The next day, at dawn, Akkayya took Krishnappa Nayakkar with him to the fields for a trial run. Once the yokes and the oxen were mounted on to the ploughs, they touched the handle of the plough and then with determination in their eyes, they began to till.

The oxen did not struggle to tug the two ploughs. The two men first held the ploughs close to each other, then a little apart. Their hands, holding the handle, rubbed against one another and that hurt a bit. They stopped the tilling and wondered how to solve this. When Krishnappa Nayakkar suggested they hold one plough a little ahead and the other behind, Akkayya thought it was a fine idea. They held the left plough ahead of the right one and continued to till. There was no further problem, except that when they had to turn, the ploughs kept running into each other.

They sat down again to think. Krishnappa Nayakkar reminded Akkayya about a Telugu folktale and commented with a tiny smile, ‘Of course our ancestors would have thought of all these problems. Wouldn’t they?’

Akkayya did not seem to pay any heed. Suddenly, he brightened up. He held up his ring finger to his thumb and snapped. He tied the right plough ahead of the left one. This was but a small change. The oxen walked at a good pace. There was no further hitch.

The ploughs no longer ran into each other at every turn. They gripped tight as they tilled. The soil turned over on either side like ripples. Mother Earth bowed her head and paid respect to the farmers’ effort.

And so, the twin-plough invented by Akkayya was the talk of the town and was a source of great excitement. It wasn’t just used that summer. Of course, when the soil had to be tilled deeper the oxen could not drag two huge ploughs.

The fields that Akkayya and Sundarappa Nayakkar went to plough were far away. Akkayya was teased all the way, and as usual he retained an innocent expression throughout. On his head, he carried the kanji pot, with rice water and twelve millet balls the size of small coconuts soaking in it. A tiny sliver of coconut shell covered the pot on which lay deep-fried dry chillies; citron pickle and chutney were stuck on the side of the pot. Sundarappa Nayakkar carried the pot of drinking water. The oxen walked ahead, dragging the ploughs, scraping the ground, followed by the two men, chewing on areca nut and smearing the betel leaves with lime paste as they chatted.

There was a reason why Sundarappa Nayakkar was irritated with Akkayya that day. The previous night after dinner they had come to sit under the moonlight to chew on their betel leaves. Akkayya had fondly beckoned Sundarappa Nayakkar, ‘Mappilai, come over here. Let’s have our betel leaves together.’ That surely meant trouble. One could never judge Akkayya by his tone. It was difficult to gauge if he was being truly kind, or was looking out to tease.