In the quiet village of Aldona, nestled amidst the lush landscapes of Goa, time moves to the rhythm of cowbells and footsteps across dewy fields. Here lives Krishna Kerkar, a man whose life is inseparably entwined with the soil beneath his feet and the cows he calls family. For 45 years—and counting—Krishna has been a silent steward of a dying legacy.
“My father did this for over 60 years. I just followed him,” he says with a humble shrug, though his voice carries the quiet pride of a man deeply rooted in purpose.
Krishna’s story isn’t loud or dramatic. It doesn’t unfold in boardrooms or break headlines. But it echoes a truth that’s fading from our collective memory—one of patience, persistence, and profound connection to the land.
The Unseen Struggles of a Lifelong Farmer
Each morning at 6 a.m., Krishna and his wife begin their day not with screens or alarms, but with the earthy rituals of rural life—collecting cow dung, feeding the herd, and preparing for the first round of milking. By 9 a.m., the cows are led out for grazing, a slow, quiet procession through the fields. Noon is a brief pause. Then, the afternoon brings another round of care—milking at 3:30, grazing again at 5.
Even social commitments come second. “Weddings, functions—I always return by 4 p.m. My cows must be taken out. They depend on me, and I won’t let them down.” He chuckles, then adds, “They understand me. When I call them, they walk back home on their own.”
But behind this deeply affectionate routine lies a hard truth: it’s getting harder to sustain. The cost of fodder has risen sharply, leaping from ₹1,500 to ₹1,800 and beyond. Each month, Krishna spends nearly ₹20,000 just on feeding his cows—fodder trucked in from Sattari, vulnerable to the rain and prone to spoilage.
“There’s no profit in this anymore,” he says, not bitterly, but with quiet resignation. “It’s hard work—sun or rain, we’re out in the field. You have to love it, or you can’t do it.”
A Life Rewritten by Circumstance
Krishna wasn’t always certain this path was his future. After completing his SSC, he pursued training at an Industrial Training Institute (ITI) in Karaswada, Mapusa, hoping for a stable job. He worked for three years and even came close to a government position. But despite every effort—including knocking on the doors of political ‘influencers’—nothing came through.
“I tried every possible contact, every shortcut people said would work. But nobody helped. I gave up.” He turned instead to the one thing he knew intimately—the land.
Today, his entire family works alongside him—his wife, his daughters, and sometimes, even visiting relatives lend a hand. It’s a life sustained by shared effort, even as savings remain elusive. “We manage to run the household, but saving money? Impossible,” Krishna says.
Wounds of Time, and the Wisdom It Brings
A fall some years ago left Krishna with chronic back pain. Bending, lifting, even simple movements now come with a wince. His daughters have stepped up, handling much of the cleaning work, but the toll of decades is undeniable.
Still, Krishna carries on.
“Earlier, when there were no electric pumps, we used to draw water from wells with ropes. That was hard work, but good work. It kept us strong.”
He laughs a little at the irony: that in chasing comfort, we may have lost health. “Today, people go to gyms. We used to do it all in the fields!”
A Tradition Disappearing into Dust
Perhaps the hardest blow, Krishna admits, isn’t physical—it’s generational. “The youth don’t want this life. And I understand. They’ve seen us work hard in the sun and rain with nothing left at the end of the day. They want office jobs, AC rooms, holidays. Who wouldn’t?”
His worry is not that they are wrong, but that something irreplaceable is being lost.
“We used to keep many bulls. Now, none. We used to make a thousand cow dung cakes, sell them, use them as fuel. Now, people don’t want them. They want gas. They want cement floors, not cow dung-coated ones.”
In the past, even cow dung was a valued resource—dried, shaped into cakes, and sold or used during the monsoons as firewood. It kept homes warm, fields fertile, and floors cool. Today, it’s barely recognized for its worth.
“We make about 200 to 500 cakes now. Most of it we use ourselves. No one buys it anymore.”
“They’re Not Animals. They’re Family.”
For Krishna, the cows are more than a livelihood—they are his compass, his comfort, his companions.
“They understand me,” he says. “They walk with me, listen when I call, and make every day feel complete. If I don’t see them, something feels missing.”
In a world rapidly shifting toward mechanisation, digitisation, and detachment, Krishna Kerkar represents a rare kind of wealth: one not counted in currency, but in care.
“I don’t have savings, or security. But I have peace. I have my cows. And I have my land. That’s enough.”
The Question That Remains
Krishna doesn’t ask for sympathy. But his life raises a silent question for all of us: What happens when people like him are gone? When fields fall silent, cows no longer graze, and the last cow dung cake crumbles into memory?
Maybe, just maybe, it’s time we listened—not just to stories like Krishna’s, but to what they’re trying to tell us. That not all progress lies in leaving the past behind.
Sometimes, it lies in remembering it—before it disappears forever.