Faking News got this letter from untrustworthy sources with a claim that it is a love letter written by Rahul Gandhi to Indian farmers. Faking News cannot vouch for the authenticity of the claim and is representing the letter for readers to judge.
Dear Farmer of India,
I love you.
I care for you, I worry for you. I fret about you wherever I am, in whichever part of the world.
I know you are very poor, almost in the state of beggary, own a very small piece of land, probably smaller than my lawn, producing less than what you need to feed you and your family, living in a crumbling hut in a village with an unpronounceable name. See how much I know about you?
When you work in your fields day and night, when you put yourself in place of the bullocks that you can’t afford, for ploughing your field and you can’t even imagine buying a tractor in your wildest dreams, when you face severe hardships day in and day out, I lose sleep over your condition and the comfortable bed of the Barcelona hotel too does not help.
My concern for you goes up knowing that you depend on the monsoon and then, it fails you. When your fields become parched and arid, unable to produce a grain of rice, when you see your children sleep hungry day after day and your debt mounts, bringing menacing lenders at your door to impound your fields, believe me, even the wine glass in my hand does not taste as it would, normally.
Worried stiff about the farmer, but in love
When the unseasonal rains come, when the hailstorm flattens the standing crop, when you curse the lords and grieve over your calamitous loss, when the government issues compensation cheque whose worth won’t buy even a piece of bread or a single morsel of rice anywhere, when you balefully look at the destroyed crop on one side and the joke that the government has played on you in your hand, I grieve for you and even the hundred dollar caviar loses its taste.
When you are forced to work as hired labor because your field is unable to produce anything, when you dig and fill holes, within or around your village, when you get work only for 5 -10 days in a month, when half of the wages are taken away by the Sarpanch or the BDO as bribe I get so anguished that even the sights of Patpong lose their charm.
When your children do not go to school as there is no school, when the sick, loved ones lose their life before reaching the hospital, as there is no hospital, or after reaching there if there is one, as there are no doctors, or medicines or when the quacks experiment with your loved ones, the bottle of BlingH2O too feels adulterated.
When the women of the house go out at night as there are no toilets at home or village, when they are molested or raped, when the cops ask questions about your caste, religion and social standing before acting against the culprits, I get pained. In that terrible moment, even the hammock on the Maracaibo Bay beach hurts, like a bed of nails!
When you take the last resort of committing suicide, my heart cries out and I am the first one to visit you (or Late you) and offer my sympathies. I even declare you as martyr and name the farmer welfare schemes after your name as a proof of being your well wisher.
I am sure you appreciate that as long as you stay poor, as long as your crop keeps getting devastated, as long as you stay heavily indebted, as long as you keep committing suicide, my worry, my concern, the pain I feel for you, remains, as has been the case for last sixty years.
This penury, the destitution, the hardships and the deprivation are the forces of attraction which pull me towards you. They bring us close, make us compatible.
Please do not let this force of attraction, this magical bond between us vanish or fade.