The Malayalam calendar has welcomed a new year today, as Chingam dawns across Kerala. Traditionally, this was a time of hope and abundance, when fields stood lush with crops, when households prepared for Onam, and when society paused to express gratitude to the farmers who made life possible. In the collective memory of the Malayali, Chingam was never just the beginning of another month, but the start of a season of prosperity. Yet, for the farmers who form the very backbone of this tradition, today does not feel like a festival. It feels like an endless struggle, a battle against poverty, humiliation, and neglect. For them, this day cannot be called Farmers’ Day. It is, painfully and truthfully, Farmers’ Tears Day.
Kerala’s culture, festivals, and even its literature are deeply rooted in the soil. The rhythm of life once followed the rhythm of the fields. Paddy cultivation was not merely an economic activity, but a way of life that shaped communities, values, and celebrations. Onam, the grand festival of Kerala, is at its core a harvest festival a thanksgiving to nature and to the farmer who made abundance possible. Yet, as urbanisation spreads and lifestyles change, the farmer has been pushed to the margins of society. His toil is invisible, his contribution forgotten, and his suffering ignored. What was once considered the noblest of professions has been reduced to a desperate struggle for survival.
Perhaps the sharpest wound inflicted on the farmer today is economic. Agricultural products rarely fetch fair prices in the market. The irony is glaring: consumers often pay exorbitant amounts for rice, vegetables, and fruits, yet the farmer who produces them receives a pittance. Middlemen, transporters, and traders profit, but the cultivator is left with nothing but losses. Many farmers are forced to sell at distress prices because storage and marketing infrastructure remain weak. This cycle of exploitation drains not only their income but also their dignity. A profession that should have been honoured is instead mocked by a system that rewards everyone but the producer.
As though market betrayal were not enough, the fury of nature has become the farmer’s constant companion. Kerala’s farmers face an uncertain monsoon, recurring floods, droughts, pest infestations, and soil degradation. Crops carefully nurtured for months are destroyed in a single night of torrential rain. Families who pin their hopes on one harvest find themselves staring at barren fields and shattered futures. While governments announce relief packages after every disaster, what reaches the farmer is often delayed, inadequate, and tangled in bureaucratic red tape. The compensation offered rarely matches the magnitude of loss. In the end, the farmer stands alone, watching helplessly as his labour washes away in the floods or withers in the sun.
With little income and repeated losses, debt becomes the farmer’s unavoidable reality. To buy seeds, fertilizers, and pesticides, or to hire labour, he turns to banks and private lenders. Initially, these loans are taken with hope the hope of a good harvest, a fair price, and a chance to repay. But when crops fail or markets collapse, debt turns into a nightmare. Recovery notices arrive, interest piles up, and the threat of confiscation looms over ancestral land. Stories of farmers losing their fields to debt recovery officers have become tragically common. For many, the humiliation of being branded a defaulter is more unbearable than poverty itself. Debt relief remains a political slogan, rarely a lived reality.
As the Malayalam year begins, Kerala also prepares for Onam, the festival that celebrates prosperity. Homes will be decorated with floral carpets, kitchens will overflow with feasts, and society will indulge in merriment. Yet, the irony is stark: the very festival that symbolises the farmer’s labour is often celebrated without sparing a thought for his suffering. The image of plenty hides the reality of scarcity in the farmer’s household. This hypocrisy lies at the heart of why today feels hollow. To celebrate prosperity while ignoring the plight of the one who creates it is nothing short of injustice.
There have been calls to dedicate days to farmers, to honour them symbolically with speeches and events. But what meaning do such observances hold when the farmer’s everyday reality is defined by hunger, humiliation, and hardship? Declaring Karshaka Dinam has no value if farmers remain trapped in poverty. Unless the farmer’s life improves, every such declaration will be nothing more than empty words. That is why today cannot, in good conscience, be called Farmers’ Day. It is, in truth, Farmers’ Tears Day.
If society truly wishes to honour the farmer, then change must begin with policy and practice. Farmers need guaranteed support prices that cover not only production costs but also provide fair profit. They require timely compensation for crop losses, streamlined loan waivers in times of crisis, and protection from the trauma of confiscation. Investment in agricultural infrastructure, storage, and marketing must replace dependence on exploitative middlemen. Above all, farmers deserve respect not as charity cases, but as the creators of wealth and culture.
The beginning of the Malayalam year is not just a cultural milestone; it is a mirror held up to society. What we see in that mirror is not prosperity, but neglect. If Kerala truly wishes to remain proud of its traditions, it must begin by protecting those who sustain those very traditions the farmers. Their tears are not theirs alone; they are a collective failure of society, government, and conscience. Until their pain is addressed, every celebration will remain hollow, every festival a façade, and every New Year a reminder of betrayal.
As Chingam dawns, let us not fool ourselves with the illusion of abundance. Let us acknowledge the truth: today is not Farmers’ Day. It is Farmers’ Tears Day. And it will remain so until justice is done to the very people who make life possible.