Down the dusty road with bijee and the white kettle

The oldest childhood memory I have is of walking down a dusty village road along with bijee (grandmother) around noon with an old white kettle tightly clutched in my seven-year-old hands. It was a routine both of us religiously followed throughout the summer holidays. I remember how mother would advise me against venturing out and how, with equal conviction, grandfather would support me going with bijee.

It never felt hot or grimy, nor do I remember ever falling sick with a heat stroke, as feared by mother, due to those everyday voyages. Rather in addition to all other good things, these trips were the reasons I learned to tell the time. The moment the clock struck noon; I would start pestering bijee and wouldn’t leave her side even for a minute in the fear of being left behind.

The distance we walked was not more than a kilometre but it always took us around two hours to cover. The slow pace was not owing to my tiny feet but to numerous engagements we got into on our way. The first was always a lady, almost as old as bijee, who would stop us for a quick chat which would be everything but quick. There were numerous people whom we met and many houses we stopped by on our way. I don’t remember much about the people we met or the houses we stopped at, but I do remember the warmth and love I felt in those houses among those people. With time and age, most memories faded except the one that had my bijee, me and the white kettle.

While studying in the city, my elder brother and I yearned for time spent in our pind (village). We would want to leave for the pind the day we broke for the summer or winter break. Be it our cart rides, endless walks in the fields, fresh tomato and sugarcane treats or the open doors we could walk into any time; we loved everything about our time there. These trips went away with our grandparents and we eventually become city folks.

The farmers’ protest on the Delhi border means different things to different people, but for me it stands for that dusty road I travelled with my bijee. It was the road that led me to my father, who would leave for the khet (fields) at dawn. It was the road that took me to see the smile on his face as he drank tea from the white kettle. It was the road that made me witness to his pride as he saw the season’s crop standing tall.

This protest is reminiscent of the warmth I felt all those years ago. It reminded me that those people are my people, those houses are home to me too and those fields are the reason I’m here today.

I’m not sure when this protest will culminate but it has borne fruit. It has reminded us all of our roots, of where we have come from; it has dissolved barriers to bring people together for a common cause; it has brought our villages back into our drawing rooms; and primarily gave a purpose to the youth of a state that was slowly losing its identity to the likes of IELTs and Udta Punjab. This struggle, never mind the origin or the end, will influence many lives in ways that will go much beyond the three farm laws.

THE FARMERS’ PROTEST ON THE DELHI BORDER MEANS DIFFERENT THINGS TO DIFFERENT PEOPLE, BUT FOR ME IT STANDS FOR THAT DUSTY ROAD THAT I WALKED WITH MY BIJEE. IT WAS THE ROAD THAT LED ME TO MY FATHER.