In any food crisis, it is the top of the food chain that suffers

Host: The sky was a bruised grey over the farmlands of Punjab, the kind of light that made everything look tired, even the earth itself. The fields, usually lush and proud, lay in silent surrender — patches of dry soil, bent stalks, and dust dancing in the wind. A single tractor sat abandoned by the roadside, its paint peeling, its engine long dead.

Jack and Jeeny stood at the edge of the field, boots pressed into cracked mud, their faces set against the gusting wind that carried the faint smell of burnt straw.

From a distance, the faint echo of a protest — voices, drums, horns — rolled like distant thunder.

Jeeny: “Prashant Bhushan once said, ‘In any food crisis, it is the top of the food chain that suffers the most. In the case of farmer’s distress, the top of the food chain is us — the end consumer.’ Do you agree with that, Jack?”

Jack: “I get his point. But honestly, I think that’s a little too neat. When farmers suffer, it’s the farmers who break first — not us. They lose their land, their lives, their hope. We lose a little convenience, a few rupees more on vegetables. That’s not equality in pain.”

Host: The wind rattled through the barren stalks, a dry sound — like paper being torn. A crow called from a distant electric wire, its cry cutting through the heavy silence.

Jeeny: “You’re looking at it literally. Bhushan wasn’t saying we hurt first — he meant that, in the long run, when the roots rot, the entire tree dies. Farmers are the roots, Jack. We’re the leaves. The moment their despair deepens, our survival becomes borrowed time.”

Jack: “And yet, most people in cities have no idea where their food comes from. They think tomatoes grow in supermarkets and rice comes from packets. The chain’s broken — not just economically, but emotionally.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the tragedy. We’ve become so insulated by our consumption that we can’t feel the pulse of the land anymore. And when that pulse weakens, we won’t even recognize the death until it’s on our plates.”

Host: Jack bent down, picked up a handful of dust, and let it slip through his fingers. The wind carried it away, scattering it like forgotten names.

Jack: “You talk like the land has a soul.”

Jeeny: “It does. You just stopped listening to it.”

Host: The light shifted, a cold sunbeam cutting through the clouds, glinting off a small irrigation canal that trickled weakly nearby. The water was brown, shallow, defeated.

Jeeny: “You know, the irony is that the more the farmers suffer, the more dependent we become on industrial systems — chemical farming, corporate control, imported grain. It’s a slow erosion of independence. We think we’re safe because food is still on our shelves, but that’s an illusion.”

Jack: “That’s global economics for you. Efficiency replaces humanity. We get what we want faster, cheaper, prettier — and somewhere, someone pays the real price.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every cheap tomato has a cost hidden in someone’s tears. Every packet of rice carries the weight of someone’s drought.”

Host: A small truck passed on the road behind them, kicking up dust, its bed filled with sacks of grain — men sitting atop them, their faces blank, eyes glazed with fatigue. Jeeny watched them go, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jeeny: “Did you know, in 2023, over 10,000 farmers in India took their own lives? And yet we still scroll past their stories like they’re statistics. What does it say about us, the top of the food chain, if we don’t even flinch?”

Jack: “It says we’ve gotten used to comfort anesthetizing conscience. When the crisis isn’t visible, it’s easy to pretend it’s not real. The food still arrives, the shelves stay full — until one day they don’t.”

Jeeny: “And that day is coming faster than we think.”

Host: The air grew heavier, a storm beginning to muster somewhere far beyond the fields. The smell of rain — petrichor mixed with despair — rose like an omen.

Jack: “You really think it’ll hit us that hard? That cities will feel the collapse?”

Jeeny: “When the soil dies, everything dies. Look at history. The Dust Bowl in America — farmers overworked the land, the sky turned black, and suddenly millions in the cities went hungry. It’s always the same pattern: greed first, blindness second, starvation third.”

Jack: “And you think we’re heading there again?”

Jeeny: “No. We’re already there — we just have credit cards and grocery apps to hide it.”

Host: Jack laughed bitterly, a short, dry sound that dissolved into the wind. His eyes wandered to a distant farmhouse, its roof half-collapsed, a single window still glowing faintly with the weak light of a lantern.

Jack: “So what are we supposed to do? Grow our own food? Start a commune?”

Jeeny: “Maybe just start by caring. By asking questions about where our food comes from. By supporting the ones who still dare to grow it. The farmers aren’t charity cases — they’re custodians of life. We should treat them like that.”

Jack: “And yet we bargain with them over a rupee in the market, while paying five hundred for coffee.”

Jeeny: “That’s the sickness of comfort. It blinds empathy. Bhushan was right — the top of the food chain will suffer the most because when collapse comes, it will be moral before it is material. We’ll have food, but no humility left to share it.”

Host: The first raindrop fell, darkening the dust at their feet. Then another. Soon, the sky opened, and the rain poured — not refreshing, but heavy, punishing. The earth drank, greedily and painfully. Jack and Jeeny didn’t move.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my grandfather used to tell me the soil remembers kindness. That if you give it love, it gives back tenfold. But if you take too much, it turns to stone.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what’s happening now. The soil’s remembering.”

Host: The rain hit harder, running down their faces, mixing with the mud, washing over their boots. The fields seemed to stir again, coming alive under the storm — a wounded thing remembering it could breathe.

Jeeny: “Do you see it now, Jack? The chain isn’t just about food. It’s about responsibility. The farmer’s distress is the mirror of our disconnection. We’re not the top of the chain — we’re just the last link holding on.”

Jack: “And if the chain breaks?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we finally learn hunger — not of the body, but of the soul.”

Host: The rain slowed, tapering into a soft drizzle. The clouds parted, revealing a pale strip of gold on the horizon. The fields glistened, scarred yet still breathing. Jack looked at Jeeny — her hair wet, her eyes lit with fierce, trembling faith.

Jack: “Maybe Bhushan’s right. Maybe we are the top of the food chain — but that just means we’re the first to fall when the foundation crumbles.”

Jeeny: “Then let’s start rebuilding from the roots.”

Host: The camera of the world would have pulled back then — two silhouettes standing amid the recovering fields, surrounded by earth, rain, and the quiet echo of truth.

Above them, the storm drifted away, leaving behind the scent of soil that had remembered mercy — and a whispered reminder carried on the wind:

what feeds you is what you must protect.