My Father's Heera and Moti
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My Father's Heera and Moti

Now, neither ploughs nor oxen are visible anywhere in our home. But, my father still remembers his two oxen, and occasionally shares anecdotes of their bravery and heroism with his grandchildren

Post by on Tuesday, May 17, 2022

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Placing bran and oil-cake in a wooden manger, fixed in front of a couple of strong pegs, was no lesser than an obligation for my father. Every morning, right after Fajr prayers, my father used to feed his two oxen - A black one who was tolerant and gentle, and a brown one who was aggressive and hot-tempered. But, the pair of oxen was equally dear to my Abu. I often used to think that my father had probably bought Jhuri's Heera and Moti from Munshi Premchand's Dou Bail Ki Kahani. I would often envy the pair of oxen because they were pampered and loved more than I and my siblings, by our parents. My father would never miss to pat and fondle the two oxen twice or thrice a day, though he would definitely forget to hug me for many days together.

Long bronze bells were tightly hung around the necks of these oxen, and these bells would often toll to produce a strange but mellifluous jingle, while the oxen were goaded. Different kinds of green fodders were sun-dried for the pair of oxen to have better nutrition during frigid months of our harsh winter when greenery ceases to visit our land. Different hays, other than paddy, were sun-dried and twisted into long ropes, and were suspended from thick branches of a colossal mulberry tree, standing in the compound of our house. My late grandmother would often call these oxen as 'Batte Bub' (Food fathers). The oxen were seen as bread earners of our family, because agriculture was the sole source of income for our family, to meet different types of expenses and expenditures.

Rearing and nurturing male calf of a cow, was done fondly in our homes. I and my siblings used to baptize the male calf as “Lille Bouy (Brother-calf). A grown-up calf was trained during early spring days to draw a plough to till the land. Two oxen were put under a wooden yoke to pull the plough. A set of typical verbal commands was used by the ploughman to regulate the movement of the oxen. The ploughmen had always long and straight sticks in their hands to control the oxen well. Indigenously made metal-wire muzzles were put on the mouths of the oxen, so that the greenery of boundary lines, commonly called property lines won't distract the oxen. We had almost half-a-dozen wooden ploughs of different sizes. Different ploughs were used at different stages of land-tilling. Shaft of the plough was adjusted as per need. Deep tilling would always put the oxen under extreme strain, and iron tipped ploughshare would occasionally injure cloven hooves of the oxen, while working in farmlands.

One year, when paddy seedlings were ready for transplantation, our brown ox was badly injured. My father had accidentally hit his hind hoof with the sharp iron tip of the ploughshare. It took us almost a week to heal up his injury. The injury to the hoof of the ox came like a bolt from the blue for our family because we could not transplant our paddy seedlings in time. Antiseptic ointment and boiling mustard oil was added to the wound of the ox. Our whole family was worried about the quick recovery of the ox. Finally, my father managed to prepare our paddy farmland for paddy transplantation though the brown ox was still limping. Culmination of paddy seedling transplantation would ensure a prolonged rest for the pair of oxen. The oxen were at times used to dehusk different pulses during the harvest season. My father would bind the two oxen together, using the wooden yoke. And, would goad them circularly to trample over the dry heaps of pulses, to dehusk the pods of the pulses.

The two oxen were more than domestic animals for our family. Special fodders like big green mulberry leaves were fed to the oxen during the summer season. I don't remember if our milking cows were coddled the same way. Days kept passing, the two oxen were still looking strong and brawny. Then, one day, a bovine trader visited our home, and asked my father if he can sell the pair of oxen. My father outrightly rejected his offer. Though two new calves were almost ready to replace the pair of oxen, but the bond between my father and the two oxen was so emotional and strong that it was a sin for my father to think about their replacement.

Destiny had something else in store. A calamity befell our family. My father begin to slip into the debt trap of moneylenders. Economy of our family was terribly shattered. Bad circumstances broke the back of my father. To his utter dismay and displeasure, both his darlings had to be sold. I distinctly remember that no meals were prepared that day in our home. Separation of my father's Heera and Moti grieved and afflicted and pained us all. My mother and my late grandmother cried bitterly when the two old companions of our family left our byre. Even I remember my father's doleful face with the stream of tears flowing down his cheeks.

Things improved gradually in our home. My father freed himself from the debt. Next year, we had a bumper mustard crop.  My father worked hard to dehusk the mustard seeds. And many sacks of mustard seed were ready to be taken to oil mill. I insisted my father to take me alongside to visit the indigenously made oil mill driven by ox. I had curiosity to know how oil mills work. Finally, I accompanied my father to a nearby oil mill, situated in a neighbouring village. The sight of the moving oil mill excited and elated me, but my father began to cry. He couldn't control his emotions, and asked the man to stop the ox for a while. I was perplexed, but I understood the matter soon when my father hung his arms around the neck of the ox, and kissed his forehead repeatedly, with tears in his eyes.

The scene is still fresh on the canvas of my reminiscences. Now, neither ploughs nor oxen are visible anywhere in our home. But, my father still remembers his two oxen, and occasionally shares anecdotes of their bravery and heroism with his grandchildren. I often scratch the memories of my father, so that he would share interesting episodes and tales of his youthful days with my children. It has helped me to a greater extent to inculcate values and imbibe knowledge among my children. My father is really an epitome of love, sympathy and affection.

 

(Author is a Teacher and Rising Kashmir Columnist. He can be reached at mushtaqhurra143@gmail.com)

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