The Real Animal Farm

Return of the wild pigs

“Someone was firing bullets in the corner of a room. I could see maybe 10-15 people - people I knew. The outside bit from where I was watching, almost felt like a garage and people were calmly leaving it, as if they have finished a yoga class. I stared at them in the quietness of that moment where the only sound that repeated was the sound of the firing of the bullets. Some of the people who left, greeted me 'morning' - as if they were indifferent to what happened around them. I saw them exiting the garage, from the darkness to the light. I was standing at the centre, watching the ones who had entered the light and the ones who were still firing their bullets in the dark.”

I woke up. I knew I was dreaming and I knew that it was suggesting me something. Maybe it will take me a few more months to understand its meaning. It's too early to tell.

I moved further and tried to keep my eyes wide open. The laziness wanted me to rest in her lap, once again. She was asking me to forget the dream, to forget the morning. She said, "It's okay. You can rest here a bit longer. No one will disturb you." ..but I knew her better, she wasn't doing this today. In fact, she has been doing this for a couple days now. The more I listen to her, the more I suffer, but in that moment when I am standing at a crossroad, it feels irresistible, her voice seems soothing and inviting.

The window was closed. I gently tucked open the latch and moved it further so my grandma won't listen to it in the other room. For a few days now, grandpa keeps awake at night. His dementia is growing. The medicines he takes for his Parkinsons disease, make him a subject to his own psychological degradation. We all know this, but there is nothing we can do now - it's too late. He wakes up in the middle of the night, opens the door that leads to the toilet that is situated in the porch and forgets to lock the door when he gets back to sleep. Grandma sleeps in the room next to him. Every time he wakes up, she hears a stick hitting the floor. Her brain is now wired to know that he is awake and thus she stays up. After he is done, she walks slowly to the back door and checks if the door is closed. Snakes and other bugs have entered the house. We remember our beloved dog, Raju, who was picked from this very door by a leopard, in the middle of a night. It is important for our safety that the door remains shut. Reminding grandpa about this or even holding him accountable is of no use when he literally doesn't know that he has forgotten. Dementia is cruel, but what is more cruel is how grandma is getting affected second hand due to this. She almost everyday has a lack of sleep.

The orange hues at the dawn had lit up the sky. For days now, I have been sleeping in the lap of laziness. I haven't seen the morning mist, the play of wind, the orange hues that put a fire to the hills on the horizon.

Walking through the kitchen I went to the back door. It was closed. I was right. Grandma must have been up till late.

I stepped out and went to the swing from where the farm and the horizon was visible. The morning mist had spread all across the field. The rice fields were light yellow, the banana plantations were light green and the ground had a mixture of brown and green. Some coconut trees were blocking a clear view to the horizon, hence I decided to walk to the well, at the edge of the farm. The lack of trees due the paddy fields help for a clear view of the hill in the distance. It's my go to place when I feel like anxiety is taking me over. It is the perfect place to remember that none of this actually matters as much as my mind wants to make it. This is my detachment zone.

I saw my slippers lying on the steps but I chose not to wear them. The first touch of the moist ground was enough to send some pleasing signals through my nervous system. I walked through the gravel path that crosses the coconut trees and leads to the elder well. Elder well because she is bigger in size and much older than the new one that my grandpa built. This well has given water to many in the community when the streams and smaller ponds would dry up in peak summer. The yellows and greens in the paddy fields were still. The morning wind had already passed and the next round of wind won't be until the sun had risen up. They stood there in silence - reminding me of my meditation.

"Only one look at the horizon and then I'd go back to my room and sit down to meditate," I promised myself.

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As I walked further, some strange sounds started to enter my ears. I didn't move. I stood in silence as to not disturb anything that was around me. My footsteps would be enough to alert the ones making the sound. It could have been the foxes, it could have been a leopard or something else. Sightings though infrequent aren't totally uncommon in our village. Savitri had seen a leopard walking through the marshes some weeks back. Villagers were alerted, but the leopard chose solitude from then onwards. If it was a leopard, I wanted to see. If it was a fox, I wanted to see. I wasn't backing down. I walked slowly towards the well and there they were. The wild pigs.

"Wow, look at those wild pigs," a sound said, but the counter sound which said, "Fucking pigs!! They are eating the rice," was more pronounced. All my survival mechanisms were on an alert. I thought of the work that my uncle, my dad and Sanju had put in on this farm. They had gone against the orders of my grandpa who didn't want to waste any more money on planting rice. "The monkeys and pigs will destroy it. What's the point?", he would say, but my uncle had a different opinion. He wasn't doing it to actually get the rice, instead he did it to keep the tradition alive. He wanted to keep his hands busy in the fields and to remind grandparents that the next generation was capable to continue what they had started.

I tip-toed to the house and then ran all the way to Sanju. From the backyard I entered through the door. A small yellowish light lit the kitchen. Sanjeevani, Sanju's wife, must me up, I thought. Sanju was sleeping on the sheets on the floor. He was awake but he was battling the same enemy I had battled a few minutes back - laziness.

"You want to see wild pigs?", I asked him.

His face glowed up and we ran bare chest towards the well. Some 15-20 pigs were roaming around the rice field. They had razed atleast two smaller sections to the ground. We stood there watching them as the fire on the horizon grew and spread in all directions.

Sanju picked up a stone and lifted his hand to throw it in their direction, but I stopped him. I wanted to take some pictures to share with my uncle. The piglets were munching on the newly flowered rice. "What a feast!", they'd be thinking.

Finally a stone was thrown. The splash made a loud sound, enough to alert every pig. The splash and their run were almost simultaneous. More than a dozen pigs ran towards the marshes and only one stood there. He must have been the dominant male. He looked at us as if reminding us, "You might have won this battle, but the war is not yet over. We will be back."

I called my uncle, knowing very well how important this field was to him.

He calmly replied, "They took what was theirs.”

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If you have reached this far then I hope it means you like what I’m doing and if so you might consider supporting me by ‘buying me a coffee’ ( Substack does not let me monetize my articles because I am based in India) which is a one off payment rather than a continuous subscription. Payments, however small, encourage me in my writing and mean that I can spend more time honing my skills.

You can buy my book which is a memoir about my 1800 km walk through India through my website. Thankyou, really!

There is one more thing by the way.

Most of you joined this Substack after reading stories from Saving a Village. In that series, I spoke about the urgency of taking action against the looming threats of deforestation, coastal highway projects, and the chemical and oil factories set to rise in this eco-sensitive zone. These developments could devastate many villages, including mine. That’s why I’ve decided to embark on a 500-kilometer journey across this stretch of land.

My purpose isn’t political, nor am I here to point fingers at specific companies or factories. Instead, I want to visit each village, sharing the message that while change is inevitable, it’s vital that we steer it in the right direction. I have no desire to cast myself as a hero; my goal is simply to witness this land and its fading culture before it's too late. However, if I can raise awareness and ignite even a small spark of understanding, I’ll be content knowing I did what I could.

But I can't do this alone. To plan the walk and cover necessary supplies, I need your support. Unfortunately, platforms like Kickstarter and other crowdfunding sites aren't available to me here in India, so I’m relying on your donations. You can contribute through PayPal—here’s the link. For donations over $30, I’d love to send you a personalized postcard as a token of gratitude.

-Ashutosh