The sun dipped low over the Rajasthan plains, casting a golden glow across the endless fields of wheat that stretched like a sea of amber. Arin Jinhwan stood amidst the swaying stalks, his calloused hands brushing against the worn locket around his neck—a pressed neem leaf, a gift from his grandfather, its edges frayed from years of touch. At 25, he was a farmer through and through, his life woven into the rhythms of the land. The air was warm, carrying the scent of earth and grain, but today it was tainted with dust and the relentless growl of bulldozers encroaching on the village's edge. Developers had arrived weeks ago, their sleek suits and cold promises clashing with the earth-stained lives of Arin's people. They wanted the land—acres of fertile soil his family had nurtured for generations—for a sprawling factory. Profit over legacy.
Arin's grandfather had been his guide, his teacher, his anchor. From the time Arin could walk, he'd trailed behind the old man, watching him work the fields with a quiet reverence. "The land is alive, Arin," his grandfather would say, his voice rough as the cracked earth after a drought, his hands gnarled from decades of toil. "Protect it." Those words had been Arin's compass, guiding him through monsoons and droughts alike. He'd learned to rotate crops—wheat followed by lentils, then mustard—to keep the soil fertile. He'd mastered the art of mixing cow dung and neem oil into a natural fertilizer, its sharp scent a promise of growth. Every planting season, they'd kneel together, whispering "Om Bhumi Namah" to the goddess of the land, a mantra that felt as much a part of Arin as his own heartbeat.
He remembered the mornings at dawn, walking the fields with his grandfather, learning to read the soil's needs. The way its texture shifted after rain, softer and darker, ready to cradle seeds. The way the worms moved when it was healthy, their writhing a sign of life beneath the surface. They'd sit under the banyan tree at the field's edge, its sprawling branches casting dappled shade, and share stories of harvests past. Arin's favorite was the tale of the great drought, when his great-grandfather had saved the village by digging a canal with his bare hands, channeling river water to the fields. During Pongal, the harvest festival, the village would gather to offer rice and flowers to the earth, their songs echoing into the night. Arin could still hear his grandfather's voice, deep and warm, leading the chants, his hands raised to the sky.
Now, that legacy was crumbling. The bulldozers tore through the fields like beasts, uprooting wheat and memories alike. Arin clenched his fists, the locket digging into his palm. He could still hear his grandfather's laughter, see the pride in his eyes after a good harvest. But those days were slipping away, crushed under steel and greed. The developers had been relentless, bribing officials and intimidating farmers. Arin's village had resisted, but their numbers were dwindling. Some had taken the money and left, their fields now barren patches amidst the chaos. Others, like Arin, stayed, unwilling to let go of the land that had raised them.
"These fields are our life!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the mechanical roar. Around him, the village rallied—men with weathered faces, women in bright saris wielding hoes like spears, children clutching bundles of harvested grain. They formed a human wall, a fragile defiance against steel and greed. Arin spotted his neighbor, old man Prakash, leaning on a sickle, his eyes fierce despite his trembling hands. Prakash had taught Arin how to sharpen a scythe when he was barely tall enough to hold one, his gruff voice softened by a smile. Beside him stood Leela, a young mother who'd lost her husband to the city's factories, her toddler clinging to her leg. Leela had once brought Arin a basket of mangoes from her tree, a thank-you for helping her fix an irrigation channel during a drought. This was their fight, their home.
The developers' foreman, a man with a clipboard and a sneer, barked orders from behind the machines. "Move, or we'll move you!" he yelled, his voice dripping with disdain. Arin stepped forward, planting himself between the bulldozer and the crowd. His heart pounded, but his stance was steady. He remembered the monsoon nights spent repairing irrigation channels with his grandfather, their hands caked with mud as they worked by lantern light. He remembered the quiet pride of a good harvest, the way the village would gather to share the bounty—fresh rotis, dal spiced with cumin, and laughter that warmed the night. He remembered the songs of Pongal, the way the children would dance around the bonfire, their faces glowing with joy. That life couldn't end like this.
He thought of the children who played in these fields, chasing each other through the wheat, their laughter brighter than the sun. He thought of the stories his grandfather told—of ancestors who'd survived famines by coaxing life from this very soil. There was the tale of his great-great-grandmother, who'd walked ten miles to fetch seeds during a famine, planting them with nothing but hope and a prayer. There was the story of the flood, when the village had banded together to build a dam, saving the harvest from ruin. This land was more than dirt; it was a heartbeat, a legacy, a promise. Arin couldn't let it go. He wouldn't.
A sudden groan split the air—a scaffold, hastily erected by the developers, tilted under the bulldozer's weight. Arin's eyes darted to a flicker of movement: a child, no older than six, stood frozen in its path, clutching a sheaf of wheat like a lifeline. Her name was Priya, Leela's daughter, her tiny frame dwarfed by the chaos. Her dark eyes were wide with fear, her braid unraveling as she trembled. The crowd gasped, too far to reach her. Without a second thought, Arin lunged, his body moving before his mind could catch up. He shoved her clear, her small body tumbling into the wheat, safe. The structure buckled, steel and wood crashing down, pinning him beneath its weight.
Pain seared through his chest, a sharp, burning agony that stole his breath. His ribs creaked under the weight, his vision swimming with black spots. He tried to move, but the scaffold held him fast, its jagged edges digging into his skin. Blood trickled down his arm, warm and sticky, pooling in the dirt. The locket pressed against his chest, its warmth a small comfort against the cold creeping in. He could hear Leela screaming Priya's name, the villagers' shouts fading into a distant hum. His vision blurred—Priya's tear-streaked face, the golden fields, the sky—then darkness.
A voice, soft yet resonant, pierced the void. "Your heart is fertile. Sow peace in another world." Golden light enveloped him, warm as a monsoon rain, pulling him from the wreckage of his past. It was as if the earth itself had reached out, cradling him in its embrace, whispering promises of a new beginning.