The farmhouse was simple -- it was large enough to (barely, in my opinion) house 3 people, and several bales of hay. Not to mention 15 senseless chickens. I wondered how it would be to be like a chicken, mindless of the things around you, trapped, bound, and regardlessly eccentric.The only proper furniture was a wooden stool and a table, found thrown away beside the main road. One leg was missing from the table, the nails red with rust, but after we replaced the missing leg with a stick from a broken shovel, it worked okay with only a slight tilt. The stool had 3 legs, and was light due to the fact that it had been partly hollowed out for less material usage, and in effect, more profit.
Father sometimes sat at the table, thinking or calculating the possible profit we could get from our corn while balancing how unreasonable it was, and the chance of being attacked by thugs for it afterwards. But most of the time he left the arithmetic to me, as he wasn’t very well educated, and grew up working on the farm.
A man tall of stature, though Father was not tall enough to be considered lanky, or large enough to be considered lazy by eye. His hands were rough with marks of past incidents, running scars across, eventually covered by the tough skin. His arms were tanned and brown, a shade which showed many days working tirelessly under a burning sun. Despite his appearance, he was not a man of violence and arguments, and often avoided situations that would anger another person. Throughout his youth, he was relatively passive with other children, but could protect himself if he was provoked. He once took on the school bully, though he nor his father was particularly proud of that incident as he could not work on the farm for several days. Maybe that was why I was similarly passive though I could not say myself of the latter.
There were no rooms in the farmhouse, and we ate and slept on bales of hay. The ground was a hardened red-brown soil, and nothing really grew on it. We had no shoes to speak of, except for Father’s boots, and so our soles were as thick and tough as the ground. Opposite to the bales of hay was a pile of corn, stored to be sold and taken away to the nearby market. On good harvests, we could spare enough corn for several months though we usually ate eggs and cabbage bought from the market. Besides the corn were a few hooks with a hose beside them. That was where we kept all the farming tools, and also where my sister was currently cleaning them. The ground was not wet, as the water flowed into a bucket. Father stressed the use of water, and always seemed to attempt to squeeze every little bit out of our meager budget.
The only source of light in the farmhouse was a dim, yellow light bulb that technically “stole” (or the term Father liked to use more, “borrowed”) electricity from the grid by attaching a cable to a stray wire. The roof was supposed to be two large red metal sheets stuck together with nails, but as time wore on, it had been slowly stripped by heat and rain, turning into a patchy and metallic reddish brown colour. At school, we learnt (at least I did) about a phenomenon known as acid rain, which I suspect was the cause of a hole in the roof. Sometimes it felt like it was caving in, but despite my doubts, Father always waved them away. Sometimes it felt like it was trapping me in, bounding me in a cage of metal, slowly rusting to old age. Sometimes during my sleep, I have nightmares of it doing so.
But when I came closer I knew something was amiss. Not only was Father not in the yellow mass of corn fields, but I heard no chicken sounds, they must have been relocated somewhere else for the time being. A knock against a steel wall. Light laughter. I came closer to the wall, realising that I was outside what would be Father’s working space. There was a small dent where a neighbour had knocked a wagon against the wall, and it had slightly given away, revealing a small crack underneath the wall.
Father did not know of this; he never seemed to be particularly observant, only wary of things that were obvious and showed to him. I knew if Father caught me eavesdropping it would sorely disappoint him. But this wasn’t normal, he wouldn’t be doing paperwork while I wasn’t around, much less talking to someone else. So I leaned forward and looked. I peeked through the gap and saw 3 pairs of feet. One wore a pair of well-worn, knackered boots -- almost certainly my dad. One of the strangers wore a pair of sandals, only one which still had a strap. The third person did not wear anything, but his feet were large and tough, and visibly showed a long time working in the fields. Maybe they could be from a nearby farm seeing how they were no form of transport outside. That was when I slipped.
My head crashed into the ground, dirt flying around me. All of a sudden everything went hazy, the world shattering apart, spinning and then coming back together. Father and the two other people went quiet, and I thought I would be discovered.
“What was that?” said the sandal-wearing stranger. His voice was heavily accented, and the words he said clumped together, making it sound more like “was that”. Thoughts of being disgraced by my dad in front of others raced through my mind, furthering the panic that was rising beneath me. I desperately grabbed against the grass, in an attempt to run and hide somewhere. But I knew that Father would be out the farmhouse door. Anyways, I had nowhere to run, only the shallow corn fields, or behind the back of the farmhouse. Realising I had nowhere to go, I remained where I was and laid flat and still as a plank of wood.
“Must’ve been a mole or a rat, I’ll go check it later,” replied Father, and for once I was thankful for his dismissive attitude. At other times it could be infuriating to be called away by him, like when I tried to tell him about my learning, he would only be half-listening. Not daring to even twitch, I returned my gaze towards the strangers and listened.
“...farming...profit...Mahib...”. Why was Mahib even mentioned? He regularly bullied me at school, often forcing me to do his homework, as well as tearing apart my work after doing so. It had been this way for a long time, almost a routinely thing now. In fact, the sandal-wearing stranger’s voice sounded distinctly like Mahib’s, only deeper and more matured. I listened a bit more.
“...Onder..studies...farming...useless...”. Once again, the topic of farming came up, but more importantly, what did my name have to do with studies, farming and (possibly) being useless? Up to this point, I had realised that the third person had not spoken. But when he spoke, I recognised the voice instantly, his cackling laughter echoed through my memories, reminding me of many past days of being bullied.
“Oh, that boy, the one who always stays back in class?” Mahib chortled.
“Mahib, behave.” said who must his father.
“No, no, I understand. I also feel that the boy is somewhat...unproductive.”
“Mahib, behave.” said who must his father.
“No, no, I understand. I also feel that the boy is somewhat...unproductive.”
I stumbled back from the wall, reeling and stunned by Father’s harsh words. I could feel my blood boiling, a rising anger trying to climb out of my throat. How dare he! Had he not realise all the hard work I put in for him to see? Did he not see the time I spent for my studies? It wanted to scream at Father, rage and protest with all my fury, thrown out into plain sight. But the part of me that was educated and taught to behave a certain way struggled against it, pushing it back down, though slivers of anger still coursed through my veins. I realised in my shock and fury, Mahib and his father had started to leave. “Thank you for coming!” Father said as he shook hands and watched them leave. The compliment spiked my anger, but once again I swallowed my pride and hid out of sight, shuffling behind a few strands of corn. I watched Mahib and his father leave the corn fields, Mahib towering over his father like a giant over an ant, and wondered if his parents were as scared of him as I was.
When I strode into the farmhouse, Father was absentmindedly stacking corn into piles for selling. It was only when he heard the sound of my bag slumping onto the ground did he look up and acknowledge I was back. I nodded unconvincingly in return. He noted my muddy school uniform and frowned, “What’s with the muddy shirt?” He asked.
“I, um, fell on the way back,” I said as I tried my best to make up a believable excuse.
“Tsk, tsk, clumsy child,” Father muttered, just audible for me to hear, and doing so ending the conversation.
Ever since my mother had passed away, conversations had slowly moved away from education and school. In fact, Father hadn’t talked much since Mother’s death, and the previous conversation with Mahib and his dad was one of the few he’d had, apart from dealings in the market. And so when he gestured towards the pile of corn, I thought that it was a good thing. How wrong I was.
“Look, Onder, I’ve been worried about you,” proclaimed Father.
“That’s...thoughtful of you,” I said without much conviction. I wondered why he wanted this conversation now.
“You see, I was recently talking with my old friend Jared, you know, the farmers next door?” My heart sunk yet again, knowing where this conversation was coming from.
“His son, Mahib....” The mention of Jared, let alone Mahib, was too much for me to comprehend. Why would he be talking about them at a time like this? Did he even understand my incredibly unsteady “relationship” with him? My fists unconsciously clenched, tight to the point where the corn in my hand started to be crushed. But Father didn’t even acknowledge my anger, much less the corn crushed in my clenched fist.
“Are you listening, Onder? This is very important.” I realised that I had turned away towards the corn field, gazing away at the distant hills, and wondered how it would feel to be running across them, without a care in the world. Father always said that the wilds were rough, uncivilised and dangerous. Maybe, but what if in another age it was different? Turning back around, I quickly nodded and said a forced “I understand.”
“Okay, about Mahib--” I forced myself to listen to Father this time. Maybe he had finally recognised me as a hard worker and was telling me to be proud of myself, giving an example like Mahib.
“--he’s a fine boy.”
What? I had to refrain myself from saying that out loud.
“Despite the fact that Jared has been sick, he’s still been earning more than his usual profit. Mahib has been taking time off school to work very hard for helping his family. I was wondering if, maybe, you could also slow down a bit on your studies and help me in the fields....”
I turned towards Father with an anger only I could see. Father, on the other hand simply continued rattling on, as if I was still intently listening. My blood boiled underneath my skin, white hot and burning. But my belief of who I really was held me back, clinging on like a cat to tree, relentless and denying my hatred. My rage subsided though I knew it would not last. Taking a deep breath, I struggled to submerge my anger. In the end, breathing unevenly, I managed to utter a few broken words. “I... I need some air.” At once I regretted saying it so quickly and disrespectfully, but Father seemed to have understood and dismissed me with a wave of his hand. I lowered my head and walked away, trying not to look like I was hurrying.
Once I left the farmhouse I turned left into the fields, seemingly endless into the distance. The sun was rapidly falling, and it was already dark enough to hide me from sight, especially as my clothes were still muddy. Tears sprang from my eyes, flowing down my cheek. I dare not sob out loud; Father wouldn’t have helped at all. Not wanting to be seen as well, I crouched down among the corn before spreading myself on the ground, arms and legs outstretched. How could he? How could he not realise all my work, all my studying? And then compliment, of all people, Mahib? I realised by this point I was practically shrieking, to whom I do not know. Punching the ground until my fist was bruised and scratched like the deep red burning sun in the distance. I laid on the ground whimpering, sweating, and exhausted of energy. And then I cried like there was no tomorrow.
When I woke up I was still in the corn fields, spread out on the ground and facing towards the sky. The sky was no longer a multitude of colours; that had faded away to become a black void littered with tiny bright white dots. I remembered a time where I would sit on Father’s lap and he would teach me all the name of the stars. Funny I remembered that now as I recounted the constellations -- Aries, Gemini, Leo, Orion.... I felt so much smaller than I realised I was, among a place where I was alone. The cold wind swept through the field, making the strands of corn flitter. Apart from the slight buzz of cricket sounds, all was quiet. My thoughts came back to Father. What was he doing now? Did he know I was out here? Did he even care?
I was not angry anymore, at least not at Father. After all, he was Father, not particularly interested in education. Maybe I was angry at myself, angry because I hadn’t realised this earlier, and been so dependent on Father for my support. Every day, I believed that education could be the way for Father to be proud of me. It became disillusioned as time fell on, it seemed like Father didn’t even bother telling me I was not being a normal boy. It was as if I wasn’t worth the time to speak to. Crouching to get up, I slowly walked back to the farmhouse under the starlit sky.
I did not attempt to speak to Father about school or education after that day. Every day, I woke up early to gather some corn and pile them and then “borrowing” a cob of corn to eat for breakfast. Father was not awake at this time, so I always left a note to him on the table, saying I was leaving to school early, showing the calculations and arithmetic for the pricing of corn and profit, some things I did the previous night. Despite my note, I did not go directly to school, and one day Father might figure that it was even too early for me to go to school. During this time I wandered in the corn fields, finding a place to sit down and doing work. This place, if only just outside my farmhouse, became a place where I could get away from the continuous hustle of daily life – school, harvesting, selling, studying – and prepare myself for the day ahead.
- Janssen Wong
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