The rain is blinding. I tip-toe through the overwhelming, boundless sheet of water – and sole proprietor of the massive green ﬂuorescence that surrounds me. A thick drop slaps my neck and mocks the futility of my umbrella, dripping ever so slowly down my back. The monsoon is in its third month. Just one month to go. Gregory is twenty paces ahead of me. And on a mission. He has something to show me at the end of the path. He’s oblivious to my paltry attempts at staying dry while I ﬁnd proper footing for each of my rarely naked, ghost white feet.
Four generations of farming this land came to an abrupt halt three months ago when the Mangalore Reﬁneries and Petrochemicals Ltd. company sent the police and a handful of “movers” to oust Gregory, his brother, their seventy-ﬁve year old mother and all of the livestock from their land.
The oil company bought eighteen hundred acres of fertile land on the outskirts of Mangalore claiming it was arid and dry and unsuitable for farming. Slowly and systematically they displaced the farmers. Promises of well-paying reﬁnery jobs and a substantial relocation package were nothing but that. Promises. But the government and the oil company underestimated this particular rice farmer. He saw through their lies and deception and even without the support or encouragement of his fellow farmers, he stood his ground and wouldn’t leave the land he had worked his entire life. Instead, the family banded together and screamed and cried and watched in horror as the crew ﬁrst looted, then smashed their home to the ground. With family heirlooms poking up through the debris and terra-cotta roof tiles dating back to eighteen sixty-six strewn about, Gregory and his brother piled stones together and built a new farmhouse. A one room shack nestled beside the pile of rubble they once called home.
At the end of the path, Gregory stops. When I reach him moments later his sullen eyes widen and for the ﬁrst time since we met, he smiles. Then he turns his head, indicating our arrival. My childish musings of walking through the Indian mud puddles vanish. In awe, I let the umbrella drop to my side. And as the monsoon wets me to the bone, I am witness to a most beautiful and vibrant and lush green rice ﬁeld. A wooden cross stands tall in the very center, a true testament to the man’s unbridled faith.
Three months ago, after the house was destroyed and everybody had gone, Gregory did the impossible. Beaten down and left for dead, he walked his bulls through the ﬁelds and planted his rice. Today, weeds have taken root and grown in the dirt that was once his house. But so too do his rice patties ﬂourish. When the reﬁnery moguls and government officials dish out a spoonful of his harvest to their children, they should only know of a man named Gregory Patrao.