Chapter 17 : Eruvaaka Sagaaroo …

(Farmer’s First Festival)

I was in deep sleep early in the morning. I was still a small boy then — may be eight years old. Suddenly my Amma started waking me up loudly. I could feel her bangles touching my back and shoulders as she tapped me. Among the things I love, the jingle of my Amma’s glass bangles is one. I could hear that sound even in half-sleep, but still I turned to the other side and tried to sleep again.

 But my Amma didn’t leave me. She kept tapping me and said,

 “Get up! It’s already dawn. Get ready fast. We have to go to the fields for ploughing.”

 Hearing that, sleep left me immediately. I jumped out of bed and ran to the backyard, then rushed to the well at the northeast corner of our house. The younger farm-helper had already filled a bucket with water and kept a small vessel beside it.

 

Near the well, on a flat stone, there were small packets of red tooth powder and pieces of palm leaf to clean the tongue. Those days we used palm leaf strips to clean the tongue. Tooth powder itself felt like a luxury then — toothpaste and brushes were not yet common in villages.

 

 Our grandmother used to bring small packets of red tooth powder from the town. Much later, white tooth powder appeared, and I liked it instantly. Binaca toothpaste arrived only years after that. When we bought Binaca, tiny toys came tucked inside the packets—and we children would squabble over them like prized treasures.

That morning, pressed for time, I poured a little red tooth powder into my palm and brushed my teeth with my finger. As I was rinsing my mouth, my Amma’s voice rang out once again:

“Why are you rushing so much? Do you think they’ll plough the fields without you? First get yourself ready properly!”

Long after those days, when I had grown up, I found myself listening to Binaca Geet Mala on the radio, the name stirring old memories.

 

Neem Twig & the Little Copper Vessel

 Those days most people in our village brushed their teeth with a neem twig. The moment you chew it, the mouth becomes bitter! That bitterness used to make me feel like vomiting sometimes. No matter how much I rinsed with water, that taste did not go away quickly.

This was around the 1960s in our village Adavi Ravulapadu.  Almost everyone — all castes — used neem sticks for brushing. While brushing, people would also walk towards the fields to finish nature’s calls. Toilets didn’t exist then. We had to go to open places, mostly near bushes or thick trees on the banks of the stream flowing by.

 

The stream separated our village and Nandigama and contact with the town was very important for us. When it overflowed, we couldn’t cross it and this affected our life terribly. For merchandise and farming requirements, everyone had to go to Nandigama and when there were floods our normal life was disrupted till the water receded.

 

Farming Life

 

Agriculture was the main lifeline of the village. There were mostly dry lands depending on rainfall. Our life revolved around farming. Ours was also a farmer family. As far as I remember, we had about 40–50 acres of land — not in one place, but on three sides of the village.

 

My Nanna always spoke proudly about one particular field — Rayalavari Chenu — which gave the best yield. So I always wanted to see that land. But I was too small. Who would take a little kid to the fields? Everyone at home — grandmother, parents, the main farm-worker and the younger one — all treated me like a delicate child.

 

And truly, I was a thin and weak kid. If I stayed healthy for four days, on the fifth day I would catch a cold. Even today, my health is almost the same! I couldn’t stand in the hot sun even for ten minutes. So from the beginning, I made a firm decision:

 “Whatever job I do in life, it should be under a fan!”

 Looks like the gods heard me — all my jobs were under a fan… and later upgraded to AC.

 

A Desk Journalist’s Life

 

In journalism, there are mainly two types of roles:

1.    Field reporters – go outside, collect news, and send it to the office.

2.    Editorial desk staff – stay in the office, edit and organize news for publication.

 

I worked in the second type — the editorial desk. That department decides what appears in the newspaper. My sincerity in work  earned me great respect in the office.

 

 I could not normally walk in hot sun, but that day I was going to the fields for the first time! After bathing, Amma dressed me in new clothes and put kumkum on my forehead. For the last ten days, I had been excited for this day — because I was going to the fields along with my father and elder brother.

 

It was Eruvaaka Purnima that day — a very special festival for farming families. It is considered the auspicious beginning of the new agricultural year. We go to the field, perform puja to Mother Earth, and plough the first furrow. That day, I was a tiny farmer!

 

Decorating the Oxen

 

My grandmother started preparations a week earlier. She sent a worker to Nandigama to bring decorations for the bullocks. Their horns were painted with bright colours. Bells and beaded garlands were tied around their necks. Their backs were decorated with shiny, colourful mirror patches on cloth belts.

 

The younger farm worker bathed the oxen, the evening before, near the well. When cold water fell on them, the oxen jumped around trying to escape, and the workers chased and held them again. We kids were warned:

 “Stay away, this grey-eyed one is very proud, he may toss you!”

 We pretended to be scared, moved aside, then again went close out of excitement. It was such a fun time.

 By the time all this finished, evening had set in. The worker cleaned the lantern glass with a cloth and a little ash — it started shining like crystal. While having dinner, my eyes kept going towards the cowshed — whenever the decorated oxen moved, their bells jingled. The beads and bells together sounded like rhythmic music.

 After dinner, I fell asleep while Amma was telling us about the next day’s rituals.

 

Leaving for the Fields

Before dawn, Amma woke me. The eastern sky had just begun to turn from dark to red. The worker had already tied the yoke to the oxen. Their neck tassels and colourful horn decorations made them look like grooms in a wedding. One was called “Boodida Kannu” (Grey-eyed) and the other “Kaatuka Kannu” (Black-eyed). Their eyes looked proud and majestic.

 

Mother and sister brought plates filled with flowers, turmeric, and kumkum. They applied kumkum to the oxen’s foreheads and sprinkled flowers over them. Then we started to the fields. As the ox bells echoed in the quiet dawn, we walked past the village outskirts and reached the field just as morning broke.

 

At the field, father performed puja to the oxen, the yoke, and the ploughing tools. A coconut was broken. They even gave me one, but I was not strong enough. Father broke it for me. I looked at him angrily, but he ignored my little temper and started ploughing the land.

Then, father let us hold the plough. My brother on one side, I on the other. Father guided us as we ploughed our first line. It is believed that if children plough on Eruvaka day, Mother Earth blesses that family with good crops.

That was the only time in my life I ploughed like that. I never again went for Eruvaka field work. But that one beautiful memory stayed with me forever.

 

Village Farming Scene

 

Today, most lands are ploughed by tractors. Oxen are rarely used except for pulling sand carts in the early mornings. In those days, ploughing needed many tools — the plough, the handle (Medi), the seed tool (Gorru), and iron rods to break the soil. Farming was a big ritual, a celebration.

Even now, whenever I hear the word Eruvaka, I remember the old movie song from “Rojulu Marayi” (1955) written by Kosaraju:

“Kallakapataṁ kānanivāḍa lokaṁ pōkaḍa teliyani vāḍa

Eruvaaka saagāro ranno chinanna…”

The song beautifully describes village life, the festivals, and even mocks those who sell fields to build mansions in towns.

 

Our Village & Its Farming Glory

Our village, Adavi Ravulapadu, was once a forest area. It was an old Brahmin settlement with about 1100 acres granted as Inam land to our ancestors. Today (2024), only about 120 acres remain with the families. The rest is lost over time.

 

Most of our lands were dry lands, depending only on rain. Nagarjuna Sagar canal water reached only partly, and even that for a short period. Canals dug at great effort became useless later. The dream of fully irrigated land never came true.

 

In our region (Nandigama area), dry crops like millets, red gram, and sorghum were common. Rice was rare — we had to buy it from the market. In front of our house we had three grain heaps — one each for red gram, sorghum, and green gram.

 Our grandmother always said:

 “When we have our own grain, why eat rice?”

 We were from town and visited only once a year, so she bought fine rice for us. Sorghum rice was harder to cook — it needed soaking, pounding to remove skins, and slow cooking over firewood. But its taste was unmatched and still lingers in my mind.

 

Strong Bodies, Simple Food

 

In those days, people who ate sorghum were strong — one man could lift a 100-kg bag easily. A big bowl of sorghum rice with a ladle of ghee, a little red gram dal, and lots of spicy pickle — that was real food for energy and stamina!

 Our grandmother lived for more than 100 years eating that kind of food. We lovingly called her “Pāpachchi.”

 She had sharp eyesight and good hearing capacity till the end. She never knew ailments like BP or Diabetes!

 When someone asked, “Is Nagabhushanam at home?” she would get irritated and say, “His name is Nagabhushana Rao!” Respect for names and relationships was so important then.

 Money was rarely used. Everything was exchanged with grain. We had measuring tools at home — giddē, sola, tavva, mānika (different sizes of measuring vessels). I didn’t even see a 100-rupee note in our village for many years!

 

Those were days of simple life, strong bodies, and pure hearts!

In those days, all the needs of us village children were fulfilled with five-paise, ten-paise or at best twenty-five-paise coins. But recently when someone asked a village boy to clear weeds from the backyard, he demanded ₹2,000! After ₹500 notes came, the value of ₹100 completely disappeared. Today for even small work, they show five fingers — meaning ₹500.

 

Back then, even half a rupee (50 paise) felt like a treasure. So imagine the value of a one-rupee coin! My father kept ten-rupee notes in his pocket, but I never dared to touch them.

 

When we lived in Brodipet, Guntur, our house rent was ₹30 per month. Father earned around ₹200 as an Executive Officer. Before he retired, his salary was ₹450. My first salary was ₹650. After marriage, I paid ₹330 rent in Satyanarayana Puram, Vijayawada.

 

Why am I telling this?

Because in our village, life moved without money. For weddings too, instead of giving cash as dowry, families agreed like this:

“We will give one acre of land, and every year after harvest, ten bags of sorghum and one bag of red gram.”

Once the proposal was finalized, the land would be registered in the bride’s name. The groom’s family would arrive in bullock carts days before the marriage. Everything happened peacefully — no currency notes, no tension.

 

Different worlds within one district

 

Even within Krishna district, agricultural conditions differed greatly. Now they call it Krishna district and NTR district, but earlier eastern and western parts were like two worlds.

 

Our side — Kanchikacherla, Nandigama, Jaggayyapeta, Mylavaram, Tiruvuru — had dry lands (metta polaalu).

 Lands on the Eastern side — Kankipadu, Kanuru, Pamarru, Machilipatnam, Gudivada — had irrigated fertile fields (Magaani polaalu).

 

Land prices differed. Ten acres of dry land sometimes equalled one acre of wet land. Along with land, even culture, festivals, house styles, roads, habits, humour, and social behaviour differed. Because of that, while finalizing marriages, elders asked:

 

“Can we match with their side? Are our lifestyles equal?”

 Geography shapes society — I realized it early.

 

 

Selling land — not pride, but helplessness

 

In our village, if someone sold land, it meant that the family faced a big problem — children’s education, crop failure, marriage expenses, or illness. Only one solution was to sell land. Buyers sat like kings; sellers helplessly agreed. Some years crops grew well, many years they failed due to drought, floods, etc, — that was the fate of the village.

When harvest was good, very few could save money in banks. Grain storage was common — but if floods came, whole grain stocks got spoilt. Only a handful of farmers saved money wisely.

Thus, slowly Agraharam  land ownership pattern changed. Peasant caste families in the village emerged as the major land owners. Educated youth moved to towns, got jobs, built houses.

With the passage of time, the face of  our village changed a lot.

 

My family’s survival formula

 

My father continued both job and farming. It was tough — he couldn’t supervise fields daily. Grandma managed everything. My aunt (Sita Ramamma) supported her. Their families became one. One of their daughters later became our family’s daughter-in-law. This happened almost 50 years ago.

We had three sources of income:

1. Father’s government job
2. Farm yield
3. Selling bull calves and cows occasionally

When money came, father bought gold jewellery for mother. But life was not smooth — they lost two children due to illness. Remaining children often fell sick too. Expenses came from all directions. At times, father had to sell one or two acres to survive.

 Our fields had beautiful names —

Raayalavari Chenu (where I went for Eruvaka),

Cheruku Chenu,

Thummala Chenu,

Parvathamma Chenu…

 

Village economy — then and now

Earlier, crops like sorghum, red gram, green gram were primary. People exchanged grain instead of cash. Slowly, commercial crops started — tobacco first. A tobacco shed (barren) came near the stream. We children noticed the smell and the excitement — farmers who grew tobacco suddenly prospered. Others followed.

 

Later chilli crop dominated. Even today, if you go to our village, you’ll see chilli fields everywhere. Then came cotton, and some planted Subaabul (horse tamarind) trees expecting profit. My father once planted a mango orchard, but it didn’t give profits.

 

Commercial crops replaced traditional millet fields. Today (2024) red gram costs around ₹200 per kg, and sorghum and green gram also have become expensive. In those days, these grains were measured in Maanikalu ( grain measuring vessels), now they are luxury items.

 

In my childhood, most families grew vegetables in their backyards. House compounds had pumpkin, bottle gourd, tomato, brinjal, okra plants. Vegetables and buttermilk were exchanged freely between houses — no buying, no selling.

 

Today the village economy has changed. Commercial crops increased, but true prosperity? Hard to say. Some families do not disclose their wealth, some show off, some donate generously. Many types of families exist now.

Agraharam lands shrank. Village power shifted hands. Now when I visit my native place, some people ask: “Who are you, Sir?”

Times have changed. People changed. But my love for my village hasn’t.

Those childhood smells, the temples, the memories — they live with me forever.

 

Footnote

Eruvaaka Festival

 The festival is celebrated every year on the Eruvaaka Purnima — farmers clean and worship plough, yoke, oxen, tools, break coconuts, and plough at least one symbolic line. It marks the traditional start of farming season after first rains.

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