Day 29 - Drying Paddy

The moment I stepped outside, the July sun struck me like a furnace blast a relentless, shimmering heat that clung to my skin. But this was no ordinary swelter; it was the perfect, golden fury needed to dry the freshly harvested paddy from my host’s fields. The earth itself seemed to exhale warmth, ready to cradle the grains in its embrace.

My host had already spread out the woven mats, their edges fluttering slightly in the dry breeze. With practiced hands, she began unloading the paddy seeds, each sack a backbreaking weight, its contents spilling onto the mat like liquid gold. The labor was gruelling each bag a test of endurance, each seed a tiny promise of sustenance.

Once the last sack was emptied, she handed me a rake, its wooden handle smooth from years of use. “We must turn them,” she explained, “so the ones beneath don’t stay damp.” And so, under the watchful eye of the sun, we raked and shifted, raked and shifted.

It struck me then, how often we speak of rain, of its life-giving touch, yet forget the sun’s silent, scorching labor. The dance of cultivation is a fragile one: rain to nourish, sun to preserve. A balance as old as the earth itself, now trembling under the weight of a changing climate.

As dusk painted the sky in hues of amber, we gathered the dried paddy, bundling it back into sacks with hurried hands. Leaving it out overnight was unthinkable, not with the distant rumble of elephant herds prowling the village edges, their hunger as vast as the shadows they cast. Inside the house, the seeds would be safe, their journey from field to granary complete for now.