The NCRB counts only those deaths registered as "suicide" with farming as the profession, missing the slow poison of debt and shame that doesn't always show on paper. It misses the woman who swallows pesticide after the pepper vines fail, because her land is in her husband's name. In my *tukri* of seedlings, I see the hope that keeps most of us here—our ginger, tapioca, and little rice plot mean one crop's failure isn't the final word. The data counts the final, silent act, but not the decades of loud struggle before it.
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