I watch the blaring tv,

the sound of some news reporter showing dead people across the road.

Words like ‘justice’ and ‘freedom’ scribed on posters toppled over them.
–
My Dad and I are in the garden,

It’s a typical Sunday morning – bright and sunny

in the tepid wintry sun planting the winter harvest.
Beside us, a flock of birds swoop at the ground where we sprawled seeds and grains for them to eat.
‘When we are given food, we should always thank three things’ Pappa always said.

one – the Creator; the one light

two – kudrat (nature); hence, feed the birds

three – kisaan (farmers), we don’t get any food without them bearing it all for us
droughts, bushfires, bad crops, income, urbanisation

everything.
–

We sow the mustard, spinach, carrots and beet.

I monitor the crops every week.

Week 1 – nothing

Week 2 – a little green shrub

…rain, rain, rain…
–
I watch the blaring tv,

the sound of some news reporter showing flooded expanses of land in the state,

words like ‘climate change’ scribed on posters everywhere.
–
After twelve weeks, the crops have grown, rot and decomposed in the same soil

in our little 200 square metres of land

it’s nothing.

But I know it – we’ve failed our proud ancestor farmers.

In the boggy soil, I saw the rich umber tones turn into ochre and khaki

The same khaki of my Dadda ji’s uniform – he knew the fate of the farmers

My Dad left his homeland, sold his land

Now I can’t even manage to grow a few crops in our backyard.
Now I know why we left.
–
I watch the blaring tv,
378 days and the protest has finally ended.

Water wells in my eyes as I yell in fury and hurt

the tv blares images of elderly people screaming excitedly; going home to resume their endless cycle of

farming and fighting
–
I watch the blaring tv,

people’s belongings and homes destroyed

water wells in my eyes as I yell in fury and hurt

the tv blares images of sunlight, the worst of the flood has ended and we all go back to resume this endless cycle of

climate change

cultural identity
and confusion.