His hands were always callused, [and they often bled], and every night sleep stole him away no sooner than his cheek met the pillow.

I will say that, [in this regard], he was hardly alone.

Yes, there was a river, [but the villagers had to endure a half-day walk to reach it], and even then its waters flowed muddy all year round.

[Life in Maidan Sabz was hard] for all its inhabitants.

But Maidan Sabz was a desolate place, and it didn’t resemble in the slightest the image that its name, [Field of Green], would have you picture.

Now, [after ten years of drought], the river too ran shallow.

Once upon a time, in the days when divs and jinns and giants roamed the land, [there lived a farmer named Baba Ayub].

[Every day], he labored from dawn to sundown, plowing his field and turning the soil and tending to his meager pistachio trees.

He lived with his family in a little village [by the name of Maidan Sabz].

Finding water was a daily struggle [because the village wells], even the deep ones, [often ran low].

[The wind was hot, and blew dust in the eyes].

[There were other, more fortunate villages] to the north, in the valleys, with fruit trees and flowers and pleasant air, and streams that ran with cold, clear water.

Let’s just say that people in Maidan Sabz worked twice as hard [to eke out half the living].