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  I also visited the Grand Canyon, where I took a camping permit from the authorities at the top of the rim to camp in Bright Angel National Park at the bottom of the Colorado gorge. I was well-equipped for the night with my stove and camping gear. It’s a 51-km walk to and from the nearest settlement to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. People walked in groups while I trekked alone. After a while I realized that someone was trailing me. I stopped and when the trailing figure caught up with me, I saw that it was a girl. She was nice company. We walked on and my trekking companion told me she was a nurse and part-time student from Nebraska. I said I planned to camp that night at the Canyon. She asked if she could join me.

  Descending the gorge is tough business. It gets very hot and temperatures can reach 41–42 degrees celsius in summer. However, the parking amenities were excellent, and there were toilets for public use. People were spread out all over the canyon and had lit little fires. I found a good spot to camp. The Colorado, the lifeline of the local American Indian tribes, flowed a hundred yards away. The water was icy cold but it was extremely hot outside. I therefore stripped and jumped into the water. Sometime later I turned around to see my trekking companion also swimming in the river, naked!

  Finally, we returned to the campsite, pitched our tent, cooked our meal of tinned food on campfire and turned in for the night. I still remember the night vividly. I woke up in the middle of the moonlit night to find hundreds of deer huddled close to the camping area. Couples were also lying naked all over the campus because of the impossible heat, their bodies bathed in the moonlight. The following day we walked back the entire stretch of 29 kilometres. She had a Volkswagen in which we travelled together for the next few days and then we bade each other goodbye. It was time for me to return to India.

  Return to India

  When I returned, I went up straight to Brig. Narahari and said I had made up my mind to leave the army. I was still unsure about what I would do after I left. I would return to my village and figure things out. He gave me his clearance and I put in my resignation papers and returned home to Gorur. On paper I said I wanted to leave the army to take care of my ageing parents and to bring up my siblings. It crossed my mind that the possibility of my becoming chief of the army staff in the future was equally good or bad. My friends and senior officers joked about this. They said, ‘Capt. Gopinath, you will either become a general or receive a court-martial, in all probability the latter!’

  I had not put in pensionable service in the army and so, when my dues were finally settled, I received the princely sum of Rs 6350, my accrued provident fund and gratuity. A captured Pakistani rifle, allotted to me during my tenure in the army, came to me as a bonus. There was exultation in my heart. I felt free. The future was unknown but I was at peace with myself. I was confident I could shape my future and soon discover my new calling.

  When I returned home to Gorur I found my family and the entire village bewildered and amazed at my decision. My father was particularly shell-shocked and devastated. My other relatives, including my own siblings, were headed for America or to one of India’s metropolitan cities. I was homing in instead, to nest and roost. One person was delighted: my mother. Though she was stoic and showed no outward emotion, she was certainly extremely happy and relieved that I was no longer in the army.

  The government had in the meanwhile decided to build a dam at the confluence of the rivers Hemavathy and Yagachi, which had been planned almost twenty years earlier. Government machinery is slow to move but it was now time for the construction to begin. Our village was spared as the site was a kilometre, upstream but sixty villages in the neighbourhood were to be submerged. The family’s jointly-owned farmland would also be lost to the swirling backwaters of the dam.

  A large portion of the land owned by our family were under tenancy, tillers receiving a part of the produce, we the balance. The dam was close to completion and the imminent submersion of villages and plots of ancestral land was the talk of the town. The dam development project would physically uproot the local people and their livestock overnight. These lands had been the source of the villagers’ livelihood for centuries and they were naturally gripped by a sense of fathomless despair and anger. The government compensation was not a match for what they would be losing and the emotional turmoil they would be experiencing as refugees with an uncertain future.

  Our entire extended family was in a state of shock. We however consoled ourselves by reminding one another that we would still have our house, and being an educated family in a village where most of the poor villagers, who would be losing their homes to the dam, had never received even basic school education, we would be in a far less vulnerable position than they.

  My father and his three brothers had received ten acres each in a dry tract of land situated beyond the Belur and Halebid temples. These were many kilometres away from the village and no one in the family had ever set their eyes on the land. My family did not however wish to move from Gorur and the ancestral home, aware that it would be difficult to make ends meet on the new land. Father had planned to sell the land received as compensation, because the allotted land was largely barren, with patches of jungle and scrub forest, without even proper access or an approach route. The place lacked basic civic amenities such as roads, electricity, a ready source of water, hospital, or school. The lack of social and physical infrastructure is a major deterrent and no one was inclined to move to the new land. The prospect of working on it from scratch did not seem to be lucrative or viable proposition to my father. Meanwhile, I did not rush into a project but spent time walking and running across the fields and swimming in the river. These physical activities helped me keep a distance from the problem and view things from a different perspective.

  During the reign of the maharajas of Mysore, the rulers allotted large tracts of pasture land where the state royal cattle were allowed to graze. The cattle migrated from season to season, searching for the best pasture within the boundaries of these lands. In Karnataka they were called Amrit Mahal kaawal (grazing) lands, named after a legendary breed of oxen belonging to the old Mysore state. The cattle were traditionally used by the king’s army to carry loads and provide milk. They would graze peacefully on these lands, free to wander where they wished, without fear or hindrance. The maharaja appointed a sevadar (caretaker) to look after this land, and the land we were given in compensation formed part of these pastures.

  I hopped on to a bus one morning in order to have a look at the land and dropped in at the office of the village headquarters closest to this and met the village accountant. He graciously walked with me, accompanying me with a guide map to the spot, eight kms from Javagal, the nearest village. After a while, we came to a shallow stream. We waded across quite easily but the other bank was covered by impenetrable undergrowth. We therefore walked down the numerous, narrow foot-tracks of local herdsmen, soon reaching a hillock rising from the embankment. We climbed the hillock and stood looking down at what my guide referred to as our land, stretching out to the distance alongside the stream. At that moment, I was overcome by a very strong emotion, which gave birth to my dream and obsession.

  It was quite a quick decision I took, to live there and work on the land. I wanted to set up a farm and the idea gradually grew and took root in me. I literally had visions of cows grazing in verdant meadows, bullocks drawing carts, crops standing in the field, and coconut fronds swaying in the breeze. I saw myself taking walks morning and evening. I gazed longingly at the vast stretch of undulating land skirting the scrub forest, with its patches of greenery. I realized this land was centuries-old and formed part of a forgotten royal tradition. I longed to share the mystery of the past with my present and future!

  I was agog with new enterprise and excitement. The earthy odours were a heady mix of the smell wafting out of moist soil and thick flora, reminding me of the first summer rains. I was bewitched, to say the least, and could not resist bending down and scooping out a lump of sod in my fist, pressing it, and
feeling it gently crumble against my palm. I walked back completely possessed. When I returned home, I declared that I had found the land to be a beautiful stretch of virgin, fertile land where I had decided to build my farm and live. My father was speechless. He finally exclaimed, ‘Ningenu huccha?’ (‘Are you mad?’).

  We talked all night, and father tried to dissuade me from becoming a farmer. He listed a farmer’s travails in getting the right seeds, finding good people to work on the fields, and coping with the vagaries of the monsoon. Above all, a farmer struggled all his life to make ends meet. He did not want me to end up disillusioned, once the initial excitement wore off. He warned that the enthusiasm might not last. The image of a farmer was romantic, he agreed, but for most romantics it was often a passing fancy and the dropout rate was extremely high.

  For my part, I said it was important in life to do what one wanted to. ‘Why should I live to impress others?’ I retorted. The army had made a man out of me; had taught me skills to overcome physical challenges. It had steeled me and given me mental strength. The farm was already taking shape in my mind and I was ready to take on the challenges. I saw endless possibilities.

  Before he had realized it, my father had begun to look at my side of the perspective and had begun giving me positive advice on how to be a good farmer. It was close to six in the morning. The cock crowed with the rising sun and the birds were astir. It was comforting to know that my father was with me. I finally fell asleep, quite exhausted, basking in the glow of a strange, new-found tranquility and self-confidence, delighted with father’s change of outlook and priorities. He actually ended up advising me what to grow, when to grow, and how to manage the farm!

  I remembered Sarvagna, the great Kannada poet, who wrote glowingly about farming. He said, ‘Koti vidyegalu; koti vidyeyalli meti vidyeye melu’ (‘There are innumerable professions; among them the profession of the plough is the best’). Again, as Emerson said, ‘Farming is man’s first calling. It is the original calling of his race. The food which was not, he causes to be. All trade rests at last on his primitive activity. The first farmer was the first man.’

  I acted quickly after the decision had been taken and walked over to my uncle. I had calculated that three shares of 10 acres each would amount to 30 acres, sufficiently large for viable farming. My uncles, like father, were not keen about using the new land. I knew I had to strike a deal with my uncles who wanted to sell their plots and keep the money in the bank. Money was my only problem. I had only Rs 6000. I would pay them from the crops I grew on the land. I never doubted my ability to generate funds from the land but not sufficient to buy the land. I made my first entrepreneurial deal with my uncles. I offered to pay them a much higher amount than they would get by selling the land; I would also pay them interest at a higher rate than that which the banks offered. There was only one condition: I would pay them from the crops I grew on the land so the payment would come much later. I never doubted my ability to generate funds from farming. The plan worked like magic. My uncles agreed to my proposal and before I knew it, I had already solved the first problem of an entrepreneur: raising funds for a project.

  I drove to Bengaluru, bought a second-hand Enfield Bullet motorcycle and a tent. I also bought a Doberman to keep me company on the farm. I had my army rifle. In Hassan, I picked up camping and farming equipment, and a month’s rations. It was an exciting idea: to till the land and live on my own. My mother set an auspicious date for my departure. At last it seemed that things were falling into place.

  Bonded labour had been abolished on paper after Independence and its practise was punishable by imprisonment, but much to my shock and disbelief, I found that the practice was still a part of the reality of rural society. With most of my youth having been spent away from home in the relative isolation of the school and academy, I was unaware of its existence. It was a social contract and nobody spoke out against it. Anyone who did became a social outcaste.

  A fifteen-year-old Dalit boy Raju, worked in my house and also our neighbour’s houses. There was a tacit agreement that he would work in our houses probably because his father had borrowed money from a few households of the village. He took the cattle to graze in the village commons and did odd jobs. One day I laid out my plans to Raju and asked him if he would accompany me and help prepare the land, till it, and raise a crop. The deal between us was that when I worked on the farm, he would cook; when he worked I would cook. Raju perceived his own freedom in this new plan and readily agreed.

  On the day of departure, a hired truck arrived from Hassan. I loaded the truck with provisions, the camp equipment, and my one-month-old pup who I fondly called Tipoo. People of the village had once again gathered to witness an unusual expedition and departure. I noticed when I was taking my parents’ blessings that my mother’s expression was identical to that she had on the day when I left for the army. I was again off to a remote part to live in a tent in the wilderness. I was embarking on yet another adventure and seeking a new life in the unknown. Who knew what misadventures awaited me? All prospects of danger were equal in my mother’s eyes.

  It was afternoon when we drove off in the direction of a new beginning. Dusk had fallen when we reached the land. The road-head terminated at the stream and our truck had to stop there. We unloaded and carried our luggage across the stream, trudging four to five furlongs to reach our site just before it got pitch dark. I selected the highest point as a suitable camping site because it offered a strategic view of the entire land. We brought out the sickle and spade, and Raju and I set about clearing the camping ground of undergrowth. We cleaned it up, levelled it, and dug a foot-deep trench all around to ensure safety from snakes and rainwater seeping into the tent. Pitching the tent right at the centre, we gathered some firewood and brush, and lit our campfire. On it we cooked our first meal. My mother had given me some sambhar masala and I tossed in some vegetables. We boiled some rice and enjoyed a simple yet delicious meal. I unrolled a reed mat in front of the tent and then spread a cotton durree (the thick, home-spun ethnic Indian mat) across it. I lay there in silence that evening, observing the stars in the sky, satisfied that I had at last found my true calling in life. I was exhausted from the travel and the toils of the evening, but at peace with myself. I sensed a bonding with the earth, the surrounding vegetation, and the stream, the local fauna, the sky and the stars. I seemed part of the enigma, and was relieved of the burden of solving the riddle of life. We slept soundly in the open, under the stars and rose next day to a glorious morning and the cacophony of nameless birds.

  3

  All that matters is Love and Work.

  —Sigmund Freud

  Days on the Farm

  I

  lay no claim to being an ornithologist. That I was unable to identify the birds that sang in concert did not trouble me in the least. As the physicist Richard Feynman said: ‘I learned very early the difference between knowing the name of something and knowing something.’ The music filled my soul with joy and what I beheld, was with delight. The beauty and mysticism of the experience was all that mattered. Earlier, on army treks, I had experienced the same mystic touch at dawn and dusk; it had relieved me of all fatigue.

  As Wordsworth said:

  Earth has not anything to show more fair

  Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

  A sight so touching in its majesty…

  Never did sun more beautifully steep

  In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;

  Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

  I began my tryst with my karmabhoomi with an energetic walk. Amazed at the variety of the innumerable birds, bees, and insects on view, the beauty of the wildflowers and the undergrowth, I made a mental note that I should consult someone who knew about the farm’s flora and fauna. Raja and I led a simple life on the new land and shared the work. We adhered to a single menu for our meals throughout the year. Vegetable upma for breakfast, tasty, nutritious (I had learnt that from my gr
andmother), easy and quick to cook. Lunch and dinner were always a combination of rice, vegetable sambhar, and curd. The campfire every evening was time to treat myself to rum and tender coconut water. On an occasional weekend, we allowed ourselves the luxury of chicken or lamb curry.

  Right from the very first day I was conscious that time flowed quickly and that there was so much to do. I explored the farm, looking at the topology, each time with fresh eyes.

  In his Seven Pillars of Wisdom: A Triumph (1926), T. E. Lawrence of Lawrence of Arabia says:

  All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible.

  I was dreaming with my eyes open. My mind teemed with ideas for the farm. The gobar (dung) gas plant topped my agenda. I think it is a very useful and innovative creation of modern science. It has a simple operating principle. You fill a pit with cow dung slurry and cover it with a floating lid. When the dung ferments it produces methane which is as effective as LPG. It lights up with a beautiful blue flame and you can cook by placing a burner on it. It burns with an incandescent warm yellow glow which can be used to light up homes. Subsequently, the dung dries up to produce good manure. The gobar gas plant is ideal for rural ecology.

  I dreamt of rearing cows and grazing them on the grassy land. They would supply the milk for my tea. I would set curd, churn it for whey, and make butter from the milk. As I would be cooking on a kerosene stove, I would need alternative fuel; milk for myself, manure for the farm, draught for ploughing and drawing the bullock-cart. Cattle offered the best solution. I spent almost every waking moment strolling across the semi-wilderness of the countryside, dreaming of my farm, bathing in the stream skirting the land, and breathing in the heady fragrance of wildflowers. I felt I could conquer the world.