The man was clearing out the storage shed, tossing out rubbish and old junk. He piled it all up in the yard when he spotted a thin, grubby little bookprobably something left by the kids. He opened it and began to read. Then he stumbled across a line that said a man was *born only to dig in the dirt and die without even having time to dig his own grave*.
It hit him like madness. Because that was exactly his life. What had he ever seen? Work, from his youth till now. Always somethinggardening, fixing the fence, the gates. In spring, ploughing the plot, tending the soil. He and his wife had even taken on another patch of land. Their whole youth wasted on it.
The farm had turned them into slaves. By the time they were old, both of them had developed small humps in their backs.
Theyd seen nothing. Nothing at all! Never travelled anywhere. Stupid from labour, their hands the colour of soil, their eyes always fixed on the ground.
And his wifewashing, cooking, steaming, making jams and pickles, preserves and all the rest. A never-ending worry about putting bread on the table.
Gorky was right in *Makar Chudra*man *is* a slave. His whole life spent fretting over a crust.
Theyd read nothing, stayed far from culture, couldnt string two thoughts together.
His heart ached. It felt like his whole life had been wasted. Somewhere, there were theatres. Somewhere, palm trees grew. Clever, beautiful people talked about clever, beautiful things. But he and his wife had stayed peasants, just as theyd always been.
And their children had followed the same path. The same fate awaited them.
What *had* he ever seen? Never wore decent clothes. Never been further than Cornwall. Not even London! Only flown on a plane once in his life. Taken the train a few times.
His whole existenceyard, garden, livestock, chickens. Work till the holiday. On the holiday, work at home. A wife always bustling about.
Then you kick the bucket, *without even having time to dig your own grave*! What a line!
He smoothed the dirty little book with his hand and carried it inside, leaving it on the side table. He couldnt bring himself to throw it away. Everyone should read itmake them think about their own slavery.
The day ended. He and his wife sat in the twilight, not bothering with the lights. He told her his thoughtsabout slavery, about digging in the dirt, how their lives had slipped away for nothing. Soon enough, theyd die, and all theyd ever known were vegetable patches. What had they even been working for? Life only comes once, and theyd wasted theirs.
His wife said nothing. She stood, fetched water, and watered the plants. Then she opened the drawers, pulled out fresh bedsheets, and made the bed. She lay down, turned to him, and said, *”Come to bed. Enough talk.”*
Neither slept. He could feel her awake too, sighing. Then she turned to face him and said, *”Not everyones meant to be an explorer or a conqueror. The Lord kissed *them* for a reason. Gave them a purpose. The rest of us? He told us to take joy in work, in the land. Raise our children. Dig up potatoes. No use staring at the great ones.”*
She was quiet a moment, then added that *she* wasnt a slave. Shed done what she wanted, what brought her joy. She had nothing to regret.
He got up, threw an old jumper over his shoulders, and stepped outside. The stars glittered gold in the sky. He lit a cigarette and sat on the step.
*”Would you believe itwhat a clever wife Ive got! Fifty years together, and I never knew.”*
She bustled about the house, fed the family, kept everything clean. And she wasnt a slave. Because the Lord had kissed her for the home, the children, the husband, the family. Because everything begins and ends with family. *”What a clever wife! Whod have thought?”*
