Oh to be a rich rustic

Lately I've been thinking I wish I'd been born a villager in a prosperous region.

Then I wouldn't need to educate myself. Or get myself a job. Or work hard to earn money.

I could be an illiterate old rustic who drives a bullock cart and yet be rich. Seriously rich. Like old Pandari baba. The old man doesn't own a scooter or car. He rides around on his cart or on a rickety cycle, but he owns all the coconut and cashew groves around where I live, as well as several fields. In addition, he's the owner of a large house with a concrete roof and another smaller house. Both he rents out, while he and his family continue to live in their small, ancient cottage with its tiled roof and loo outside.

I could be like Ulhas, who used to be a tenant farmer, but who as a result of some tenancy laws now owns the lovely large property where he lives with its chikoo and banana and mango trees - just 500 metres from the sea.

Or like Rodney Gonsalves whose forefathers were traditional fishermen, and who runs a popular hotel right on the beach on land he inherited.

Or like a lot of other villagers who show no ostentatious signs of wealth, but who own more than one piece of what is, or soon will be, prime land.

I'd sit around drinking fenny under a coconut tree or playing the guitar while waiting for the property developers to descend from the city, waving their wads of cash. And I'd sell my land to some stressed-out guy from the city who works like a dog in an office. And I'd laugh all the way to the bank.

I'd be part of a new landed gentry. We would elect Mayawati as prime minister of India. And we would acquire flashy cars and designer suits and sneer at the poor dogs with their fancy degrees and office jobs, who think working hard is the way to get rich.