The Land, The Legacy

Greetings to all my dear readers.

Today, I will write something that is a kind of fiction short story. A story that has been lingering in me for some time. And, maybe, storytelling is a kind of being old symptom. Only by doing it, the agitation will fade away.

Let me take you to a small town called Yan.

As the sun rises over the horizon, casting a golden glow on the dew-kissed fields, the town comes alive. The distant clatter of wooden carts, the soft murmur of water flowing through irrigation canals, and the melodic calls of farmers greeting each other signal the start of another day. The fields are a sea of emerald, with farmers bending over their crops, their straw hats bobbing like boats on a verdant ocean.

It is a place where tradition runs deep. Nestled among rolling hills, Yan is a patchwork of vibrant green paddy fields stretching as far as the eye can see. The scent of fresh earth and the rhythmic sounds of water wheels fill the air. Here, paddy cultivation is not just an occupation but a way of life, the lifeblood of the community.

In this close-knit town, most of the population shares the same bloodline. Family ties are strong, but as the years passed, the growing numbers and mixed marriages with outsiders have diluted these bonds. Despite the changes, the essence of Yan remains rooted in its land. The paddy fields are the heart of the town, and owning a piece of this land is a source of pride and livelihood.

Here, the land is more than just soil and plants; it's a sacred heritage passed down through generations. Each plot of paddy field tells a story of ancestors who toiled under the scorching sun and monsoon rains. The people of Yan wear their heritage with pride, their hands stained with the rich brown of the earth, their hearts bound to the rhythm of the seasons.

It is midday, and the sun hangs high in the sky, casting a bright, almost blinding light over the paddy fields. The farmers take a break, seeking shelter from the heat in small huts dotting the landscape. These huts, with their thatched roofs and wooden benches, provide a much-needed respite. The cool shade within, a stark contrast to the relentless sun outside, offers a moment of peace and a place to share meals and stories.

In one such hut, Old Man Uda, or Pak Uda as most know him, sits with his two teenage sons on a sturdy wooden bench. The hut is simple but sturdy, built with bamboo and palm leaves, its open sides allowing a gentle breeze to flow through, carrying the scent of earth and growing rice.

Pak Uda, with his weathered face and eyes that have seen decades of sunrises over these fields, points a calloused finger toward a distant, shady tree below the setting sun. "When my father and his father were around, our field only stretched to that corner," he says, his voice a blend of pride and nostalgia.

His sons, their mouths full of rice and hands still on their plates, follow his pointing finger with wide-eyed curiosity. They chew slowly, their attention riveted on the stories of their heritage.

Pak Uda's finger shifts to the left, pointing to another shady tree. "A few years after his father passed away, my father and I stretched further till that tree," he continues. His voice carries the weight of years of hard work and dedication.

The two teenagers' eyes widen as they follow the pointing finger, absorbing the significance of each plot of land. The fields are not just land; they are the chronicles of their family's perseverance and growth.

"Land is not meant to be sold. It is our soul," Pak Uda declares, his voice stern and unwavering. His weathered face, etched with lines of determination, and his firm, steady gaze emphasize his words. His back is straight, and his shoulders are set with resolve, embodying the conviction of his statement. "No one can take it away from us."

The firmness in his voice is not just advice; it is a decree. The two boys nod slowly, understanding the gravity of their father's words. They continue eating, their minds now contemplating the legacy they are a part of and the sacred duty they have to uphold.

As the days turned into weeks, Pak Uda made it a point to teach his children the ways of the land. In the early mornings, they would walk together through the fields, Pak Uda explaining the importance of each step in the cultivation process.

"See this water, Along?" Pak Uda pointed to the narrow canal that brought life-giving water to the paddies. "It's like the veins in our body, carrying nutrients to every part of the field. Without it, nothing can grow."

Along nodded, his young mind absorbing the wisdom of his father's words. "And the plants, Papa? How do we make sure they grow strong?"

Pak Uda placed a gentle hand on his son's shoulder. "We must tend to them with care, just as we would to our family. Weeding, fertilizing, protecting them from pests—it's all part of our duty. The land gives to us, but we must also give to it."

In the evenings, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with a tapestry of colors, Pak Uda would sit with his children under the old banyan tree. The cool breeze would rustle the leaves, and the soft chirping of crickets would create a symphony of nature.

"Papa," Angah asked one night, his head resting against his father's arm, "why do you love the land so much?"

Pak Uda looked up at the twinkling stars, a serene smile on his lips. "Because, Angah, this land is our heritage. It's the foundation upon which our family has stood for generations. It's a gift from our ancestors, and it's our responsibility to honor that gift. It's not just about the crops we grow; it's about the life we build from the fruits of our labor."

Nearby, Ibu Uda, the caring mother in the family, sat with her hands moving effortlessly as she knitted. Her calm presence was a constant source of comfort and strength. "We must protect the land," she said softly, her eyes never leaving her work. "It is our home. It is where we stay. Where we belong."

One rainy afternoon, as the heavens poured down upon the fields, Pak Uda found himself lost in thought. The rhythmic patter of raindrops on the leaves was soothing, a reminder of the nurturing power of nature. He watched as the water seeped into the soil, replenishing the earth and preparing it for the next cycle of growth.

Along and Angah sat beside him, their eyes wide with curiosity. "Papa," Along began, "what will happen to the land when we grow up?"

Pak Uda turned to his children, his gaze steady and unwavering. "That will be your decision to make. But know this: the land will always be here, waiting for you. It's a part of our family, and it will continue to provide for us as long as we care for it."

Angah, his hand gripping his father's sleeve, asked softly, "And if we choose to leave, Papa?"

Pak Uda's heart ached at the thought, but he knew he had to prepare them for all possibilities. "If you choose to leave, my dear, do so with respect and gratitude for what this land has given us. No matter where you go, carry the lessons you've learned here with you. The land will always welcome you back."

As the seasons changed, Pak Uda continued to work the fields, each day reinforcing the bond between his family and the land. He watched with pride as Along and Angah grew stronger, their hands learning the feel of the earth, their hearts understanding the significance of their heritage.

One evening, as the sun set in a blaze of orange and gold, Pak Uda gathered his children by the edge of the fields. "You two," he began, his voice filled with emotion, "I want you to remember that this land is our life. It's our past, our present, and our future. Whatever you choose to do, hold onto this knowledge. Cherish it, protect it, and let it guide you."

Along, now a young man, nodded solemnly. "We will, Papa. We promise."

Angah, his eyes shining with determination, added, "We will honor our heritage, Papa. The land will always be a part of us."

Pak Uda smiled, his heart swelling with pride and hope. "Then I know our legacy is in good hands."

Dear readers;

A legacy may not be just those materials but the memories with those before us often more priceless.

Allow me to tend to my things and shall continue with the fiction.

Old Man Em Jay