Life Story of a Grain
By Uppili. Chakrapani
I was born as a proud and young rice grain, majestically set in a green sapling in a field, in a distant village of Punjab. They called me Basmati. I was fondly grown by the farmer who protected me relentlessly day and night. He would pray with fervour for a congenial climate for me to grow and I was always moved to see his concern when untimely rain-clouds gathered at times. There was also some anxiety when pests attacked the neighbouring field. Fortunately our growth was never hindered and the labour put in our care went up and up.
The farmer had a good harvest, proud and satisfied as he was when he took us to the market. I was glad to be the reason of his happiness. In the ricemill, when my husk was removed and I was packed, they wrote on the packet that I was rich in carbohydrates.
To cut a long story short, I reached a rich kitchen from the shop. I was cooked and packed in the lunch-box of the school-going girl in the house. I was shattered when the girl preferred some junk food during the lunch and threw me carelessly into the bin.
Having been a witness to all the labour that had gone on my growth and to reach me upto the lunch-box, I could not take my fate of finding myself in the dust without serving my objective. From a wheat grain in the bin that happened to share the same fate as mine, I learnt that humans waste a lot of food and grains in their daily routine.
I just want to place for your attention, young readers, please appreciate that it is not simply resources but the huge labour which is put to dishonour when foodstuff is wasted. It is an equal affront to the Sun and Mother Earth that raise us, the grains.
If it ever falls within my discretion, I would never like to be born a grain again to be branded as unwanted and be thrown around as waste.