अन्नदाता और सरकार बहादुर

They were no one – the dead

The farm is my own.
The potatoes home grown.
Yet I am not sure
what I should eat.

Who would listen?
Who would believe?
How to encash
my harvest gold?

Who will share
my tragic tale
Where to let out
my anguished wail?

The land was leased,
millions spent on seeds.
Manure came
but time for the sowing went.
We toiled anyway, ploughing,
sowing, harvesting, selling the crop
for a pittance in hand.
The market was in moneylenders’ hands.

No one came
to bulldoze that scam
In the column for the cause of suicide
police wrote: ‘a fight with his wife.’

It was she
who weeded the fields.
It was she
who kept the soil ready.
It was she
who made the seeds sprout.
It was she
who fed the kids, even when we were in debt.
She was the ridge between the fields
She was the tree, lush green,
in the centre of the city

But when it was her turn
she was not good enough.
to be called a farmer.

They were not counted,
not in the rallies
not in the bags of free ration
not on billboards
nor in the buildings
nor in advertising stalls
nor in the sales in big malls
not on the steps of parliament halls
not in cars
nor in paper trees
not in rupee notes
nor in the stars in the sky
not in the sons of the Sahibs.

Who would count them now?
They were dead.

Hey Nath! My lord!
Shall I read the shlokas,
or worship Nirguna?
Shall I recite the Sunderkand,
or sing Tulsi’s chaupai ?
or shall I perform hatha yoga,
offer khichdi at the feet of Gorakh?
Shall I speak in Hindi or Bhojpuri?
How should I say it
so that you can hear my voice, Maharaj…

I am a farmer from the same province,
where you rule as Mahant
and where my father hung himself to death.