Standing there in the blazing sun, the farmer saw something he had not seen before. A piece of cloth lying buried in the soil. He walked over and tugged at it trying to pull it out. It was wedged tight in the dry, baked earth. He dug into the earth and realized it was no scrap of cloth. It was larger than he thought. Using his spade, he dug around it and what he found astonished him.
The cloth was large, four feet wide and almost six feet long and striped in three colors. It was wrapping something else, a heavy wooden box. The farmer was suddenly afraid. He looked around to make sure that no one was seeing him. He carefully pulled the box out of the ground. He wanted to open it and see what was inside, but was too afraid to do it there, out in the open. He wrapped it again, in the coarse piece of cloth that he had found it in and wrapped his gamcha, his checkered towel again around it to take it home. Hoisting it on his shoulders, he began to walk back to his home on the edge of the village.
It was dark by the time he reached his small hut. At every step, he was afraid someone would call him out, someone would ask what he was carrying, but on that day he came across no one. He lit up a soot filled lantern and stood it beside the box that he had laid on the ground. Sitting on his haunches, he unwrapped the two layers around the box and examined it. It was wood alright, but looked as if it was once shinier than it was now. The grain was tight and rich, and on the top engraved in the wood was the motif of a hand, holding a lotus. There were rusted steel clasps on one side that shut the lid, but no lock. He opened the clasps and tried to lift the lid, but it was shut tight with the mud and grime of ages. A few whacks of his hand did not work in knocking away the caked earth, but the kitchen knife did the trick. The seemingly years-old mud was chiselled away with the sharp point of the knife, and he tried to lift the lid again. This time, it opened. Staring at the contents of the box he leaned back on the ground.
Inside the box were two compartments. In one there was a bundle of sacred thread, dipped in turmeric and vermilion, along with a janaeu, the sacred thread of the pandits; a pair of wooden scales; arrows about three feet long, with hard metal points; and a square piece of leather. In the other was a bundle wrapped in silk cloth, checkered in saffron and green. He took everything out and laid them on the ground in a neat row. Untying the knot of the silk bundle, he found that it carried a dagger with a rusty blade and a few round metal coins that were equally rusty. Not knowing what to do, he sat in front of the box, forgetting to take his food, forgetting his field and his fears, his mind ticking to find a way that he could use this newly discovered treasure.
Late in the night, when the last lights of the village had blinked asleep and the oil in his lantern was running out, causing the thin flame to dance, a thought suddenly struck him. He took out the dusty, rusty dagger and the coins and held them to the light, where they glimmered softly in the glow of the sooted lantern. Leaving his treasure, he filled the lantern with oil from a can with the picture of a book on it. He brought a vessel of water and a cloth and, dipping the cloth in the water, he wiped the blade in the wet cloth and the rust came off staining the cloth red. But it wasn't the red of rust, he realized, for the blade was now shining, it's edge as keen, and as sharp as ever. No rust would come off so easily, and certainly, no rusted blade would be as sharp as this one unless it was sharpened for several minutes. He wiped the metal coins and as they clinked back to the ground, he recognized the unmistakable shimmer of gold. A shiver ran down his spine, even as sweat broke on his brow, as he realized that what he thought was rust had been blood. Hastily he put them all back in the box, all the contents and shut the lid, willing the cursed box to disappear. The farmer was a practical man in his dealings and in his life, but he was also god-fearing, and believed in ghosts and evil spirits and curses and spells.
Breathing heavily, he walked to the corner, where on a wooden shelf, was a photo of Ganesh, the Lord of Obstacles, flanked by Lakshmi, the Goddess of Wealth and Saraswati, the Goddess of Knowledge. With trembling hands, he lit a diya to the gods and prayed silently to them. As he was praying, he suddenly knew what to do with the cursed box.
He made a large bonfire in his backyard and hurled the thing into the flames. Lying on his charpoy, his stringed bed, a few feet away from the blazing fire, he watched for a while mesmerized, as the heat sent sparks of blazing ember into the dark, dark night above, until sleep and exhaustion over came him. When he awoke, it was late in the morning and the sun was high overhead. The fire had died out and all that was left was ash and melted lumps of metal. Taking a small wooden pot, he gathered the ashes and the lumps of metal into them and tied the mouth of the pot with a piece of cloth.
Making himself a thin, weak gruel, which he devoured in no time, he took the pot and walked to the cross-roads of the village. At this time of the day, people were milling about and a few nodded at him or said "Ram Ram!" He replied back politely, and no one prodded further, except Balwant Nai's nosy kids who pestered him to tell them what he was carrying. He swatted at them playfully until they made a run for it. At the cross-roads, the bus to the town was on time, he paid five rupees to the conductor and sat staring out of the window, the pot of burnt treasure, clutched tightly in his hands.
The old bus reached the blustering and busy town, honking and sending great billows of smoke. Alighting, he made straight for the ghats of the river that flowed through the town. He washed his hands and refused the pandits who came asking him if he wished that they performed the last rites for his beloved departed, but he refused them. Some walked away morosely, others cursed his heartlessness, and yet others warned him that those whose soul rested in the pot would suffer forever in hell if the rites were not performed properly by a brahmin. Standing in the water, he emptied the contents of the pot into the river and let the current carry the pot away.
On the long bus journey home, the farmer smiled to himself several times, sighing softly and humming a tune to himself, much to the amusement of the passengers around him. He got off a couple of miles outside the village to take a path that led to his field. His shadow was long, and the sun was ready to dive into the earth when he reached the field. On the way home, he had made up his mind that he would try to sell the field; maybe some fool from town would buy it. What he saw as he reached the field, made him stop in his tracks. Wonder of wonders, the shoots had finally broken ground over night; tiny green leaves dotted the field in neat rows. The farmer ran over the field, inspecting them, stopping here and there, his eyes filled with tears. He sent a prayer to the gods and as the sun went down, sat on the edge of the field, wondering at the strange happenings. The only thing from the hidden treasure that he had saved was still lying in his hut; it was the piece of cloth that the box had been wrapped in. He had seen it before hoisted on a pole every year in the village school. The next day, he brought the flag to the field and hoisted it himself on a long pole, where it fluttered proudly.
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