Border lives, Singhu

There is nothing like piping hot jalebis on winter dusks. Some of my fondest memories of Delhi itself revolve around the anticipation as vendors take their sweet time churning these syrupy love knots over and over in large cauldrons of fiery oil with cautious ennui. My habitual reticence gives way to an ebullient prattle, suddenly agog at the goings on around me but my eyes glued to the oil frothing at the sensuous curves like sizzling lace.

At the Singhu border I watched as little Arsh distributed steaming jalebis in a paper plate among those who had gathered outside their parked tractor trolleys which were covered up into living quarters. They were discussing the futile outcomes of 10 rounds of discussions with the government; frustration with the pointless pollicitations was evident as was their determination to continue their fight till a total repeal of the regressive farm laws. Arsh, in his neatly wrapped burgundy pagadi and a sports jacket, a dapper youngster, gently coaxed the elders to help themselves to more. He caught my gawk and smiled, I tried to appear busy doing what I was doing, checking photos and making notes. I was at the predominantly residential side; in the distant PA systems, purposeful speeches were replaced by sonorous, prayerful chants, impromptu sloganeering and singing on souped up tractors by those returning to their ‘houses’ and washing down jalebis with cardamom chai marked the end of another eventful day at Singhu border, in the eye of the farmers’ protest storm. 

The strategic laundromat

It was a foggy January morning when I went to visit the Singhu border, a 65 km ride from where I stayed. While all vehicles were stopped and rerouted from a kilometre away, nobody stopped my motorcycle. No, I didn’t have a ‘press’ badge but I happened to be inadvertently following a policeman on his motorcycle. It must have looked like the cop was escorting me in; a good start to a great day. My knees were still juddering from the cold when I entered the protest city and my breath came out like boiler gusts. Adding to my woes, there was slush all around and water flowed on the road. As did people; I stood in the midst of the ordered tohubohu imagining myself in a time lapse, letting everything sink in.

Protests of this direction and magnitude are like the Soviet cinema of yore – every character you meet bowls you over with their integrity and strength and you fervently desire to know more about them, even cosying up to some. This is till they themselves remind you, silently of course, that the big picture is the struggle itself and they are only cogs however dutiful and diligent. The first one I met, I wanted to hug and kiss even though he had bristly white facial hair which obscured his lips. He called out to me from one of the tents outside which stood a glistening steel canister with a ‘chai?’ Eternally grateful, I wrapped my eel-cold fingers around the warm cup and downed three, like shots. He kept smiling and nodding his head which swayed his tumbling beard like it was beckoning me to help myself to more. 

Feeding the langars that never stop feeding

The muck was the laundromat area. Thoughtful and perhaps clever by design, it was at the beginning of the site: the water was pumped into drainages while the cambering road took care of the overflow keeping the rest of the area clean. It also meant the hundreds of paramilitary and police camped outside the site, booted and braced with batons, teargas firers and guns, were privy to a bunch of long johns pulled out of dryers and dirty pyjamas being ferried in and not much to the goings on inside. Not that it mattered anyway – the speeches that boomed from sound systems were laden with direct challenges to the government as well as constant reminders that the jawans who guarded the country’s borders were the sons of those who fed the nation, the very same ones who had assembled here, lives and livelihoods at stake. I did spot a few soldiers, armed to the teeth, alone and looking lost. Or maybe it was hopeful imagination.

A large kitchen operated right next to the washeteria where strapping, swole, Sikh youth unloaded potatoes and onions in gunny sacks. Many men and women did their ‘sewa’ – selfless service – here, peeling and cleaning vegetables, cooking and transporting them to smaller kitchens. The entire protest site was dotted with langars, community kitchens, which never stopped feeding people. Walking to the library – where I made a beeline for as I was carrying some books to donate – I was stopped at several places and asked if I had eaten. 

Protest as a way of life

“You look like a Keralite,” ‘Mallu’ Singh hollered out to me as I walked past a langar. It was too early for lunch still my heart melted when he insisted I come in and have their special rice and curries.

“I was in Kerala for 15 years,” he said. “I know how much you guys love rice.” Though there wasn’t much love lost between rice and me, I decided to go for a second helping even; not just the food was delish but the conversations were sprightly and entertaining. Besides our own antipathies towards the callous government, we also bonded over the second love of all Punjabi and Keralan men after alcohol – Bullet motorcycles. Mallu Singh rode one for the longest till he got married and left riding to focus on family; I confided that my family left me because my focus was on riding.

A trouvaille Mallu Singh was, I got introduced to some very committed people. The ladies running the pharmacies and medical check up posts; I was smitten equally by their looks and their dedication to the cause. At the library, volunteers ran the show like clockwork with a lot of personal flourishes added for good measure; my donation was received with plenty grace and enthusiasm. 

Rest some

“We didn’t have many travel books,” said Jaswir, one of the founders of the makeshift library. “We have books on politics and ideologies. These will give a good idea of the geography too.” Kiranpreet, a cofounder, looked around for a return gift and gave me a copy of the farm laws which adumbrated the draconian outcomes if the laws saw light. If future-mindedness meant fucked up, little wonder more and more of us were falling into depression. I decided to think twice before bringing a friend over – somebody who was still reeling from a very personal loss. Though there was enough positivity to keep hope afloat, warmth at every turn and great vibes permeated, that you were up against an insensitive regiment with a golden goose agenda could mar the final reckoning. If you weren’t a fighter, geared for a long winter, this might not be the place where you sought sanative outcomes.

Ours is a country where 58 per cent of the population still live directly off the soil; if you look at indirect livelihoods, it will be 75 if not more. Sideshows like the Republic Day violence or the dramatic arrest of actor Deep Sidhu along with others who allegedly incited violence are just the intermission freak acts of a dangerous circus underway. Gutting our conscience is a most irresponsible media; pizza served at the venue by a charitable donor made for vituperative, mocking headlines for days. Before I plonked myself outside Arsh’s tractor I passed by another line which was fed burgers; enough meat to keep the pro government media going. And most of those we have today have taken safe unconscionable harbour behind this grimy and well-greased charade of a dispensation. 

With Arsh outside his trailer home

Arsh approached with a refilled plate of crackling, drippy jalebis. My eyes popped out with a mirific joy and I used both my hands to take two. He got intrigued by my GoPro camera and asked many sensible questions; I showed him the different modes and operation. He urged me to eat more and showed me the trailer where his family stayed. As I was leaving, I gave him my pen, a neat Japanese make. I could see that he liked it by the way he stared at it. He came running after me and gave me a pack of popcorns; ‘eat it when you are riding’ he said and went back.

Maybe I will bring my suffering friend here, after all.