Farmers on tractors and
battalions behind barbed wire
shoot “nayi saal mubarak ho”
at the stroke of midnight
while nursing their injuries and
preparing for the first battle
of 2021.
Langars are aflame
with the heat of the protests
as women cook with men
for the foot soldiers of rebellion.
Makki ki roti and sarson ka saag
heal tired bodies and agitated minds.
The mechanic kids repair the wheels of revolution
the tractors and trucks for the first battle
of 2021.
Meanwhile with loads of laddoos and
tonnes of jalebis, the powerful tweet
their greetings to the people
groveling in misery.
“Nayi saal mubaarak ho” echoes
from the corners of the country where
even citizenship is a delible mark to many.
“A cold wave sweeps North India” cries the papers.
In makeshift tents, kisans shiver in their blankets.
The fire from the langar and the heat from their crops
keep them warm in the mandis of power.
Ram, the kisan and
Shyam, the jawan
twins estranged at a global mela
stare at each other across the barricades.
Ra Sh is a poet from Kerala
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