The era of the early 1600s saw the Mughal empire at its peak. Western Maharashtra, or “Dakkhan” called by those who lived north of the mighty Narmada, was under the rule of the Shahis. Adilshah of Bijapur ruled much of the lands between the rivers Krishna and Bhima.
In the small village of Shivapur, nestled in the rugged terrain of Western India near the present-day city of Pune, Kisan stood in his parched field. His calloused hands gripped the worn plough handle, his weathered face etched with worry and years of sun The year, known as Virodhi in the lunar calendar, was drawing to a close. Successive summers of severe heat and low rainfall had turned the once-fertile land into a barren wasteland.
Winter woes
The month of Magh had just begun, but the scorching heat was already taking its toll on the crops. Unknown to him, this month would be called February according to a calendar that was soon to gain worldwide use. His wife Lakshmi approached, her colorful sari a stark contrast to the dull brown landscape. “Dhani,” she called out, using the respectful term for her husband, “please come inside. The heat is unbearable.”
He turned to her, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the worry that weighed heavily on his mind. “Just a moment, I’m trying to see if there’s any hope for this year’s crop.” As she neared, their younger son Maruti came running from the direction of the village well, his empty water pot a testament to the severity of the drought. “Baba,” Maruti reported, his voice tinged with panic, “the well is almost dry. What are we going to do?”
The farmer sighed, running a hand through his graying hair. “We’ll have to dig deeper, son. There’s no other choice. The skies and the winds offer us no hope.” Returning to their modest mud hut, they passed the withered remains of their once-flourishing mango orchard.. The sight of the skeletal trees, their branches bare and lifeless, was a stark reminder of the relentless drought that had plagued the region for years.
Parched Lands
In the distance, the dry bed of the Mutha River stretched like a scar across the landscape. Once a lifeline for the region, it now lay silent, its waters a distant memory. The usually vibrant Babul trees that dotted the riverbank stood forlorn, their leaves wilted and sparse. Inside their humble dwelling, the family gathered around the small clay stove where the farmer’s wife was preparing a meager meal of bhakri and dal. The familiar scent of cumin and turmeric filled the air, a small comfort in these trying times.
“Do you remember,” she began as she kneaded the jowar dough, “how bountiful our harvest was five years ago? The granaries were overflowing, and we celebrated Diwali with such joy.” The farmer nodded, his eyes taking on a faraway look. “Ah yes, the years of Chitrabhanu, Subhanu….. they truly lived up to their names, and brought us so much joy. But then came Vyaya, and everything changed.” As they ate their simple meal, the conversation turned to their eldest son, Raghu, who was serving as a foot soldier in the army of a powerful Sardar. “Do you think Raghu is safe?” the farmer’s wife asked, her eyes filled with worry. He nodded, trying to reassure her. “Our son is strong and clever. He’ll be fine.”
Maruti leaned forward, eager for distraction from their dire situation. “Baba, what if the rains do not come this year also?” The farmer sank onto a low stool, his body aching from the day’s labor. “We will have to pray to the gods for rain,” he said, though the words came far and few between. His wife busied herself cleaning up after the meal. “Perhaps we should consider leaving,” she said quietly. “Moving to the city, like some of the other families have done.” “No!” The farmer’s voice was sharp. “This is our home, our land. We can’t abandon it.”
"But what if we have to, Baba?" Maruti asked, his young face creased with worry. “What if the rains never come?” As the days passed, the situation in the village grew more desperate. Tensions rose as water became scarcer and crops withered in the fields. The farmer's Khillari bullocks, once proud and strong, now stood listless in their shed, ribs showing through their dull coats.
The Fight over Water
One afternoon, a heated argument broke out at the village well. “Your cattle are drinking more than their share!” accused Raamya, a younger farmer, was visibly upset. But Kisan stood his ground. “We all suffer equally in this drought, Raamya. Turning against each other won’t bring the rain.” Before the argument could escalate further, the village elder, Daaji, intervened. “Enough! In times like these, we must stand together, not tear each other apart.” The villagers dispersed, chastened but still on edge.
That night, the Kisan confided in his wife, “I fear for our village if this continues. How much longer can we hold on?” Lakshmi took his hand in hers. “We must have faith. The gods will provide.” The next day, Daaji called a few men from the village and said, “We need to find water in the hills to quench the thirst of our barren lands.” He asked Kisan to lead a group of villagers into the surrounding hills. With a burst of hope and enthusiasm, Daaji followed the group, using his wooden stick for support. They identified some promising locations to dig for water. The work was backbreaking, but driven by desperation and hope, the villagers threw themselves into the task.
As the sun began to set, a shout went up. Water! They had struck a small underground spring. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to renew their hope. That night, as the village celebrated their small victory, the farmer found himself sitting with Daaji. “You see,” Daaji said, his milky eyes gazing into the distance, “hope comes in many forms. Sometimes it’s a hidden spring, sometimes it’s the return of a brave son.”
As the days passed, the conversation turned to the upcoming festival of Gudi Padwa, the Marathi New Year. Despite the hardships, the villagers always found a way to celebrate, holding onto hope for a better future. “We must raise the Gudi this year,” Lakshmi insisted. “It’s more important than ever to invite prosperity and good fortune into our lives.” Kisan reluctantly nodded in agreement. “If you say so, we will use the bamboo pole from last year, and I will have to find a new cloth to adorn it.”
In the following weeks, the heat only intensified. The month of Chaitra brought with it temperatures that seemed to scorch the very air they breathed. The farmer and the other villagers worked tirelessly, digging deeper wells and praying for rain.
Gudi Padwa- New Samvatsar Arrives
On the day of Gudi Padwa, the entire village came together, their spirits lifted by the festive atmosphere. Colorful Gudis were raised in front of every home, the bright cloths and sugar garlands a stark contrast to the barren landscape.
Daaji hobbled over to where the Kisan and his family stood admiring their Gudi. At eighty years old, Daaji was a living repository of the village’s history and wisdom. His thin frame belied the strength of his spirit, and his milky eyes seemed to see beyond the physical world. “Kisan and Lakshmi,” Daaji said, his voice creaking like old wood, “your Gudi stands tall and proud. May it bring us the rains we so desperately need in this Vikrit Samvatsar.”
The farmer and his wife bowed his head respectfully, and Kisan asked, “From your mouth to God’s ears, Daaji. How are you faring in this heat?” Daaji waved a gnarled hand dismissively. “I’ve seen worse, my boy. Back in my youth, we had a drought that lasted seven years.I have also seen several rains which caused floods all over. But we survived, and so will you.”
As the festival wore on, the villagers shared what little food they had, their laughter and songs a defiant response to the hardships they faced. Children played traditional games, their joyful shrieks piercing the hot air, while the elders sat in the shade, reminiscing about past celebrations. The hope that the New Year had brought was soon belied. In the following days, the much hoped-for rains did not come. The month of Vaishakh arrived shortly, bringing with it the festival of Akshaya Tritiya. Traditionally this festival meant a day of new beginnings and prosperity, this year it felt more like a cruel joke as the villagers looked out over their parched fields.
Father and son meet
Kisan stood in his courtyard, performing the customary puja for Akshaya Tritiya. As he lit the sacred lamp and offered prayers to the gods, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of desperation creeping into his usually steadfast faith. “Oh Lord Panduranga,” he murmured, his eyes closed in supplication, “please bless us with your abundance. Our crops wither, our cattle grow thin, and our children’s futures hang in the balance. Show us your mercy.”
His wife joined him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Have faith. Akshaya Tritiya is a day of eternal prosperity. It is one of the sade teen muhurtas- the three and half very auspicious days during the year. Surely our fortunes must turn.”
Vitthoba's Blessings
As if in answer to their prayers, a few days later, a cool breeze stirred the air. Dark clouds began to gather on the horizon, bringing with them the promise of rain. Word spread quickly through the village. People emerged from their homes, faces turned skyward in anticipation. When the first fat droplets began to fall, a cheer went up from the villagers. Kisan stood in his field, arms outstretched, welcoming the life-giving rain. For days, the rain fell steadily, soaking the parched earth and filling the depleted wells. The landscape began to transform, the gloomy and pitiable brown giving way to vibrant and energizing green as dormant seeds sprang to life. The dry riverbed of the Mutha began to fill, its waters bringing renewed life to the region.
As the rainy season progressed, the village flourished. Crops grew tall and strong, cattle regained their health, and the villagers’ spirits soared. The hardships of the past few years began to fade like a bad dream in the light of dawn. One sweltering afternoon in the month of Ashadh, as Kisan was tending to his now-thriving fields, he spotted a familiar figure approaching on the dusty road leading to the village.
“Raghu!” he called out, his heart leaping with joy at the sight of his eldest son.
A Ray of Hope
The family reunion was joyous, with tears and laughter mingling as they embraced. After the sun had set, the neighbors gathered, eager to hear news from the outside world. That evening, as they sat around the fire, Raghu regaled them with tales of his adventures as a soldier. He spoke of battles fought and won, of the camaraderie among the soldiers, and of the great respect they all held for their leader.
“Tell us, Raghu dada,” Maruti asked eagerly, “What is the name of this great Sardar who leads you?” Raghu smiled, pride evident in his voice. “We address him as Maharaj. His name is Shahaji Raje Bhosle.” “And what of the wars, Raghu?” the farmer asked, his face showed deep concern. “Will they ever end?” Raghu’s expression grew serious. “Our Maharaj fights for our lands, Baba. It’s a noble cause.”
Daaji, who had joined them for the evening, nodded sagely. “And his son will fight for our freedom,” he added cryptically. A hush fell over the gathering at Daaji’s words.
Raghu leaned forward, his interest piqued. “What do you mean, Daaji?” The old man’s eyes twinkled mysteriously in the firelight.
“I have heard whispers. The Maharaj’s wife has given birth to a son a few months ago. Mark my words, this child will be no ordinary one. God himself has sent him to free us from the tyrants.” As the implications of Daaji’s words sank in, a sense of awe settled over the group.
The farmer looked around at his family and neighbors, their faces illuminated by the flickering firelight. Despite the hardships they had endured, hope burned bright in their eyes. As the night wore on and the villagers slowly began to disperse, Kisan found himself filled with a sense of peace he hadn’t felt in years. The future, which had seemed so bleak just months ago, now held the promise of better days to come.
The effects of the drought would fade away in the years to come, and Kisan would often look back on this time as a turning point, not just for his family or his village, but for the entire nation.
Author's Note
Legend has it that in the years before to the birth of Chatrapati Shivaji Maharaj, the region now known as Western Maharashtra experienced a severe drought for several years. This fictional story is inspired by that event. I have published this story on my blog at www.amarvyas.in as a side story for my upcoming book Shatabdi: The Next Hundred Years. The underlying message of this story is that climate change is not a new phenomeon.
