In the quiet village of Bhavpur, where the river whispered to the mango trees, lived a young farmer named Raju. He had strong hands, a determined heart, and a restless mind. Every morning, he woke before the sun, worked tirelessly in his fields, and yet, at the end of each season, his crops were disappointing—weak, dry, and barely enough to sell.
His neighbour, old Keshav, was different. The man’s fields were always full of golden grains, standing tall under the sun. The harvest from his land was the pride of the village. People often came to him for advice, but Raju never bothered.
One evening, after a long and frustrating day, Raju leaned against a dry neem tree on the edge of his field. His shirt clung to his sweaty back, and his throat burned with thirst. He looked across at Keshav’s farm, where the man’s wheat swayed gently in the cool evening breeze.
“Why does his land flourish while mine suffers?” Raju muttered under his breath. “We have the same soil, the same sky, the same rain. Yet, look at my crops—weak, lifeless.” He picked up a handful of dry, cracked soil from his feet and let it slip through his fingers. It was lifeless, just like his harvest.
As he stood there, Keshav approached, carrying his wooden staff. His back was bent with age, but his eyes were sharp and knowing.
“Your heart is heavy today, beta,” Keshav said.
Raju sighed. “Kaka, tell me honestly—why do the gods favour you? What secret do you have that I don’t?”
Keshav chuckled. “Come with me,” he said, leading Raju to his farm.
Raju followed, his bare feet kicking up soft, fertile earth as they walked. Keshav stopped near a patch of young, green shoots and knelt down. He dug his fingers into the soil and pulled out a handful, letting Raju see the dark, rich earth. It smelled fresh, full of life.
“You ask for my secret? Here it is.” Keshav spread his fingers, letting the soil crumble. “A year ago, when the rains failed, what did you do?”
Raju frowned. “What could I do? The land was dry, the sky was cruel. I waited.”
Keshav nodded. “And I?”
Raju hesitated. He had seen Keshav working even when others had given up. “You… you ploughed your fields even when they were cracked. You brought manure, spread leaves, saved water from the well.”
Keshav smiled. “Yes. Because I knew that today would come. You see, beta, the present is not magic—it is simply the end of the past. What you experience today is only the result of what you did yesterday. Your crops are weak, not because of fate, but because of the choices you made last season.”
Raju looked around. The truth hit him like a sudden monsoon gust. His land was not cursed—it was neglected. The soil, which could have been rich like Keshav’s, was suffering because he had not cared for it when it needed him most.
Keshav stood up, dusting his hands. “If you want a good harvest next year, don’t wait for luck. Start today. The seeds you plant now, the care you give, will become your future.”
That night, Raju did not sleep. He sat outside his hut, staring at the moonlit fields. He understood now—his present was nothing but the shadow of his past. But his future… that was still in his hands.
The next morning, before the first rooster crowed, Raju picked up his plough.