi, he should have named some Punjabi politician, for feasibility, at least.)
“75rs/ton, full and final”. (You feel more insulted than being the brother of a Sindhi politician).
So, you go back to your ‘nikka’ brother, and hope to bargain. But before you start, he speaks, spraying thousands of his salivary germs at your face:
“Wadday bai jee, since you didn’t trust me, the rates have changed. 950rs/ton for the original, and 105rs/ton for the ha-brid. Manzur ae te, maal krwau load (Should I start loading the crop)?”
You open your mouth for saying (in fact requesting) something, but you don’t. In spite of this, you just nod. The last line of my article’s disclaimer knocks at your head “and application without ‘faith’ is useless.
Next year, you take loan. Buy ‘original’ seed, and cultivate it. Abusing the ‘bi-sexual’ one throughout the process. And, pray that you don’t have to be worried to read any other article from someone like, me.