How Chikkanahalli Became Varelihalli

Once in village Chikanahalli

In  a little  red tiled house

Lived  farmer Seethpalli

With his  family and cows.

Next door was old  friend

Tausif Pasha Ali

Toiling to grow some raagi

And a bit of  moongphalli.

At the crack of every dawn

Each  balmy  july morn

They searched the cruel skies

I heard their saddened sighs

Despair set in by late afternoon

Treason of a truant monsoon

Winds woo  wisps of wanton clouds

And dreams remain just out of bounds.

As the rains became even more fickle

Kasim's brother moved to the city-

Putting survival, before dignity;

He shut away his hoe and sickle.

Others soon followed to the slums;

They learned to live on paltry sums

Cutting stones, carrying bags

Shining shoes or picking rags.

Some stayed on at Chikkanahalli

And prayed to God for mercy.

What they needed was a bank

A little timely credit

A small irrigation tank

Native Seeds, a compost pit

To put tired fields to merit.

But the State was much too busy

Too engrossed, indifferent

Caught in a brand new policy

of  foreign direct  investment

In industry and property,

Instead of making proper allocations

For crop loans and minor irrigation

They welcomed this alien invasion

With real pomp and false elation.

Soon Seethapalli and Kasim Ali

Were visited  as earlier planned

By Varelli Antony of Italy

To get them to sell their land.

Now this was no ordinary Antony

He worked for a global company

That exported silks, skins and roses

Built most luxurious golf courses.

He made an offer, couched in glib talk

That made the innocent villagers balk

Within weeks most land was sold

Seethapalli was clean bowled.

Farmers went on  shopping sprees

For branded clothes and  accessories

Shiny red SUVs and giant screen TVs

The company was quick, put up a fence

And declared that  Chikannahalli

Would hence be called Varelihalli

As it made more business sense

At the end of two long years

I met our friend Seethapalli

 He now worked for Mr. Varelli

Poor man he was moved to tears

He cursed himself for having sold out

They were better off without a doubt

Living off their own land

As now the corporate hand

Had destroyed with such impunity

What was once their favourite fields

Stealing dignity and identity.

What’s the use of bountiful yields

Of roses, golf courses or exotic grapes

When in hunger the stomach aches?

Poignant questions come to mind

..if only we had been able

To bolt the horse into the stable..

Too late now, we're in a bind

Has the  bid to liberalize

Served only to impoverize?

If only land reforms had been forthcoming

May be if we had built the tank

Would Mr. Varelli now be laughing

All the way back from the bank?

Would subsistence farmers, unused to cash

Have frittered it on needless trash?

Will the day of wisdom truly dawn

Before the land is all doomed and gone ?