A man was clearing out the storage shed, tossing the rubbish and old junk into a heap in the yard. Amid the clutter, he spotted a grimy little bookprobably left behind by children. He opened it and began to read. One line struck him: *»Was a man born just to dig at the earth, then die without even scratching out his own grave?»*
The words unravelled him. That was *him*, exactly. What had he ever seen? Work, from his youth till nowalways work. Home was no escape: the garden, the fence, the gate. Spring meant ploughing, tending, relentless toil. He and his wife had even claimed another patch of land, wasting their youth on it.
The farm had made slaves of them. By old age, both bore small humps on their backs. Theyd seen nothing. *Nothing!* Never travelled. Their minds dulled by labour, hands earth-stained, eyes forever downcast. And his wife? Scrubbing, boiling, stewing, pickling, jammingendlessly fretting over their daily bread.
Gorky was right in *Makar Chudra*: man *is* a slave. A whole life spent worrying over crumbs. Theyd read nothing, knew nothing of culture, could barely string two thoughts together.
His soul ached. His whole life felt wasted. Somewhere, theatres glowed; somewhere, palm trees swayed; clever, beautiful people spoke of clever, beautiful things. But he and his wife? Peasants then, peasants now. Their children trod the same path. The same fate awaited them.
What *had* he known? Never wore fine clothes. Never ventured farther than Cornwall. Never even seen London. Only once flown in a plane. A few train rides. His life? The yard, the garden, chickens, livestock. Work till holiday, then work at home. A wife forever fussing.
Then you die*»without even scratching out your own grave.»* Perfect words.
He smoothed the dirty book with his hand, carried it inside, and left it on the sideboard. He couldnt bring himself to throw it away. Everyone should read itshould *think* about their chains.
The day ended. He and his wife sat in twilight, the lamps unlit. He told her his thoughtsabout slavery, about digging the earth, about a life thrown away. Soon theyd die, having seen nothing but vegetable plots. Why had they bothered? Lifes given once, and theyd squandered it.
His wife said nothing. She stood, fetched water, watered the plants. Then she opened drawers, shook out fresh sheets, and made the bed. She lay down, turned to him, and said, *»Come to bed. Enough chatter.»*
Neither slept. He felt her awake, sighing. Then she turned to face him. *»Not everyones meant to be a Columbus or a Darwin. God kissed *them*gave them their purpose. The rest of us? He told us to take joy in work, in the land. Raise children. Dig potatoes. Why stare at the great ones?»*
She paused, then added she was no slave. Shed done what she wanted, what pleased her. She had no regrets.
He rose, threw an old coat over his shoulders, and stepped outside. Stars glimmered gold above. He lit a cigarette and sat on the step.
*»Imagine thatmy wifes a philosopher! Fifty years together, and I never knew.»*
She bustled, fed them, kept the house clean. And she wasnt a slave. Because God had kissed herfor the home, the children, the husband, the family. Because everything begins and ends there. *Imagine that. He sat in the dark, the cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers, and watched the stars wheel slowly overhead. The earth was quiet, the garden a shadowed shape beyond the step. He thought of the children, grown now, their voices still echoing in the walls. He thought of the meals shared, the storms weathered, the seed sown year after year. And for the first time, the weight in his chest shiftednot lifted, but changed, as if something long buried had turned toward the light. He crushed the cigarette, stood, and went back inside. She was asleep, one hand open on the sheet. He lay down beside her, careful not to wake her, and stared at the ceiling until dawn.
