A man was clearing out his cluttered shed, tossing junk and old rubbish into a pile in the yard. Among the mess, he spotted a grubby little bookprobably left behind by kids years ago. He opened it and began to read. One line jumped out at him: *”Was a man born just to dig the earth, then die without even scratching out his own grave?”*
The words hit him like a smack to the forehead. Because that was *exactly* his life. What had he ever seen? Work, work, and more work. At home, it was the sameendless chores. The garden, the fence, the gate. Spring meant ploughing, summer meant weeding, and autumn meant harvesting. He and his wife, Margaret, had even taken over an extra allotment in their younger years, wasting their youth on backbreaking labour.
The smallholding had turned them into slaves. By old age, theyd both developed slight stoops from years of bending over. Theyd seen nothing! Absolutely *nothing*. Never travelled. Their minds had dulled from toil, their hands stained like soil, their eyes forever fixed on the ground. And Margaret? Forever scrubbing, boiling, steaming, pickling, jammingendlessly fretting over their next meal.
Gorky was right in *Makar Chudra*: man *is* a slave, always worrying about his daily bread. Theyd never read a book, never touched culture, couldnt string two clever words together. His heart ached. It felt like his whole life had been wasted. Somewhere out there were theatres, palm trees, clever people discussing brilliant thingsbut he and Margaret? Peasants then, peasants now.
Even their children were trudging the same path. Same fate.
What *had* he known? Never worn a proper suit. Never been further than Brighton. Not even to London! In his whole life, hed flown *once*, taken a train a handful of times. His world was the yard, the garden, the chickens. Work till holiday, then work *on* holiday. A wife forever bustling, fretting.
And then one day*pop*youre gone, *”without even scratching out your own grave.”* What a brilliant line.
He smoothed the grimy little book with his hand, carried it inside, and left it on the sideboard. He couldnt bring himself to bin it. Everyone should read itmaybe theyd realise their own chains.
The day ended. He and Margaret sat in the dimming light, the lamp unlit. He poured out his thoughtsabout slavery, about digging dirt, about a life wasted. Soon theyd be dead, and what had they ever known beyond turnips and radishes? What was the point? Lifes given once, and theyd squandered theirs.
Margaret said nothing. She stood, fetched water, and watered the plants. Then she opened the cupboard, pulled out fresh sheets, and made the bed. She climbed in, turned to him, and said, *”Come to bed. Enough jabbering.”*
Neither slept. He could tell she was awake too, sighing. Then she turned to him and said, *”Not everyones meant to be a Darwin or a Shackleton. God kissed *them* for greatness. The rest of us? He told us to find joy in work, in the earth, in raising kids, in digging potatoes. No use gawping at the greats.”*
After a pause, she added she wasnt a slave. Shed done what she *wanted*, what made her happy. No regrets.
He got up, threw on his old jumper, and stepped outside. The stars glittered gold above. He lit a cigarette and sat on the step.
*”Blimey, my wifes clever. Fifty years together, and I never knew.”*
She kept the house, fed the family, made a home. And she *wasnt* a slave. Because God had kissed her for thisfor home, for children, for him, for family. Because everything begins and ends there. *Blimey, what a woman.* Whod have thought?
