A man was clearing out his shed, tossing out rubbish and old junk. Hed piled up a big heap in the yard when he spotted a thin, grimy little bookprobably from his kids childhood. He opened it and started reading. His eyes landed on a line that said, «Was a man born just to dig in the dirt and then die, without even having the time to dig his own grave?»
It hit him like a ton of bricks. That was him, wasnt it? What had he ever seen? Work, work, work since he was young. At home, it was always somethingthe garden, the fence, the gate. In spring, hed plough the soil, tend to it. He and his wife had even taken on an extra plot of land. Theyd wasted their youth on it.
The little homestead had turned them into slaves. By the time they were older, both had developed slight hunches from years of bending over. Theyd seen nothing. Nothing! Never travelled. Theyd grown dull from labour, their hands soil-stained, their eyes forever fixed on the ground.
And his wife? Washing, cooking, steaming, making jams and pickles, preserves and all the rest. Always worrying about putting food on the table.
Gorky was right in *Makar Chudra*man is a slave. Spends his whole life fretting over his daily bread.
Theyd never read anything, never touched culture, couldnt string two clever words together. His soul ached. It felt like his whole life had gone to waste. Somewhere out there, there were theatres, palm trees, beautiful, clever people talking about beautiful, clever thingswhile he and his wife had stayed peasants, just as theyd begun.
And their kids? Same path. Same fate waiting for them.
What had he ever known? Never wore decent clothes. Never been further than Cornwall. Not even to London. Only been on a plane once in his life. A few train trips.
His whole existenceyard, garden, livestock, chickens. Work till holiday time. Holidays spent working at home. Wife always fussing.
Then you kick the bucket, «without even digging your own grave.» Brilliant words, those.
He smoothed the dirty little book with his hand, carried it inside, and set it on the sideboard. Couldnt bring himself to chuck it out. Everyone should read itmake them think about their own chains.
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 by for nothing. Soon enough, theyd be gone, and what had they ever known besides rows of vegetables? What was the point? You only get one life, and theyd wasted theirs.
His wife said nothing. She got up, fetched water, watered the plants. Then she opened the drawers, took out fresh bedsheets, and made the bed. She lay down, turned to him, and said, «Come to bed. Stop yammering on.»
Neither slept. He could tell she was awake too, sighing. Then she turned to face him and said, «Not everyones meant to be an explorer or a Columbus. God kissed themgave em their purpose. The rest of us? He told us to take joy in our work, in the land. Raise kids. Dig up potatoes. No use staring at the great ones.»
She paused, then added she wasnt a slave. Shed done what she wanted, what pleased her. And she had no regrets.
He got up, threw on his old jacket, and stepped outside. Stars glowed gold in the sky. He lit a cigarette and sat on the step.
«Would you believe it? My wifes cleverer than I ever knew. Fifty years together, and I never realised.»
She pottered about, fed the family, kept the house clean. And she wasnt a slave! Because God had kissed her for the home, the kids, the husband, the family. Because everything begins and ends with family. He sat there a long time, smoke curling into the night, watching the stars blur and sharpen as his eyes watered. The cool air filled his lungs, and for the first time in years, he didnt feel the weight of wasted daysjust the quiet hum of a life lived, not in grand gestures, but in steady hands and shared bread. Inside, the lamp flickered on, casting their shadows on the curtaintwo figures, bent but unbroken, side by side. He crushed the cigarette under his boot, stood, and went back in.
