October 27, 2025

Aitha climbed up his watchtower in the lush green paddy fields. The grown-up plants were almost ready for harvest — the leaves were thick, and the shining golden rice crops were full and heavy. It was truly a treat to the eyes. This was the work he had been doing since his father’s time. Age and poor health had made it harder these days, yet during those three crucial months, he still wanted to protect his landlord’s crops from wild animals. 

The manchige was a night watchtower built by Aitha himself. It had a small roof and a sleeping space enclosed by wooden walls. Beneath it, he kept a fire burning for warmth and to ward off wild animals. A lantern hung above, and beside it were his whistle and machete. At times, he would shout into the darkness — partly to scare away animals, and partly to remind his landlord that he was awake and alert. 

It was a challenging task. 

The Malnad region was known for its beauty. In those days, rice cultivation was mostly for family needs rather than business. Landowners with several acres usually kept them for their own families and the workers who served them. 

Those were cold, dark nights when rain poured for weeks. The wind howled through the fields, and mist rolled down from the hills. Electricity was unreliable during the rainy season. A narrow road ran between two hills; on one side stood a small grocery and a tea shop, while on the opposite hill rose two lavish bungalows belonging to the landlords. The land was divided between two brothers, whose sons — Surappa and Beerappa — later inherited it. Though they were cousins, enmity existed between them in almost everything. In those times, landowners took pride not in caring for their workers, but in displaying power over them. 

The workers alternated each year — one year with Surappa, the next with Beerappa. Every March, they settled accounts: workers received their wages, cleared their debts, and chose which landlord they would serve for the next year. Aitha remained loyal to Beerappa. 

For an estate worker, April and May were dry months — a time for fertilizing, maintaining irrigation, and pruning trees before the monsoon. When the rains came, they planted and tended the fields. In winter, they removed weeds, controlled pests, and prepared for harvest. There was no idle season for an estate worker. 

Work in the paddy fields was mostly rain-dependent, and the once-a-year harvest demanded intense effort. For two to four months, Aitha was assigned to guard the fields. During the day, he worked wrapped in a plastic sheet and woolen blanket against the rain. After a long day and a simple meal at home, he climbed his manchige at night. 

The nights under the manchige were freezing. The wind blew through the cracks, and the wooden floor felt damp and cold. The fire gave little warmth, and sometimes raindrops leaked through the roof, hissing as they hit the flames. His old blanket was never enough; the chill sank deep into his bones. He could see his breath turn white in the air. 

Still, Aitha sat there, eyes sharp, watching the fields. He took a puff from his beedi and hummed a folk song to stay awake. 

Tannana tananaa

Rain has come to greet us,

Mother Earth is happy to feed us,

Hoiyaare hoiyaare. 

As darkness deepened, his eyes adjusted, and from his perch, he could see even the faintest movement. His thoughts drifted back — to how he had inherited this job from his father, how in his youth he would accompany him on night duty, and later, how he had married a woman from a nearby village. He remembered her dusky beauty and how she had mesmerized him. 

His memories wandered further — to the night he once saw a flaming torch approaching his house. At first, he feared it was a ghost. Later, under the influence of toddy, he gathered courage and chased it, only to find Beerappa, his landlord, lurking near his home. Filled with anger, Aitha raised his machete and warned him,

“Landlord, this won’t be good if it continues.”

After that night, the mysterious torch never appeared again. 

Years passed. Landlord Beerappa fell ill and died, and his wife Manjamma took charge of their land. Cousin Surappa often helped her whenever she needed support, putting aside their old enmity. Life went on in its usual rhythm. 

But one memory still haunted him. 

One year, at the start of December, the mist was thick and the chill unbearable. Aitha fell sick with fever and could not work during the day. His body shivered, but despite his weakness, he forced himself to climb the manchige at night. His grown children refused to take his place — they wanted a life in town. 

That night, the cold was intense, and the wind roared so loudly that even Aitha’s shouts were drowned by the storm. Sometime past midnight, he heard a loud Dummmm! — a gunshot. Weak and trembling, Aitha pushed aside the curtain of his manchige and tried to look outside, but the mist was so thick that the icy air rushed into his face. He couldn’t see anything except a blanket of white fog.

He tried to shout, “Who… who is that?” but his voice was swallowed by the wind. His eyes widened — through the dark and misty weather, he could see nothing. For a moment, he thought he heard a groan somewhere in the distance, but then silence returned. 

The next morning, he dragged himself to the roadside tea shop near the village. People were murmuring — Surappa’s wife, Leelamma, had been shot dead. Some whispered that Manjamma, the late Beerappa’s wife, had been having an affair with Surappa, and when Leelamma opposed it, she met her fate. Later, the death was declared a suicide. 

As Aitha walked back home, he remembered how he had often seen the other landlord carrying a torch and crossing the fence at night. But he said nothing — it wasn’t his house this time. He no longer wished to get involved in others’ troubles. He even felt thankful for the fever that had kept him away that night — otherwise, he might have been dragged into the mess himself. 

He whistled and hummed as he walked through the fields, back home. 

Tanannaa... tanannaanaaa...

Big folk have their bigger fights,

Small ones dream of peaceful nights.

The rich will reap what they have sown,

The poor will guard what’s barely grown.

Hoiyaare... hoiyaare... hoya.. hoyaareee... 

The truth Aitha had witnessed from his manchige stayed locked within him — hidden behind the wooden walls he had built. The wind, the rain, and the fields were his only silent witnesses.

Yet whispers spread like wildfire, and the secret he had guarded so faithfully was no longer his alone.