From the Foothills

The cough syrup kept me sleepy all the day.
The khatiya kept inviting me with arms wide open.
And I spent most of the day in slumber.

People from all around our farm, come to meet us, their new neighbours.
They bring vegetables and other uniques from their fields, as souvenir.
We greet them with mangoes.
Lots of them.
Different varieties.
No carbide. No pesticide, No fertilizers. Organic.
Just fallen from the trees; on their own.

I like this small barter system we have here.

Some members from the nearby Tharu tribe, live next to our farms. They depend on the forest. Passing by our fields, they bring us wild edible mushrooms.
They call it ‘bhutkal’.

Three people got attacked and one got killed by a bear, last month. It attacked them while picking wild mushrooms.
Yet, here they are. Passing by our fields. With small axes and sickles hanging between two small pieces of wood, tied at their back.

“Why do you still go?”, I asked.
“It’s sold 400 RS per kg, huzoor”, he said, “costlier than chicken. More than twice.”

In the evening, while returning, they offered me some ‘bhutkal’. I went inside the store to bring them mangoes.
I wonder how many mangoes can barter the risk on their lives…