Fiction
by Madhulika Liddle
Jul 29, 2025
I will call him The Farmer. A middle-aged man, somewhere between forty and fifty, barrel-chested and broad-shouldered. Not one of those poor, knock-kneed, starving peasants that have become the symbol of rural India.
No; this village where I live, just ten kilometres from Bulandshahr, is in the heart of India’s sugar belt, and people like The Farmer are wealthy. Not BMW wealthy, not children-studying-in-Harvard wealthy, but wealthy enough. Certainly far wealthier than I could ever hope t