Nothing Remained
High up in the Nilgiri hills, there lived a certain farmer. He chose a piece of land and began to till it. His field bordered a dense jungle.
A Mysterious Encounter
One day, he decided to cut down one of the trees bordering his field. As his axe hit the bark of the tree, a voice like thunder roared out, “Who is cutting the tree?”
The farmer looked around but could see no one. Trembling, he replied, “I am clearing the space around my field so that sunlight can fall on it.”
“Is that so?” said the voice. “Then we’ll help.”
In an instant, all the trees were felled by unseen hands. The farmer raised both hands in gratitude and said, “Thank you, my unseen friends, for your help.”
The Fire and the Voices
The next morning, the farmer went to the field and began to gather all the twigs. He heaped them up and lit a fire. Suddenly, a strange voice roared, “Who burns the twigs?”
Again, the farmer replied humbly, “It is I, the farmer who came yesterday. I am clearing my field of all the rubbish heaps.”
“We’ll help you,” roared the voice. Then a strong wind arose, and all the rubbish disappeared from the field.
Unexpected Abundance
In this manner, the farmer received a lot of unexpected help. He was able to raise many crops, particularly fond of maize, which grew ripe enough to be harvested.
A Curious Wife
Now, the farmer’s wife had noticed that her husband always returned well before sunset. Knowing how arduous fieldwork was, she could not believe that her husband, with his limited strength, had raised such a handsome crop of maize. She decided to uncover the secret.
One day, she said to her husband, “I need a lot of firewood. Why don’t you go and cut some?”
The farmer answered airily, “Do it yourself.” However, as the wife was gladly leaving the house, he instructed her, “Speak to no one and do not reply to anyone.”
Breaking the Rule
Curiosity led the wife to the field, where she saw the tall stalks swaying in the breeze. She touched a ripe maize cob, and at once a voice roared, “Who touches the maize?”
Irritated at the query, the farmer’s wife retorted, “It’s my field. I’ll do what I please.” She completely forgot her husband’s warning.
As she reached for a corn cob, another voice bellowed, “Who plucks a corn cob?”
The woman replied sharply, “This is our field. I’ll pluck what I please. Who are you to question me?”
Immediately, several voices responded, “Then we’ll do the same.”
The Consequence
Before the horrified eyes of the farmer’s wife, the entire field was laid waste. Not a single stalk remained standing.
She ran home without the firewood. When the farmer asked what made her come home in such a hurry, she could only stare blankly. Sensing that something was amiss, the farmer rushed to his field, only to be left speechless at the desolation wrought by the unseen hands. Of his labors, nothing remained.
About Cork
It comes from the bark of the cork tree, which grows mainly in the Mediterranean area. Portugal and Spain together produce about half of the world’s annual supply. The bark is cut when the tree is 20 years old, but no more is taken for the next nine or ten years. The bark is boiled and scraped, then divided according to thickness and quality.