Dinesh Kumari

In the heart of South India's rice fields, where time flows with the rhythm of the seasons, I, a retired farmer of 73, spend my days in the comforting embrace of familiar landscapes. No longer burdened by the demands of labor, my aging limbs find solace in the gentle tasks that fill my hours.

With each sunrise, I wander through the fields, my steps slow and deliberate, taking in the sights and sounds that have become the soundtrack of my life. Though my back may ache and my knees protest, there is a quiet satisfaction in knowing that my work is done, passed on to younger hands who now toil under the sun's relentless gaze.

Today, as we gathered for the rice harvest, my son made an unexpected discovery—a glint of gold nestled amidst the earth. An old Indian coin, hidden beneath the rice stalks, a relic of times long past. Tomorrow, we will take it to town, curious to know its worth and hopeful that it may bring some relief from the hardships of recent years, when storms ravaged our crops and left us struggling to make ends meet.

In the twilight of my days, I find joy in the simple pleasures of life—the warmth of the sun on my face, the laughter of family gathered around the dinner table, and the timeless beauty of the land that has been my home for so long.