'About failed harvests, lost hope and a youth in a hurry'

In a dusty hut on the edge of the rice field, Khun Somchai, an old rice farmer from Isaan, sat on a rickety bench. He stared at the sky that was slowly turning purple. The sun, a copper ball, was sinking slowly behind the horizon, as if it too was tired from a long day. Next to him sat his neighbor, Khun Suriya, with a half-empty bottle of rice wine in his hand. They often sat there, as the day drew to a close, a silent ritual almost as old as their friendship.

“It’s going to be another dry night,” muttered Khun Somchai, shaking the last bits of tobacco out of his pocket to roll a cigarette. His rough hands worked slowly and carefully, as he always did when planting his rice. All in good time, he thought, whether it was tobacco or rice. Every movement told a story of patience, of seasons that came and went, of years when water was plentiful, and years when the earth was cracked with drought.

“The nights are always dry,” Khun Suriya replied, taking another sip. “But at least you have a little land left. I’ll have to move in with my son if things continue like this. The bank has targeted my field.” He sighed deeply, as if he could literally feel the weight of his words pressing down on his chest. The memory of better times, when he had bought his first piece of land, was still vivid. But the loans had piled up, like the unopened letters from the bank in the drawer of his dresser.

Khun Somchai grinned faintly and lit his cigarette. “Oh, so do I,” he said, taking a deep drag. “Only my bank doesn’t have a marble floor, but it does have a leaky roof.” His words were light, but the undertone of worry was unmistakable. They laughed softly, but it was a laughter that gave away more than it covered up. It told of years of drought, failed harvests, and endless loans taken out to pay off previous debts. They laughed at the banality of their problems, at the simplicity of a life that was becoming increasingly complicated.

The sound of a motorbike broke the silence, and a young man in shiny sunglasses rode past without noticing them. It was Khun Suriya’s son, and his appearance was as swift as the dust he left behind. “The youth are in a hurry,” Somchai said, following the trail of dust left by the motorbike. “They don’t even know how to plant a seed anymore.” His words were not born of bitterness, but rather of a deep sense of melancholy, as if he realized that time was passing them by slowly but surely.

Suriya looked at him and nodded slowly. “What are they doing here? There’s nothing left to harvest. Maybe it’s better this way.” He looked at his hands, once strong but now bent by age and hard work. “We’re the last generation that still believes in a good harvest.” His voice trembled slightly, as if he suddenly realized the weight of his own words. The youth were moving to the cities, to a life full of promise he’d never known, but always suspected was fleeting, like rainwater drying up quickly in the hot sun.

They were silent for a moment, as if they both shared the same thought but did not dare to speak it. Perhaps they were the last, not only in their village, but in a whole world that was changing rapidly. Their lives, rooted in the soil of the rice fields, now felt like orphaned trees in an ever-thinning forest.

“Do you think the rains will come?” Suriya asked finally, more to get the conversation going than out of any real hope. He knew that the rains had become unreliable in recent years, that the monsoons sometimes seemed to forget that there were ever seasons of plenty. But somewhere, deep inside, he held on to a sliver of hope, a memory of rain pattering on the roof of his hut when he was a young man.

Khun Somchai shook his head. “The rain has no time for old men like us,” he said dryly. “It only comes for the festivals, to show the gods that they are still good for something.” He put out his cigarette in the dusty ground and stood up, his back a little hunched with age. “Maybe we just waited too long.” His words hung in the air, like the last traces of his smoke.

The sun had set and the sky was darkening as the first stars appeared. They twinkled faintly, like memories slowly fading. “Come on, let’s go inside,” Somchai said. “It’s time to eat.” The smell of steamed rice and fresh fish drifted from the hut. It was a simple meal, but it felt like a small victory after a long day.

The two men walked slowly toward the hut, their shadows stretched out on the dusty ground behind them. Inside, the atmosphere was one of homeliness and the past, of moments that connected them to a world that was becoming less and less familiar. Life went on as it always did, unhurried and uncertain, but with moments that sometimes, for a moment, stood still. They ate in silence, their minds caught up in memories and dreams that mingled with the evening air, while outside the crickets sang of a world that had once been full of promise.

About this blogger

Farang Kee Nok

My age officially falls into the category of 'elderly'. I've been living in Thailand for 28 years - try to do that. The Netherlands used to be paradise, but it fell into disrepair. So I went looking for a new paradise and found Siam. Or was it the other way around and Siam found me? Either way, we were good-natured.

ICT provided a regular income, something you call 'work', but for me it was mainly a pastime. Writing, that's the real hobby. For Thailandblog I'm picking up that old love again, because after 15 years of hard work you deserve some reading material.

I started in Phuket, moved to Ubon Ratchathani, and after a stopover in Pattaya I now live somewhere in the north, in the middle of nature. Rest never rusts, I always say, and that turns out to be true. Here, surrounded by greenery, time seems to stand still, but fortunately life doesn't.

Eating, especially lots of it – that’s my passion. And what makes an evening complete? A good glass of whisky and a cigar. That’s about it, I think. Cheers!

Photos, I don't do that. I always look ugly in them, even though I know Brad Pitt pales in comparison. It must be the photographer, I think.

Read the latest articles here

Older posts from this blogger

• CultureDecember 8 2024'A society that remains silent about its dark side'
• CultureDecember 6 2024'Twelve rooms and no view of tomorrow'
• CultureDecember 4 2024'A life between steel and silk'
• CultureDecember 2 2024'Waiting for a customer who never comes'