A man is clearing out the cluttered shed, tossing old junk and rubbish into a large pile in the backyard. Among the mess, he spots a thin, grimy bookletprobably left behind by children. He opens it and begins to read. His eyes land on a line about how a man is *”born only to dig at the earth and die, without even having time to dig his own grave.”*
The words hit him like a blow. Its exactly how hes lived. What has he seen? Work, from youth till now. At home, its always somethingthe vegetable patch, the fence, the gate. Ploughing in spring, tending the soil. He and his wife even took on an extra plot, wasting their youth on it.
The farm turned them into slaves. Now, in their later years, their backs are slightly hunched from labour.
Theyve seen nothing. Nothing at all! Never travelled. Stupid with work, their hands the colour of soil, eyes always downcast. His wifewashing, cooking, stewing, preserving jams and pickles, endless worry over their daily bread.
Gorky was right in *Makar Chudra*man is a slave, fretting over survival his whole life.
They never read, never touched culture, barely able to string two thoughts together. His heart aches. It feels like his whole life has been wasted. Somewhere out there, theatres exist, palm trees grow, clever folk discuss clever thingswhile he and his wife stayed peasants, never changing.
Their children walk the same path. The same fate awaits them.
What has he known? Never wore proper clothes. Never been further than Cornwall. Not even to London. Only flew once in his life. Took the train a handful of times.
His whole worldbackyard, garden, livestock, chickens. Work until holiday. Holiday just means more work at home. His wife, forever bustling.
*”Die without digging your own grave”*what perfect words.
He smooths the dirty booklet with his hand, carries it inside, and leaves it on the side table. He cant bring himself to throw it away. Everyone should read itmaybe then theyd think about their own slavery.
The day ends. He and his wife sit in the dim light, no lamp switched on. He tells her his thoughtsabout their life as slaves, about digging the earth, how its all been wasted. Soon theyll die, and what have they seen besides rows of vegetables? Why did they even try? Lifes given once, and theyve thrown theirs away.
His wife says nothing. She stands, fetches water, and waters the flowers. Then she opens the drawers, pulls out fresh bedsheets, and makes the bed. She lies down, turns to him, and says, *”Go to sleep. Enough talk.”*
Neither sleeps. He feels her awake too, sighing. Then she turns to face him. *”Not everyones meant to be an explorer or a genius. God kissed them. Gave them that purpose. The rest of us? Told to take joy in work, the land, raising kids, digging potatoes. Why stare at the great ones?”*
She pauses, then addsshes no slave. She did what she wanted, what pleased her. Nothing to regret.
He rises, throws an old jumper over his shoulders, steps outside. Stars glimmer gold above. He lights a cigarette and sits on the step.
*”Imagine thatmy wifes clever. Fifty years together, and I never knew.”*
She keeps the house, feeds the family, everything in order. And shes no slave! Because God kissed her with purposehome, children, husband, family. Because everything begins and ends there. *”Whod have thought? What a wife Ive got. He sits there smoking, the cool air on his face, the stars steady above. The shed, the booklet, the weight of yearsit all feels distant now. She was right. Not in grand deeds or distant lands, but here, in the quiet, in the care, in the keepingthere is meaning enough. He flicks the cigarette, watches the ember die. Then he goes inside, locks the door, and lies down beside her, closer than before.
