FARMERS PROTEST
2020
Fateh waited amidst endless rows of familiar strangers, his patka drowned in a sea of turbans. Even in the muffled corners of space inserted between sweating sunkissed statues , there was a collective togetherness that hung heavy like perspiration in the atmosphere clinging on to even the most tired shoulders , keeping them straight.
The line was long ,it flowed down and onto the streets of Delhi , a wispy strand of hair from an old man’s daadhi . The sweet sticky smell of halva clung desperately to the humidity in the air that rested mellow on the crowd. The speakers were prophets demanding justice in the name of truth , a terrifying burden as fateh went along with the recitation . Among shouts of instructions trying to catch the chaos , a will upheld by the masses kept them together.
A dadi ji in her loose kurta painted transparent with sweat handed out scared sustenance, each arm extending out reducing the distance between Fateh and his purpose . The halwa sealed in droopy silver tin packaging was so light in Fateh's small hands , still so delicate , he could feel the responsibility burning into the curve of his palm . In the touch of a slight shove or push , fateh could sense a protective instinct . Even through the wandering of the mass , between busy spectacles luring his gaze , fateh could see his way in slowly moving lines.
The colors of twilight watered down on the horde blending in with the surroundings , for a moment it seemed like everything was still. Only in stillness could fateh absorb the powerful reverberations , his pulse fluttering , just participation in compelling groups could make each member feel worthy , an inspiration in their present . Fateh liked to see the world's continued queues , it allowed him to perceive people as they are consumed in the act of waiting ostensibly restless in the pursuit of an objective .
The roar of police cars steadied the tractor’s march , an unsynchronized outside force halting the parade’s currents, a whirlpool of shouts emerged from the crowd spinning into a thick boundary encircling a spot on the periphery of this devastated installation.
The tide pulled Fateh in , it was outside of his means to resist as he was caught in the conflicted undercurrent of those fleeing away from and towards this incident. Avoiding getting crushed wasn't easy in a crowd devoid of a trampling intent, the insurgence of motion stung his senses as the lines dissolved into stable mobs.
His mother would have wanted him to leave, criticizing his judgment of being even a passive observer from a far distance but something in his feet led him there regardless of his fear . His feet steady yet trembling , bare now, his new shoes lost on this highway conquered by the passion for protest , not a single small pebble escaping his stead, he endured the ache of the ground.
Slipping in through gaps was simple in a captivated crowd , an automatic rhythm assumed as he emerged from abstract shapes created in the distance between people , his heartbeat finally intact to catch it . Emanating from rows of people consumed into each other, fateh peeked out of the legs of a tall man with a wide stance and feet sheltered by shoes , his neck at an unfamiliar angle in his desperate curiosity . Unaware of the conditions of being subject to foreign sites , his head plunged out , a young boy now witness to the gruesome site of an old man’s toe caught under the weight of a police car on patrol.
Fateh had probably missed the crunching sound of tired bone among the havoc that ensued but it was there , a shocking siren , its blaring ricocheting from the inside of his temples into the dome of skull . By the time the man was relieved of the load of the bulky government vehicle , it seemed all the blood had already rushed out of his foot spewing everywhere in bright red streams now contrasting the pale sunkenness of the vessel it had drained . The cloth of his kurta , torn clenched in his fists as he looked up to the sky, his eyes tightly binded in the face of the setting sun , his jaw strained by the pressure as streams of liquid flowed down his tense frame, fateh couldn't tell if it were sweat, blood or tears . What drew him there was a longing lost in his feet , every other impulse in his body tugging in the opposite direction , the ground was hard , hard enough to feel like gravity had deserted him.
As the young man pulled him to his feet, fateh rushed out without a word , even adrenaline, a now depleted resource he bumped into what felt like air solidifying in his path . The sound of protest all around him, he felt the indignation of his community, it soared through his being along with the image of the pain he saw in the man’s face.
The police strapped out unapologetic . Accusatory .While his community rushed to help and stand by their demands. The older men sitting on charpoys up to now, stood up. They were a barrier between the forces and their beloved green fields.
Hours later sitting at the edge of the camp he realized he had lost his shoes but the halwa still remained temptingly in his hands. Scooping spoonfuls into his ravenous mouth he watched the endless green fields that lay before him.