ਸੱਪਾਂ ਦੀਆਂ ਸਿਰੀਆਂ ਮਿੱਧ ਕੇ ਨੱਕੇ ਮੋੜਨ ਵਾਲਿਆਂ ਨੂੰ ਕੋਟਿ ਕੋਟਿ ਪ੍ਰਣਾਮ

The fundamental minimum rights of farmers have been denied to them on none other than India’s Constitution Day. From any nation’s earliest days of awareness, farming has held an essential place in the economy and culture. Farmers play a vital role for any society, of course, since they feed the nation, not to mention they provide far across the borders. Farming has been particularly valued in the land of five rivers and the fertile State of Punjab. Punjabi farmers exemplify economic virtues such as hard work, initiative, and self-sufficiency. Not only do they understand that they have to push through tough times, adjusting and adapting their ways in the face of new problems, and always striving to improve, they must contend with forces beyond their control — most notably the weather.

I grew up in Amritsar, a small town with a great culture and attitude of embracing small scale farmers and, of course, small scale industry. Young and elderly farmers frequented the streets of my hometown from nearby villages and farmlands on their Royal Enfield Bullets to sell first hand Basmati rice, maNh di daal (black lentils), black chana (chickpeas), and a wide variety of legumes. There were often parades of bullock carts marching down majestically in my neighbourhood’s narrow streets carrying pyramids of potatoes, cauliflower, or sometimes golden corn.

I remember the milkman too. The very sound of the growling engine of his motorcycle used to wake me up in the morning. Two oversized brass canisters, nicely secured with thick jute braids, would hang low on both sides of the passenger seat. One carried the distinct pale yellow cow’s milk and the other pure white buffalo milk. “One glass in the morning before you go to school and one at bedtime,” he never failed to advise.

I am fifty now; I don’t drink much milk anymore, but occasionally I simmer Haldi (turmeric) & saffron milk. I still hear his words clearly amidst the growling engine as if he is right outside my place.

Farmers from Rajasthan in their camel carriages would bring us home all kinds of spices, saturated in the desert heat and hard labour. The stout and husky Panihari songs behind every grinding motion to crush the whole spices into fine powders add to the spice’s essence. I feel that it is not just the fragrance and benefit of the spice; I see the dunes of the sand in a tiny glass jar—the bottled up longing for true love, a yearning for water and well. The desire for some shade under a Modad or Peepal tree is the kind of intensity it takes to prepare those spices.

As if the distance from the desert was not strenuous enough, farmers and vendors from Kashmir would come to the plains to sell Rajmah (kidney beans), pomegranate and dry fruits. Kabul pine nuts were my all-time favourite. Since they are very costly, my father would only buy them near the festival season or peak winter. Rajma & rice and methi (fresh fenugreek) roti top the list of my favourite foods. No cuisine can ever replace them. The smells and flavours make me feel nostalgic.

I remember how vibrant and abuzz our small town streets used to be with vendors and gypsies too from various states of India. I had not seen a village ever, but the real spirit of plenty and bulk, the aura and charm of villages, exuberance of vast farmlands and their people and artisans met me in the soul every day through their crop, products, energy and attitude.

Thanks to the many vendors who would travel mostly afoot and introduced us small-town folks to treasures & crafts we could have easily missed otherwise. Two phulkaaris, one crimson Paranda (colourful silk hanging for hair), one Kashmiri shawl, a hand-carved wooden comb, a Kantha work blanket and many big and small items later became an integral part of my trousseau due to simple straight cut monetary and cultural transactions with them.

Often I used to go to the local wholesale Mandi (market) with my father. The beautiful and captivating huge stack piles of fresh mustard bunches, collard greens, carrots, spinach, potatoes, tomatoes, corn, onions, brinjals, turnips, ginger and garlic were close enough projection of glorious fields, if not the actual hectares and hectares of organized and manicured lands themselves. The Sabzi Mandi was a busy place. Weighing scale stone units lined up like soldiers seemed quite interesting to me. Under the blue and white tarp sections, each vendor had something amazing to sell. Each vendor would be louder and more proactive than the other one. The beam balance scales were amazingly efficient and even. Many times I hopped from stall to stall and sampled apples and carrots nonchalantly.

Our farmers don’t just provide food and fiber; they nurture and connect life in many ways unfathomable. The fabric of culture in terms of food, culinary arts, attire, greetings, sports, music, gestures, phrases, practices, habits, rituals, etiquette, and many other ways that usually go unnoticed is an attestation of farmer’s allegiance with land and his agricultural craftsmanship.

The splendor of sunrise fills them up with community spirit, selflessness and a sense of pride in home, neighbours and natural resources. The compelling visions of the golden harvest inspire them to rise above hardships and disappointments.“

Anna Daata” farmer is not only the donor of food but the quintessence of God. The food becomes “blessed,” which nourishes our body, strengthens our mind, and empowers our personality. It blesses us with mental and physical health. Instead of a feeling of gratitude and reverence towards each one of the farmers as they feed the nation, things have been rather bleak for Indian farmers for a long time now. The reinforced and unkind patterns of capitalism in India are hurting the farmers. Even though different factors converge to push farmers over the edge into failure, they are mostly peaceful, robust, optimistic & determined, marching down to New Delhi to protest over market reforms. These Titans can face & deal with danger or fear without flinching or batting an eyelid. Time and again, they have set aside their problems to give way to others. They are organized and self-sufficient. They tackle their problems directly by evaluating situations and taking action accordingly, not to mention they don’t expect a morsel or a glass of water from anyone. All they want is justice; I hope the higher realm is listening closely. I am keeping each one of these Titans in my thoughts and prayer as I revisit Rudyard Kipling’s The Masque of Plenty this reflective morning-

His speech is of mortgaged bedding,

On his kine he borrows yet,

At his heart is his daughter’s wedding,

In his eye foreknowledge of debt.

He eats and hath indigestion,

He toils and he may not stop;

His life is a long-drawn question

Between a crop and a crop.