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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