We all waited for the seeds
for long
then the rumour spread that they're available
and everyone became anxious, a bustle started.
The babus called the police
and the police arrived– would they stay quiet..?
They chased and hit everyone who ran,
even Yellaiah who scampered to the bus stand wasn't spared,
someone was pulled from the phone booth,
stripped down and beaten with a lathi.
Oh God!.. God, what have we done to you?
Didn't the frog mother dance for the rains?
Didn't we offer pots of festive rice to the goddess?
With the first rains, we started ploughing:
don't know about the seeds, but our backs split and the lathis broke.
Don't know whose fault it was but we had to pay the penalties;
we who believe in land– if police lathis are our lot–
we can't till the fields, sow seeds or go on with this life.
A bullet hit Yellaiah and the blood formed a pool
they took him to the hospital in the town
the minister said Yellaiah had nothing to fear
the chief minister said he'd appoint a judge to enquire
The day before yesterday– there was firing in Kaldari,
yesterday– it was the turn of the salt farmers in Chinna Ganjampeta,
today– guns seem to have chosen death as the Chevella farmers' fate
When a small farmer dies a hundred more won't be born
but a rebellion will.
My translation of the Telugu poem 'yittunaalu' by Siddenki Yadagiri (from his collection of poetry 'maa tovva' ). This poem is the poet's response to an incident of police firing (and other similar acts of repression) a few years ago on a group of small farmers who had lined up at a distribution centre for subsidised seeds in Chevella, a small town in Ranga Reddy district of Andhra Pradesh.