THE FIRES BURN STRONG

2020 has been a horrible year and 2020 has been a wonderful year.

Corona trapped us, scared us, confined us. 19-20 ka antar! Well, that idiom might never get used again such was the difference between the two years.

There was one similarity though - winter of 19 brought a resistance to the streets of urban India. The winter of 20 brought a resistance from its villages. But, as 19 turned to 20 the resistance was turned into horror – on streets, on TV screens and inside police stations, courtrooms and jails.

A much stronger fire burns today – in their makeshift chulhas, in their roadside bonfires, in their hearts and in their resolve. And in salute to the million fires burning along the miles of various townships of resistance, the fire in the sky also burns bright. As 20 turns to 21, there is hope that the outcome will belong to the people, not the party.

Singhu Border

Tikri Border

Ghazipur Border

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FARMER’S MOVEMENT – SOURCE OF FUNDING

The sangat, pious gathering - for every gathering at a langar is pious, sits in rows. A young man serves roti. ‘Waheguru ji prashada.’ Those serving believe that they are serving food to God.

Elderly Baba brings his hands together as if in prayer and says, ‘Waheguru ji sawa lakh.’ Those partaking langar believe that it is God that serves.

Bebe, taking a break from sewa, looks at the langar and the sangat, and with folded hands says, ‘sade babe Nanak de veeh rupayie nahi mukde rehendi duniya tayin.’ ‘Our Nanak’s twenty rupees will last as long as the universe.’

***

At Ghazipur border as we walk towards a stall put up by a group of volunteers - Babe Nanak di hatti, ‘Nanak’s shop,’ I try to explain to a journalist the true source of funding of the farmers movement.

Young Nanak’s father gave him twenty rupees and sent him to learn trade. Nanak on his way to the market met a group of Sadhus. They were hungry, so Nanak fed them with the provisions bought with twenty rupees. When his father questioned him, he said I have learned the true trade, sacha sauda. These are the twenty rupees Sikhs carry forward the tradition of.

Before the harvest is packed at mandis to be weighed and sold, a portion is taken out for the gurudwara. When babaji from gurudwara comes in the morning and says ‘waheguru’ at the door - milk, vegetables, rotis rush to him with folded hands.

Guru Nanak in his travels encountered a village where residents were inconsiderate and harsh to others. He blessed them ‘May the village of Kanganpur prospers.’ In another village he encountered kind and gentle souls, who looked after each other and every passerby. Guru Nanak said to them, ‘May the village of Manakdede never prospers and stays small, may its residents scatter to other parts of the world.’ When his companion Mardana questioned him on these strange blessings Nanak said he hopes that the ill-will of Kanganpur stays where it is and the goodwill of Manakdede spreads to the whole world.

At Singhu border a speaker addresses the gathering. “It is as if we the followers of the Guru are blessed to be the residents of Manakdede.” Sikhs now call most of the world their home. And wherever they have gone they have taken ‘vand shakna’ ‘sharing with others’, and they have continued the tradition of those twenty rupees.

Khalsa Aid is but one of the many million offsprings of those twenty rupees.

‘Babe Nanak di Hatti’ has all kinds of supplies – from toothpaste, toothbrush, soaps, shampoos, hair-oil and detergent, to socks, warm cloths, blankets and even a large heap of desi waterheaters. I greet the volunteers and because I have to, I tell them I am from Sultanpur Lodhi. They all fold their hands and pause for a moment, not for me, they do it in respect for Nanak, in respect for where Nanak ran his hatti. ‘Tera tera.’ ‘Its all yours, I am yours, O Lord.’

Sultanpur Lodhi – Nanak’s town. Sikhs – his scattered residents of Manakdede. Twenty rupees – his funds for eternity.

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IN THE MIDDLE OF WINTER

Parkash Kaur mixes dry hay with cow dung and pats the cow dung cakes on the small plot opposite to her home. Two days later she turns these upside down, the flat side in the direction of afternoon sun. It is early summer and a few days later the cakes are dry. She carefully organizes these dry cakes in a circle in one corner of that little plot. She lays a second and a third layer above these. Then she gets busy with fresh cow dung and hay and fills her plot with cakes again. Two months later the circular pile has turned into a few feet high dome. Just in time before the monsoon arrives. She gets the cover she has prepared by stitching empty plastic bags of fertilizer and ties it over the pile. This should take care of her winter cooking.

Sukhdev Singh gets an axe and a saw. The overnight storm has broken some of the branches of few eucalyptus trees, and some of jamun and guava trees. He chops these down, brings them into the haveli. The wood will dry over the rest of the summer, just in time to feed the fire for Bebe to make saag in December.

And as Albert Camus walks these miles of resistance, in these townships of tractor-trolleys, he finds that summer once again. “In the middle of winter I at last discovered that there was in me an invincible summer.”

Parkash Kaur is here. Sukhdev Singh is here. In the middle of winter, they are here with thousands, carrying with them, carrying within them, their invincible summers.

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MUKHTIAR SINGH’S MANN KI BAAT

Flowing white beard, a kesari parna, in a simple kurta pyjama and a loyi, Mukhtiar Singh takes centerstage. Standing next to a large pile of local geysers donated for the use of farmers he adapts to a situation he has never encountered in his life before. Being interviewed by journalists.

‘Hum mar jayenge par waapis nahi jayenge.’ ‘We will die but won’t go back.’

‘Aapko maut se dar nahi lagta?’ ‘Are you not afraid of death?’ the journalist asks.

‘Humko maut ki parwah nahi. Wo Sikh hi kya jo maut se darr gaya.’ ‘I am not worried about death. He is not a Sikh who is afraid of death.’

From a village in Pilibhit UP, he owns four acres of land. He has two sons – one drives a combine harvester and other drives a truck. He has two grandchildren – a granddaughter and a grandson.

‘Ye Modi Yogi ka koi parivar hota to unhe dukh hota!’ ‘If Modi Yogi had any family, they might have felt our pain.’

‘Hum yogi ko apna mukhmantri nahi maante. Hamara mukhmantri to VM Singh ji hain. Hamare dukh sukh mein wahi hamare sath hain.’ ‘I don’t consider Yogi to be my chief minister. My chief minister is VM Singh ji (referring to his union leader). He is there for us in sadness and in joy.’

Looking at his clothes the journalists asks him ‘Aapko thand nahi lagti?’ ‘Don’t you feel cold?’

‘Bilkul nahi. Hamare liye yahan badaam aate hain. Pinni aati hai. Jab se aandolan shuru huya hai, hamein ek bhi rupya kharach karne ki zaroorat nahi padi. Sab sangat de rahi hai.’ ‘Absolutely not. We get almonds to eat. We get pinni. Since the start of the movement, I have not had the need to spend anything from my pocket. Everything is being provided by the community.’

‘Kab tak rahenge aap?’ ‘How long will you stay?’

‘Jab tak hum jeet nahi jate.’ ‘Till the time we don’t succeed.’

Pointing towards the Meerut-Delhi expressway – ‘Achchi jagah hai ye. Humne to ab yahan makaan banane ki tayari karni hai. Agar jaldi Modi nahi manta to bas makan banayenge pehle yahan. Fir bhainse bhi le aayenge.’ ‘This is a good space. Now we are going to start constructing homes here. If Modi doesn’t agree fast, we will make homes first. Then we will bring our buffaloes.’

And grabbing the arm of a young boy standing next to him he tells him – ‘pehle gurudwara banayenge yahan. Matha tekne ko.’ ‘First we will make a Gurudwara. To pay our respects.’

It is dark, nearly 7pm on this late December evening. All around Mukhtiar Singh there is a beehive of activity. Food is being cooked and served for thousands at many langars. Mattresses and blankets are being dusted and spread, in preparation for what the met department says are extremely cold nights. The journalists leave after a while. Mukhtiar Singh now sits with a group inside his tent. His mann ki baat and his vigil continues.

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MODI AANA KABHI HAWELI PE

The divider on the road, with overhead metro line, was made to plant hedges or flowers or something green. The two sides of the divider have metal grills – possibly to discourage pedestrians from crossing (and trampling whatever was planted) and possibly to save the future flowers/trees/greenery from the stray Gayu Matas. Only some sections thus protected with grills have greenery, others were gathering dust, waste and the apathy of the population passing by. Till the marching farmers decided to make home.

The soil beds have been cleaned and levelled, straw (they don’t burn all the praali, some they keep for future comforts), durries and mattresses make a reasonably comfortable bedding. Tarpaulin sheets cover the top and the side metal grills and a cosy shelter is ready – a place where the farmers and their belongings (primarily ration) is protected from the cold and the elements.

Outside, on the road, ropes tied between the ends of trolleys define their courtyard. The other half of the road carries the local traffic (the farmers haven’t stopped any traffic, wherever it has been stopped, it is by the administration and their barricades). In this courtyard by the passing traffic (somewhat shaken-out-of-the-deep-slumber-of-their-indifference), clotheslines carry the daily washing, little kitchens have come-up (the big langars that make the news don’t go all the way of the tens of miles this township extends to). Someone is busy cooking, someone rests inside, a few play cards, many sit and chit chat.

Many came with the trolleys prepared as shelters, some have put up hiking tents and few mini tent cities have sprung up, some are using the pedestrian walkways and the wall next to it to put up their tents, few larger tents have come up where space allowed. Everywhere the mood is upbeat in these dwellings. And everyone is welcome. Including Modi.

As their spirits and their union flags fly high, they speak their Mann ki Baat and send out an open invite. ‘Modi, aana kabhi haweli pe.’

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NO MAN’S LAND

It is not that these barriers are too strong to stop their march, like they proved on 26^th and 27^th of November, it is just that they have decided to camp here – for now. But the administration, the state, the powers that be can’t help but think that they can ford this flood. So, they create these illusions - concrete blocks and metal barriers and a no man’s land in between.

On one side the guards stand in silence, on the other the rebels are a sea of celebration of human spirit.

On one side there are ranks – juniors standing attention to seniors who in turn stand attention to more seniors. On the other side they all are equal - their honor and words their chain of command.

On one side they all line for inspection at roll call and to salute their officers. On the other, there are no officers, but plenty of salutes to each other.

On one side they have thrown old containers, trailers with deflated tyres to block a potential forward march. On the other side they have converted such trailers and containers into homes.

On one side sun rises to another difficult day of duty for the watchmen of the powers that be. On the other side the sun rises on another welcome day of duty for the watchmen of people and their rights.

On one side the bodies are dressed in one color. The other side is a rainbow of colors.

On one side it is a colony with bated breath, a look of death. The other side a city teeming with life.

In between, the no man’s land stands witness.

And in the gathering of rebels, a few rebels jump into the no man’s land for a selfie.

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NECTAR IN A SIEVE

Living in the pollution capital of the world rain is always a welcome relief, irrespective of the time of the year. It cleans our air and offers us NCR-Delhiwallas relatively clearer skies and somewhat cleaner air to breath.

Last night, sitting in my comfortable chair, as I heard the sound of falling rain, the feeling wasn’t of relief. The clouds have been overhead for a while, and had drizzled briefly for a few seconds already, but it hadn’t poured. But this was the sound of them coming down with vigour. 5-10 minutes of rain, not too long to make much impact in the life of the city dwellers, but long enough to put the life of farmers camping at borders difficult, put it out of what little order they have managed to provide themselves in these camps of resistance.

It was my third semester at college, and I was doing Indian Writing in English as part of humanities courses. For the final evaluation we were required to read, review and present a book of our choice. Browsing through the shelves of hostel library I found a few books by Indian authors. Even with a very limited knowledge and understanding of literature at the time, after reading Kamala Markandaya’s ‘Nectar in a Sieve,’ I knew that both the author and the book were special. The smile on the course instructor’s face as I put the title slide on the glass projector was an affirmation of the same.

Nectar in a Sieve is a story of an Indian peasant and her struggles. It is the story of Rukmini and her family, living from one challenge to another, their life a daily struggle as they till the land to make ends meet. Natural disasters, floods one year, drought a few years later test them, death of children, theft of what little possessions they have, eviction from land, a long journey to city, back breaking work at a brick factory, death of her husband, a long lonely march back to the village hut she had left behind, Rukmini faces each new adversity with high spirits and hope.

As the presentation came to a close and I had answered the few questions that came my way from the class the instructor asked one last question. ‘Explain the title of the book, why is it called nectar in a sieve?’

‘Nectar is the drink of gods. Nectar in a sieve – an attempt to purify what is the purest of the pure. The story highlights how nature puts hardships on those whose lives are the hardest of all to start with. It is like nature testing these humans who are the most tested in the society.’

As the rain came down, the tractor-trolley camps came to mind, the images of them trying to keep themselves and their goods dry from the rain a few weeks back came to mind and Kamala Markandaya’s immortal title came to mind. Nectar in a Sieve.

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