10/05/2026
A Farmer’s Confession to His Mothers — on this Mother’s Day
Yesterday, I witnessed something deeply unsettling — post-harvest wheat fields being burnt, while stray cows searched for food in the same burning remains.
We call our land Mother Earth.
We call the cow Gau Mata.
Yet somewhere in our desperation, convenience, and habit, perhaps we farmers too have become part of a cycle that hurts both our mothers.
This is not blame. This is not virtue signalling. This is a confession.
A moment of guilt. Reflection. And apology.
Sharing a poem I wrote after what I saw yesterday.
“Sorry Mother, I failed you again.”
I cultivate you,�I plough you,�You give me food.
I pierce you,�I excavate you,�You still give me nectar — water.
I torment you with chemicals,�I have almost killed you,�Yet you heal yourself�And give me more.
I churn you,�I burn you,�You silently give me time.
And in those burning fields,�The cows — whom I call mother too —�Search for life among the ashes,�Feeding where fire still breathes.�What have I done�To both my mothers?
I call you mother,�Yet every day�I discover newer ways to wound you.
And the strangest part is —�I know my crime.�I know this steals from you,�And from my own tomorrow.�Still, I commit this invisible sin,�Digging a grave�That will one day sink into you.
You will return to life,�I know you will.�But I may lose it all,�For I am responsible for my own fall.
Sorry, Mother…�I failed you again.
