Gehoon (Wheat)

The bael are being forcibly guided into tight circles. Beneath their hooves the gehoon spread out across the stone floor is being trampled each time around. Across the ­baakhli the scene is the same, bael going round and round grinding what has been harvested up to this point. And in charge of this merry-go-round of sorts is often a woman, or girl. She holds an umbrella with one hand to protect her over the next several hours from the sun’s unrelenting gaze. The other hand firmly grips the reins tied to the animals. And she trots (or stumbles, depending on her level of experience) alongside. She’s young, and pretty, her clothes new, her hair just washed. The jet-black strands radiant in the morning light. She’s older her face worn with a lifetime of physical labor, seasons and seasons of years and years of cutting and carrying, sowing and collecting. She looks much older than she actually is, teeth missing, her sari faded. A seasoned veteran in her own right. She greets me with a smile. Namaskar.

The bael are muzzled with rope tied across their mouths. They will not be eating the trampled harvest below, not anytime soon. They nonchalantly allow themselves to be led around, clearly used to the routine. There are four of them moving slightly quicker than the snail’s pace, tied to one another, harmlessly colliding. More gehoon is tossed onto the ground as the hours of work pile up. But the young one, he has had enough. Multiple attempts at escape from the day’s assigned task bring bouts of laughter from all around, but the best is yet to come. The girl in charge, her cries combine her sense of hilarity and a call for some assistance. Her sister stands in the doorway of the ancient house watching and laughs the loudest. Her mother is seated on the other side directly facing the home. She supervises from her spot, giving encouragement and scolding. She joins in the laughter as the young one once more tries to quit.

­­The bundles of gehoon are brought from countless yellow fields that diagonally line the massive hills. They are cut and tied together, transported upon heads up and down the steep terrain. After being trodden the grain will be put to the wind, as either the natural breeze or fans will be used to separate the grain from its sheath. After that it will be placed in a chakki and ground into dough, which in turn will be prepared and cooked into rotis. But that’s all for later, right now the demands of the work are simple, the bael must keep moving in circles. In a nearby yard a man is leading a single bael in the process. They move much quicker, together in continuous motion. He is wearing only a pair of kacchas, his brown skin prevailing, and janeyu – the singular sacred thread of a believer diagonally across his chest.

Smiles seem to be the motif of the sun-filled day. A woman, maybe the girls’ sister-in-law bathes a child. The child squats, completely still, as he has is lathered up, scrubbed, and washed. The calf does not have his mouth muzzled, his incentive to circumambulate and munch along the way. The conditioning so he will become like the older ones, resigned in their movements. But it is not enough for him and he suddenly drops to the ground in his final protest. His brown hide traps the gehoon beneath and he places his head squarely on the ground in defiance to any more. The laugher reaches its peak from all sides at the young one’s proclamation of, “I shall not be moved.” Another part of the morning passes in a day that still holds much more work. Another day with the hills as a backdrop – giant, permanent, and unmoving scattered with thousands upon thousands of trees.