You all know that in certain parts of our country the farmers are in the
habit of shifting their hamlets from time to time, according to the
seasons.
In winter time they go to live in the big villages, and in the summer
they dwell in the fields near to their crops.
One summer-day a Farmer was ploughing his ground, which was situated not
far from a “kuburistan” or burial ground, and a Revenue Sowar came up
and accosted him, and asked if the Farmer would direct him to a village
where the people were altogether, in order that the rents might be
collected. “The only place that I know of,” said the Farmer, “where they
keep together, is in that place,” pointing to the burial ground. “This,”
said the Sowar, “is no answer, sir, to my question. What do you mean?”
and roundly abused the Farmer, and struck him with his “chabūk” or whip.
“Well,” said the Farmer, “it is quite true; whenever anyone goes to that
place he never moves again, but we farmers always move from place to
place, according to the seasons.” The Revenue Sowar was a little
impressed by his attempt at wit, and was about to ride off, but
overhearing the Farmer saying something audibly, he listened, and these
were his words:
Hurri thi mun bhurri thi
Motian se jhuri thi
Rajah ji ke bâgh men
Dushalla orêe khurri thi.