JUST BE!

Fruits Of Afforestation

2012-12-10T11:43:00.000+05:30

Adivasis in southern Madhya Pradesh see salvation from malnutrition in a drive to plant fruit trees (This article first appeared in the Down To Earth magazine dated December 10, 2012)

On December 8 last year, drumbeats sounded from deep inside the forests of Umberdoh in Betul, Madhya Pradesh. People had assembled there from far away villages, many having travelled for nearly 12 hours. The sun gave way to a full moon, the wintry winds began to blow and people huddled around a fire while songs of freedom from oppression began to echo. Rapt attention was paid to details and testimonies were presented of a new process that promised salvation from chronic malnutrition, while ensuring a robust livelihood.

A year since, and many more meetings later in other villages in Betul, the idea of planting fruit tree saplings is slowly taking root among the Korku and Gond adivasis of southern Madhya Pradesh

Two grassroots organisations, Shramik Adivasi Sangathan (SAS) and Samajwadi Jan Parishad (SJP), have kick started this afforestation drive. Aimed at addressing the decreasing forest cover in Madhya Pradesh—the state accounts for more than one-third of the forestland diverted from the country since 1981—this process has already found acceptance among villages in Chincholi and Ghodadongri blocks of Betul.

SAS began the campaign for fruit sapling plantation on July 1, 2011, when the Hari Jiroti festival to welcome the monsoon and celebrate the sprouting of new crop was being observed in the region. Faldaar paudhe lagaayenge, bhukhmari mitaayenge (through fruit sapling plantation, we will eradicate malnutrition) and Purkhon se naata jodenge, jungle-zameen nahi chodenge (we'll establish links with our ancestors, we won't leave our land and forests) were the slogans raised on that day.

People from near and far off villages assembled at the December 8 meeting. They paid rapt attention to details and testimonies of how planting fruit trees promised salvation from chronic malnutrition (Credit: Priyanka Borpujari)

“We requested for 50,000 fruit tree saplings from the district authorities, but received none. But that did not deter us,” says Anurag Modi of SAS, who has been working in the region for almost two decades. Modi claims that so far, 20,000 saplings of fruits like Indian gooseberry (amla), jamun, mango, guava and custard apple have been planted in the forests, close to water bodies.

Study in contrast
Giving back the responsibility of maintaining the forest cover to adivasis, and thereby ensuring their access to what could possibly provide them with the nutrition they lack, is in stark contrast with the Green India Mission-2011 of the Union Ministry of Environment and Forests (MoEF). The mission's objective is increase of forest cover on 10 million hectares of land by year 2020. The total cost of the mission has been projected at Rs 46,000 crore over 10 years.

The ministry's projects are all heavy on funds. In fact, Rs 871.25 crore has already been allocated by Madhya Pradesh towards compensatory afforestation, as on June 30, 2011, according a statement of the minister of state for environment and forests, Jayanthi Natarajan, made in the Lok Sabha. Natarajan also stated that 176.54 million trees had been planted on public and forestland in the state in the past three years. In a separate correspondence between the office of the principal chief conservator of forests (development), Madhya Pradesh, and the CEO of ad-hoc Compensatory Afforestation and Fund Management and Planning Authority (CAMPA) of MoEF, dated March 18, 2010, an annual plan of operation for the utilisation of the amount of NPV (net present value) from the afforestation fund was submitted. In that proposal of a financial requirement of Rs 17236.29 lakh, a significant amount had been quoted for the conservation of wildlife and protection of forests, which includes building patrolling and forest chowkis, purchase of wireless equipment, utility and range-level patrolling vehicles, firearms and promotion of energy-saving devices.

“Why do we need such a large budget to protect forests with firearms and fences, when adivasis have been taking care of forests for generations?” asks Modi. “The government mostly promotes monoculture, and it wouldn't be wrong to say that trees it plants would be to ensure commercial gain in future, like teak or eucalyptus,” he adds.

Modi says that the government is wasting its time in trying to implement such schemes, which end up being huge scams. “Adivasis have survived on wild fruits for centuries. They understand best how their survival revolves around forests, and know how to take care of it,” he says.

During its campaign, which included a foot march to promote the need to reclaim government wastelands and a large meeting in December, 2011, SAS put emphasis on the adivasis' symbiotic relationship with fruit trees in forests. The announcement pamphlet circulated by SAS and SJP for the meeting urged people to bring symbols of their gods and goddesses to the venue in order to honour the deities. The pamphlet further explained how the British rule in India was responsible for systematically doing away with fruit trees from the forests and replacing them with teak plants; this practice continued well after Independence. “The livelihood from mango, jamun, mahua, cashew, jackfruit, tamarind on just an acre will ensure that the forest regenerates. The livelihood thus gained will be more than what could be derived from agriculture on 10 acres of land. Let's clear off the weeds of lantana to enrich the wastelands collectively,” says the pamphlet.

A conflict brews
During this meeting, workers of SAS, as well as residents of nearby Chirapatla village, described the place fruit trees have in the adivasi ethos of living. Some spoke of the need to protect the river by planting trees; others explained how saplings could be procured from SAS and SJP. Modi explained how people in Chunajoori village had developed their own system to keep a tab on the plantation. First, the people cleared the weeds. They then planted the saplings, dug a well and even developed a nursery. This is a significant way to protect those species of fruits that are disappearing. The people of Chunajoori are also maintaining a register for the attendance of people planting fruit saplings. Roughly 300 man days from the labour of 100 people have been decided by the village to be dedicated for this process.

Modi says that this process had begun sporadically in few villages, but the forest department officials destroyed the saplings. “They also demolished the well that was dug up especially for this plantation. Finally, another set of saplings were burnt down by the JFM (Joint Forest Management) Committee of another village at the department’s instigation. But we are reviving this process slowly,” he adds.

People in the forest department are sceptical. R B Sinha, who until recently was the Conservator of Forests, Madhya Pradesh, says that horticulture is not permitted in forestland. “As per the Forest Conservation Act of 1980, fruit trees cannot be grown over forest land.” The adivasis find this response ridiculous. “Fruit trees have always been growing in forests. We won't be planting any videshi (foreign) fruit trees here,” says an old man.

“About 30,000 children in Betul district are malnourished. Vision loss is a prominent condition among the children. Feeding them fruits from the trees you plant is the best way to provide nutrition to your children, without any additional cost. This is why the threats to keep away from forests have not deterred them from deciding their own fate. They do see hope in these fruit trees,” Modi says.

Priyanka Borpujari is an independent journalist, and is the IWMF (International Women's Media Foundation) Elizabeth Neuffer Fellow for 2012-2013

Defiance In The Ganges

2012-11-28T11:31:00.000+05:30

(This article first appeared in Waging Non-Violence on November 28, 2012)

Two women walk away from the Ganges river, carrying its water with them in the urns

Type “dalit” into Google News, and you will be flooded with gory reports from across India of women from this supposedly lower caste being raped and murdered, of men being hacked to death. In the northern state of Haryana alone, over two dozen dalit girls and women have been raped over the last month. There was a 16-year-old victim of gang rape who immolated herself; a woman who was gang raped at gunpoint in front of her three children; and another 16-year-old girl who was gang raped by eight men while four others recorded it and circulated the video, after which her father committed suicide.

The National Crime Records Bureau reports that every day three dalit women are raped, two dalits are murdered, 11 are beaten and two homes are burned down. Yet in the face of such persistent hatred, dalits continue to assert their humanity. Rallies are often held and lawsuits are routinely filed. But it isn’t clear whether these efforts have triggered the kind of empathy needed to shift Indian culture toward recognizing dalits as equals. That is why dalits in the eastern state of Bihar have begun to try something different.

In February 2011, 1,001 dalit women from the Dom community walked through the town of Parbatta, carrying pails of water from the pious river of Ganga (or Ganges). In symbolic fashion, they were taking claim of the river from those who had dominated and oppressed them.

The Ganga Kalash Yatra, as it was called — kalash meaning earthen urn and yatra meaning rally — was the third annual such event in Bihar’s Khagaria district, one of the most deprived districts in the entire state. Dalits comprise about 70 percent of the population. But with unequal land holding patterns on top of the caste system’s social oppression, the options for employment are limited. Many work as farm laborers — where they are exploited in the fields with low wages for strenuous work — while others migrate to cities for rudimentary jobs. Often, women bear the worst consequences; being abducted by feudal lords is commonplace.

Traditionally, Doms never had any land holdings, and thereby no income of their own. They were forced to do important jobs that no one else would take up — cremating dead bodies, cleaning the toilets of the people in the village and managing the dead bodies of animals. Like other lower caste communities, they were prevented from having a relationship with the Ganges. For whatever religious needs that were to be met, they could only access a tributary of the river. Every such symbol of oppression had to be reclaimed. And this is what the Yatra aimed to do, says Sanjeev, a longtime supporter of the Dom community, who has been instrumental in galvanizing the momentum behind their revolt.

From riches to rags
Sanjeev’s story in itself is nothing short of a utopian tale. Until 2004, he was leading an urban life in the Indian capital of New Delhi. He had at one point been a runway model before working as a marketing executive. The death of a relative in 2004 brought him to Khagaria, the place where his parents are from. After the customary rituals and dinner, he stepped outside where he was shocked to see a man fighting with a dog over food thrown into the garbage pile. He went back inside and asked his relatives to get a plate of food for the man, and to invite him into their home. But his request to help this Dom man was met with ridicule.

Later, during that same trip, he was shocked to see what he had only heard in stories — people from the same community were not allowed to take water from the hand pump that was situated in the upper caste area. He began to think about the idea of equality as he went back to his comfortable life in New Delhi. Months later, he returned to Khagaria without a round-trip ticket or a plan.

Not knowing where to begin, but observing the obviously unsanitary conditions, he began bathing the Dom children, one by one, near a hand-pump. People watched in disbelief and doubt. Then he walked around, talking to people and asking women if they would like to read and write. Soon, a ramshackle hut of twigs and mud became a classroom. His students were women, who hid their faces behind veils. This made the men suspicious and they burnt down the hut. But within in a few years, they were learning along with the women.

The community then formed Bahishkrit Hitkari Sangathan (BHS; Organization for the the Benefit of the Untouchables) in 2006 and with that the upper castes began to face challenges in their habitual domination of the dalits. Some responded with violence. Sanjeev was forced to leave Khagaria after his cousin was murdered in an attempt to intimidate Sanjeev and stop him from doing his work. Guerrilla Maoists, who have a certain influence in the region, also began to feel threatened that the young boys of the lower castes would no more be inclined to join their ranks to fight against the oppressive system.

Nevertheless, BHS continued to thrive, with membership growing to over 10,000 people. It soon launched a campaign to stop the Doms from having to eat leftover food from the garbage. Meanwhile, the education work continued, and some of the Dom children were enrolled in schools — many for the first time in their families’ history. But once again, these changes were met with resistance. Parents from the upper caste protested the demographic mixing in schools and some teachers even neglected the Dom students.

“People feared that if these children were educated and then employed at better jobs, it would not be possible to practice untouchability, which would signal the end of their own dominance in the society,” Sanjeev explained.

This didn’t stop BHS. In fact, they started to receive some funding and established a core team of 12 organizers, including six women. Yet, something bigger was still needed. There was a need felt to assert the Dom identity, while also reclaiming universal symbols and resources, like the Ganges, which had come to be an instrument of oppression. Through meetings and brainstorming sessions, the idea of the Ganga Kalash Yatra was born. February was decided upon as the time for the Yatra because that was when the women had less work in the fields; summers would have been too difficult for a rally.

Down by the riverside
While attending the Yatra in 2011, it was remarkable to see women from far off districts and villages travel to Parbatta in the biting cold of the winter. They chipped in small amounts of money to collectively hire a tractor, that would take them to the Yatra. In the first year, 175 women participated, but about 400 did in 2010. I was told that the process had been the same each year: They had managed to take leave from their chores at home and participate in a celebration of their identity as women and equal human beings. Among them were Muslim women, who face religious subjugation and fall under the category of Other Backward Classes.

For a month prior to the Yatra, women from the Kumbhakar caste — kumbhakar means potter — were making urns to be used by the women. Other logistical arrangements included buying fruits and packing them in plastic bags. Tents had to be erected at an assembly ground; microphones and loudspeakers also had to set up. Sanjeev said, “This time, we are having someone from the Dom community to preside over the function, and he will sit next to a politician who we have invited. This will give out the signal that the Doms are now capable of taking the lead for themselves, rather than having politicians decide for them.”

The night before the Yatra, women had taken shelter in a small hall. In one corner, lentils, rice and vegetables were being cooked for everyone. As the temperature dropped that night, and the lights went out, lamps emerged and songs were sung by the women. Soon, only the crickets were heard, for everyone had to be up by 4 a.m. to get to the banks of the Ganges.

Even before the sun was up, the women grabbed their bag of clean clothes and jumped into tractors to head to the river bank. Many trips were made by the tractors and a few jeeps. At the river bank, the women began to bathe; adolescent girls frolicked in the water. As the sun came up, the women carried water into the urns; some women applied vermilion on their foreheads and wore red-and-golden bands — just like the upper caste women would do on a pilgrimage.

By 8 a.m., the women began to walk back to Parbatta. In two straight lines, with the urns on their heads, they headed to the meeting ground four miles away. A few jeeps with BHS banners glided between the moving queues; loudspeakers shouted slogans of empowerment. The town of Parbatta watched the rally go by. They had seen it in the previous years, but this one was larger. People stood in their balcony to watch the once-oppressed walk in stride, carrying the symbolic river waters.

By noon, everyone had placed their urns at a specified location, and sat under a huge canopy. An oil lamp was lit, and a series of speeches followed by the visiting politician and the chosen president of the ceremony. Women broke their fast by eating the fruits and later, a cooked meal. The space and opportunity was used to convey people’s grievances to the representatives of the local administration. On the fringes of the meeting ground were small booths that gave out information about various government schemes, including those related to health, nursery for children, housing and employment.

By 4 p.m., the ceremony was over. Women rested or walked around. But the air continued to be filled with remnants of the sociological process: priests were hired to chant ‘Sita Ram’ for 24 hours, continuously, without a single break. They began at 4 p.m. that day, and continued through the night, in different tones, until the next evening.

At about the same time, the women took the pots and returned to the riverside once again. They threw the pots into the river, and collectively took a vow that they would not let themselves be oppressed in the year ahead.

“What I am trying to do is to get the Dom to realize that nothing is owned just by the upper caste — neither the river, nor the rituals,” Sanjeev explained. “But this process is just one small yet significant step towards making the Doms heard. They have been suppressed for centuries. The government has so many programs for the lower castes, but has that changed the mindset of the oppressor?”

The work that remains
Although the Yatra did not take place in 2012 due to a paucity of funds, many want it to return. As Sanjeev told me over the phone recently, “They want it as a chance to get together, have some fun, and feel their own strength.”

In the meantime, Sanjeev is focusing on getting the government to allocate homes and arable land to the Doms by getting the children involved. They have been making demands of the government for arable land, so that their fathers have work, which would thereby enable them to go to school.

“They [the Doms] will have to stand up on their own and bring about the real change,” said Sanjeev. “I’m just a cog in the wheel.”

Members of Bahishkrit Hitkari Sangathan carry a sign that says,

“Towards A New Horizon.”

Dignity In A Bag

2012-07-28T10:56:00.000+05:30

(This article first appeared in The Hindu on July 28, 2012)

Can do with a little help: Bebitai Mohite on the job.

A paper bag is all it takes, proves a Pune organisation, to ensure that waste pickers won’t have to lay their bare hands on soiled discards.

Everyday, Bebitai Mohite sifts through garbage bins of about 100 homes of Pune, segregating waste. She often injures her hand from pins and glass pieces. But the worst form of waste, 48-year-old Bebitai says, are “sanitary napkins and diapers”. Her hands often dip into a rotten wet discard of red or brown.

Among the new forms of waste today are the non-biodegradable sanitary napkins. More urban women are using hi-fibre sanitary napkins, even as rural India still uses cloth. The muslin nappy for babies has been replaced by thick diapers. More adults today suffer from incontinence, thus increasing the usage of adult diapers. None of these are biomedical waste, yet, are toxic.

In an attempt to reduce these encounters with putrid filth, a square paper bag made from newspaper has been designed for the disposal of sanitary napkins. It has a sticker that announces its purpose; waste pickers thus need not unwrap it to see if it contains anything that could be sold. In 2009, a local organisation SWaCH (Solid Waste Collection and Handling) developed the bag, in consultation with its 1,867 members. SWaCH provides door-to-door waste management across three lakh Pune households. Aging or pregnant waste pickers, or women from slums, were taught to make the bags. A yellow sticker with text in Hindi and English was pasted. Each bag is sold for Rs. 1, and only packs of 50 are sold.

A string originally meant to fasten the bag has now been replaced by an adhesive peel-off strip. A new origami fold makes the bag sturdier. There is a pink sticker instead of the yellow, bearing the universal symbol representing women. And women from the middle class are “thanking” waste pickers through these bags.

Worth it

“The most expensive sanitary napkin costs Rs. 8. We can surely spend another rupee for its safe and clean disposal,” says Smita Rajabali, who has convinced several women in her 154-home housing society to buy these bags. Smita says that during a festive exchange-gift event at her yoga class, the male participants insisted on taking the bags for the women in their homes.

Aarti Patil, Principal of Vidyanchal School, has made it mandatory for female students and staff to use them. “Students should understand that we owe everything to the environment and the society. We have been segregating the waste in the school anyway. Students have observed how waste pickers work, and hence there was no need to explain about the bags. The staff readily agreed to using it,” says Patil.

Similarly, Charuta Mahabale gifts these bags to women during haldi kumkum. “Most women are happy to learn about these bags. But some worry about their family’s reaction when these bags are taken home from a religious gathering,” she laughs.

Far away from Charuta’s high-rise apartment, Layla Pathan and her daughter-in-law Shaheen make these bags in their slum dwelling. It takes them 10 minutes to fold one, and Layla sometimes makes 100 bags through the day. They earn Rs. 25 from SWaCH for every 100 bags. “This bag is a good idea but it is strenuous to make them. It would be nice if we are paid Rs. 40 for every 100 bags,” says Shaheen. Both the women are illiterate. They feel the stickers on the bags are pointless.

“Almost every waste picker is illiterate. How will he know what this bag is for? Even if he can read, he has no time. It is easier to tear apart the bag and see if its content can be sold as scrap,” says Layla.

What, then, would work? “There should be an image of the sanitary napkin on the sticker,” says Layla. Agrees Sangita Jadhav of SWaCH. She travels by crowded buses daily to deliver about 500 ordered bags. She knows best what it means to sell something that hasn’t been promoted. “Customers often tell me that the bags need to be marketed well. We need a better sticker to communicate with the waste picker,” she says. Only the members of SWaCH, and the 8,000 members of KKPKP (Kagad Kach Patra Kashtakari Panchayat) — the association of waste pickers through which SWaCH was formed — are aware of the bag. The rest of the city’s waste pickers would still possibly unwrap them.

Better marketing needed

Maitreyi Shankar, business development manager at SWaCH, who has seen the evolution of the bag, says the door-to-door supply isn’t cost effective. Bulk purchase is a solution. So far, just one office of a software company has bought these bags. “I have been speaking to officials at Kimberley Clark Lever to include these bags with their sanitary napkins, as part of their extended product responsibility. But these things take time to materialise,” she says. There are about 1.5 lakh bags waiting to be sold, halting further production. “I haven't received the materials to make the bags for a while now. Even if the pay is low, it still provides me with some money,” says Layla.

But Bebitai is optimistic that the residents of the housing complex where she works would readily purchase the bag, if a SWaCH representative were to formally introduce it to them. “Even though some women never wrap their napkins despite repeated requests, I think we should talk to them as equals — as one woman clearing off the trash of another,” says the polite lady, who has also visited Copenhagen to attend the 16th United Nations Climate Change Conference (COP16).

Smita has an Utopian idea. “Shouldn’t such an eco-friendly sanitary napkin become the reason for competition among manufacturers? The napkins were developed for the comfort of women; these bags are for the comfort and dignity of those women who handle our soiled napkins.”

'Not Human Inside The Jail': Shamim Modi

2012-06-07T14:40:00.000+05:30

Shamim Modi is an assistant professor at Tata Institute of Social Sciences (TISS), and is also an activist working in Harda, Betul and Khandwa districts of Madhya Pradesh. She was arrested on February 9, 2009. She narrates her 23 days spent in jail, explaining how basic needs are not met and humiliations are part of almost each passing day. She strongly believes that there is a lot that Soni Sori would like to speak about, about the way she is being (ill)treated in jail in Chhattisgarh.

Modi's narrative is essential because it tells us about the ways in which jails attempt to kill the inmates' every shred of human emotions, as has been visible with the way Soni Sori is being tortured.

Here is the complete transcript of Shamim's words:

My name is Shamim Modi. I am associated with Shramik Adivasi Sangathan and Samajwadi Jan Parishad, working in the districts of Betul, Harda and Khandwa districts of Madhya Pradesh since the last 18-19 years, for the. We work for rights of people, mostly adivasis. I can understand and feel all that is being discussed today about the way Soni Sori is being treated in jail, because even I was implicated in several false cases fabricated by the Madhya Pradesh government. They shifted me from Harda jail to Hoshangabad jail, because they knew that since I was popular in Harda, they wouldn't be able to harass me the way they preferred. I can empathise with Soni Sori because I faced similar harassment and torture at Hoshangabad jail. There is constant humiliation and if they decide, they can ensure torture every minute.

They would sometimes hang an inmate upside down, or not allow her to sit down. Strip search is very common, in case one is carrying a pen. They consider the pen to be such an ammunition! The police personnel wouldn't do anything by themselves, but would give utmost freedom to other inmates and convicts with the simple words, "Straighten her". And going by my experience of how they tried to "straighten me", I can well imagine what they must be doing to Soni Sori.

They are very creative about finding new ways and methods of humiliation. They would tell something like, the inmate needs to be taken outside the jail for a pregnancy test. I told the jailer to just do a urine test; what's the need for a test through intrusive methods? But they wouldn't agree, stating that this was not the rule. I later learnt that the police personnel at the jail feel that once outside the jail, the inmates are not their responsibility and they are free to do anything under which they cannot be held liable; whereas the truth is that under jail custody, the inmates' well-being is completely the responsibility of the jail staff. So they took around 8 women together and I was with the group too. People in the area had known about my arrest and so they were quite inquisitive about it. Yet, they took us to the OPD which only had sliding doors and windows and no curtains, and we were examined in a gynecological manner. When we protested, the guards were called in to strip us. And we were stripped.

One of the biggest issues is that the general public doesn't know that even the jail inmates have certain rights. Because they are not aware, they think that the inmate being ill-treatment is something that he/she deserves. This makes it very difficult to mobilise support from the general public for the rights of jail inmates.

I have been part of people's movement since so many years now and that does toughen up people like us. We are prepared for anything. Then all we have to do is just console our own selves when the torture begins. It begins with not allowing us to meet our visitors or that we will be charged under the National Security Act. We have to explain why certain things are published in the media. How am I supposed to know how were newspapers publishing their articles? But they still demanded an explanation as to how did the news "leak" that I was being tortured inside the jail. There was also a tendency to feel that if our colleagues/compatriots were doing something outside, I would be made answerable to it within the jail.

There were women in the jail accused of chain snatching. There were adivasi women who had made a small hut but arrested for occupying the forest and her jail custody extended repeatedly. These women cannot voice their concerns when they are in jail. Once they are out, they still do not want to talk. Tell me, how many women who would be released from the jail would want to fight for against the ill-treatment meted out to jail inmates and to ensure their rights? It seemed tough to get the women inside the jail to feel strong and demand their rights. Outside, people were not being mobilised because they do not know and cannot see what is happening inside the jail. The police tortures people in public view. Just imagine what they are capable of doing behind the closed doors of the jail! Despite public criticism, one cannot really deter them from what they want to do.

I encouraged the women to speak up and give their testimonies on the ill-treatment being meted out to them, and they did so too. I was suggesting to them that when they would be produced in the court after 15 days, they could put forth their views. But the moment they reached the jail, the guards threatened them saying that I would be left off soon and then the rest of the women would have to fend for themselves with them (the jail personnel).

There was a 55-year-old woman inside the jail who was mentally disturbed and felt guilty about her crime. In the middle of the night, the other jail inmates would get her to stand up and then strip her naked. It was so humiliating for me to even see this. I told the jailer that since I am a clinical psychologist, I can see that the woman was mentally disturbed and that she needs medical help. The jailer, "Give her two rough slaps and she will be fine." This is the only way in which women jail inmates are treated. The first step towards punishing a woman inmate is to strip her, which is why women keep mum inside. There is not a shred of human rights inside the jail; you are not allowed to feel human. And anything can be possible.

Some people say that all the noise about the way Soni Sori is being tortured is exaggeration. I don't feel it is an exaggeration; I believe it is being "under-reported". She would be going through much more, and there would be things which she wouldn't be able to tell. I know what could be possibly happening to her.

Later the women inmates told me, that as soon as I had entered the jail, they had got orders from outside to "straighten" me. Those who are given the mandate to do this pour out all their pain and agony and emotions on that new inmate who has to be "straightened". So if you want to survive in the jail, then there is just one way in which you can survive in the jail: disconnect your body entirely from your emotions. You have to forget all your socialisation processes, else you won't be able to survive.

I have been to the jail several times; but that was with about 50-100 people, during protest movements. But that is a completely different scenario, because then you are kept in custody in a group for just a day or two, in a large hall. So that doesn't really explain well about all that goes on inside the jail, and they are very deft at hiding that reality. So even when I was in jail custody by myself, and if there were inspectors coming in, then every such thing would be hidden away which shouldn't be there in the first place. Now I realise that the inspectors would not be able to detect anything because they don't know where to look.

Rotis are dried so that they can be used as fuel to light the stove. Plates are somehow bent so that food can be cooked in them, and the jailer is well aware of all this.

Other than stripping naked, there are other ways of torture. They will show a tiny dark room which hasn't been cleaned and infested with insects. They threaten to pour jaggery water over the naked body and leave the inmate in the room naked, through the night.

The stress hence builds up over a period of time. Circumstances are such that one is not even told about the charges under which the jail custody has been granted. I was told constantly that I would be slapped with the charges under the National Security Act and nobody could me without the permission of the District Collector. This means we really do not know what is happening outside.

My son was suffering from jaundice and I was yearning for at least some news. It is not that people cannot visit or meet under-trials, but I was told that upon the orders od politicians, I should not be allowed to meet anyone. In fact, the jailer also told me that his own phone was tapped. So even if he got me to speak to my ill son, a minister would get to know about it and that would be bad.

My bail plea was rejected because of the cases under which I had been arrested -- dacoity, loot, kidnapping, kidnapping with the intention to murder. I was sure that I would be out on bail because they were all evidently false and frivolous cases. I mean, how could I possibly commit dacoity? But somehow, the local court was managed and my bail plea was rejected. When they shifted me overnight, that's when I understood that they had the malafide intention of harassing me in jail.

Rats run all over the body, nibble on the feet. In the morning if there are blood stains on the floor, then all the inmates check each others' feet to see whom did the rat bite the previous night. There are electricity cuts of about 16 hours in Hoshangabad. So when we are eating food in the dark, rats woul come to the plate, snatch the roti and walk away, while we would just watch. What does one do?

Harda jail is infested with rats. We would sleep with a sheet over us and the limbs of rats would get entangled in the hair -- there is nothing that can be done. We told the jailer to do something about the rats. He replied, "This is a jail madam; not a five-star hotel." I asked him to show the jail manual, stating that if it mentions that inmates should be bitten by rats, then we would agree to what he says. I told him to at least give us mosquito nets. If not for the mosquitoes, then at least it would keep the rats away. But they said that the nets were not allowed too; if the politicians got to know that we were being given nets then their jobs would be at risk. So we slept through the nights that way. I was really afraid of rats then -- I do not fear them now, after having been desensitised for the 23 days inside the jail.

When in Harda jail, cops came in 2 vehicles in the middle of the night and took me away. I asked them for the time and where were they taking me; they asked me to keep mum and walk with them. I ws convinced that they would kill me in a fake encounter because of these discreet ways. Somehow I found some piece of paper; I always hid a pn with me. I scribbled, "I don't know where am I being taken"; signed it and dropped it on the road when the vehicle began to move, hoping that at least it would reach somebody and it would be read. Later I got to know they were taking me to Hoshangabad jail (about 90 kms away) and there they instructed the inmates to "straighten" me. They would search bags and the body outside, and then check again inside.

But inside, it was a different story. Of the 32 inmates, some of them would be scared, but there would be about 20 of them who were really cruel. They pour out their aggression against the system on the new inmate to be searched. One of them snatched the bag and overturned it. Everything -- sanitary towels, clothes, undergarments -- everything would be thrown away and would get soiled in the mud. Then 2-3 women would pounce on the clothes worn. Somebody would pull out the knot of the string of the salwar (pants); someone who put their hands inside the undergarments; someone would pull out the kurta. They can do anything. I asked them back if this was the way that they conduct search. They would reply that the CO (convict officer) would explain how searches are done, who would order, "Go get a baton and strip her naked and show her how searches are conducted inside the jail." Then I felt that it was strategically best to stay quiet. Until when can one fight? And if the inmates themselves collect themselves together, then there is hope. But I would scream out and say that I had spent my entire life for people like them, fighting for their rights, so please do not behave with me like this. But at that point of time they are consumed by some kind of force whereby they cannot listen to anything.

I also felt that when an under-trial comes in and later leaves the jail, the other inmates are made to keep that under-trial's belonging. One reason for this is that they know that the person will get released, so that translates into some sort of an anger. The other factor is that they want to know what things is the inmate carrying, which they can order her to leave behind later. They also might be feeling that educated women would be carrying some cash which they could keep to themselves. Some do this to command their own authority. For 2-3 days I was very stressed. As an activist, we are ready for everything; even dying. But a humiliation of this kind, every day, every hour -- "Sit down", and then moments later, "Why did you sit, woman? Stand up!" -- and the extremely rude, obscene language gets suffocating.

I was arrested suddenly, with cops entering my room forcefully and catching hold of me, without telling me the charges levied on me, not letting me to know about my child's well-being, no knowledge whether my husband and colleague has been arrested, what they could be doing to him if he has been arrested too.... all of this aggravated my health (I am hypertensive since the last 20 years). I began to develop chest pain and anxiety. I said that I needed to see a doctor. But they gave me a tablet of Sorbitrat to chew and assurance that this will be enough. If a doctor came by in the evening, then I could get a check-up. I was on medications for high blood pressure and I was bot able to take them. So when the doctor arrived in the evening, it was found that my pressure had shot higher and that it was fine by then. When I was produced in the court on the 15th day, I told the judge to instruct the jail personnel to provide me with pen, paper, reading material and my medicines.

I was hoping that no matter how many days, months, years I would be in the jail, I shouldn't fall ill. Thirty-five women sleep in the space meant for 15, and most of them have gynaecological problems. During periods, they are not given any cloth or sanitary towels. So whatever they can lay their hands on -- damp, dirty blankets, or any other rotten material -- they use that. Everybody suffers from vaginal white discharge. Some adivasi women from the villages wear the 9-yard saree. They use the same saree as a sanitary towel; they use one end of it and wash it and dry it, and then use the other end. So the same saree which they are wearing is being also used as a sanitary towel. The question of personal space doesn't even arise. There is just one toilet which doesn't have a door. The new inmates get the space next to the toilet; the "seniors" sleep in a corner away. Within that packed confines, where someone is suffering from diarrhoea or another is suffering from vaginal white discharge, we have to live. There is nobody to who would listen to the agony. We are not humans anymore. I think people who have been in the jail for long periods of time are convinced themselves that they are not humans.

Some people I know brought papayas for me later because they know I like it. But when it reached me, all I got was its pulp in a polythene bag. When I asked about it, I got the reply, "There could be arms and ammunition inside the papaya." They were constantly inventing new methods for harassment. I asked them how could arms and ammunition get inside a papaya? They replied that it had happened so once earlier! So why couldn't they just cut it and check its inside, inside of making its pulp with the hands? They do so, so that the inmate cannot eat it. Later I realised that the things that were being sent for me reached the jailer's house. They never reached me. This happens to all the inmates.

When I was produced in the court on the 15th day, I asked the judge that at least some good cloth should be provided for the women to using when they menstruate. But they did not do so. They brought sanitary towels worth Rs 500; nobody could use them because they had no undergarments to wear!

Everything is a big farce inside the jail and we should do something about it."

+++++++++++

'The Administration Is Nothing But Common Sense'

2012-05-24T18:47:00.001+05:30

The burnt tanker had been stationed at the Chauldhowa outpost since the day it was set on fire – on the evening of May 11. The Inspector In-Charge, Utpal Changmai, was known to be a kind, gentle officer who spoke to everyone with warmth. “But he unleashed such a terror on that night – we can't believe his kind words anymore,” echoed the voices of the people living close to the Subansiri bridge on NH 52.

The Chauldhowa police outpost of the Lakhimpur police is stationed on the NH 52, much before the Subansiri bridge. It has a large open space ahead of its concrete office. About three CRPF personnel sat chatting on the base of the flag post. In another corner, the Indian Oil tanker stood; its front covered with a yellow sheet of plastic. Invisible to any passerby on the highway, a tempo stood next to the tanker. It contained a few oil drums. Few sweaty, red-thin men wearing just the gamcha below their waist were transferring the oil from the tanker to the drums. Few cops kept a vigil. Changmai waited near a vehicle as I introduced myself to him and requested to speak to him. He suggested that I speak to his senior, who was present there too.

I introduced myself to Imdad Ali, Additional Superintendent of Police (Security), Lakhimpur District, stating that I was doing a series of stories on large dams (not a lie this). He said that there was nothing much to speak of. “We have nothing to do with the dam, and we have no idea about it. We are here only to maintain law and order,” he said. After a few moments of pleading, Changmai, Ali, another officer and I were seated in an office painted green. It had no racks with dusty files, or photographs of freedom fighters. The only accessories were a locked steel cupboard and curtains on the windows and the door. From the window, I could watch better the oil transfer in action.

Ali interviewed me for five minutes, taking down every detail – name, exact address of my permanent residence, place of origin, publication I worked for, the date when I arrived in the region, the place where I was staying in the vicinity, the person with whom I was staying, how I arrived at the police outpost (vehicle and with whom), the places I had visited so far and my phone number. Finally I asked if I could not interview him back. He did not permit me to interview him on video; only the SP is permitted to speak to the media.

Priyanka (P): What have the investigations so far on the tanker that was set on fire?

Ali: We have arrested 14 persons so far.

P: I heard that it was 21. So it is 14 or 21?

A: It is 21.

P: But hasn't one more person been arrested today?

Changmai: Yes.

P: So that makes it 22.

A: Yes.

(This conversation took place on May 17. So far, 26 people have been arrested.)

P: So what exactly happened?

A: This happened on May 11, about 100 metres away from here, in Thekeraguri.

P: Did this happen inside the village or...?

A: We cannot give you so much details. You will have to go and see yourself. All these details are part of our investigation.

P: All I am asking if for the distance...

A: It happened 200 metres away from the highway.

P: Have the arrests yielded any information yet?

A: The arrested have been given jail custody. We have got some information, but the investigations are on.

P: What did the vehicle contain?

A: It contained 12,000 litres of diesel.

P: Was it headed to NHPC's dam site?

C: Yes.

P: And was it taking the route of the left turn from Ghagor?

A: No, it was headed to Gogamukh Chari-ali (junction of four roads, or the town square), from where it would have taken the left turn to Gerukamukh.

P: But there wasn't any blast when it was set on fire...?

A: Actually, fortunately, the whole tanker did not catch fire. Only the front cabin got damaged. So there was no blast.

P: And the fire brigade...?

A: The fire brigade was called and they immediately put off the fire.

P: And how long did it take for the fire brigade to arrive?

A: About 15-20 minutes.

P: But the nearest fire brigade is in North Lakhimpur town, which is 35 kms away....

A: Why do you need so much details about how much time did the fire brigade take to arrive? We called the fire brigade, it came and the fire was put off.

P: I am asking so because there is a factor of distance and time...

C: The fire brigade arrived in 25-30 minutes.

P: So first you said 15 minutes, then 20 minutes, then 25 minutes, and now 30 minutes...

A: You seem to want too many details!

P: are you looking for more people?

C: (nods his head downwards to indicate a 'yes')

A: These are things we cannot reveal as our investigations are on.

P: I have also heard that a small boy was beaten...

A: No we did not beat a boy. Actually, when the tanker had caught fire, we had to demolish a camp that had been set up. Some of the organisations called for 48-hours' bandh in Lakhimpur and Dhemaji. These organisations used some teenagers to pelt stones at passing vehicles. On the next day, May 12, we caught him and brought him to the police station. His guardians were called and they took him home.

P: Who were his guardians?

A: His parents could not come. His maternal and paternal uncles came to take him.

P: But don't you think that the sections under which the arrested people have been charged are very stringent ones?

A: When A FIR is filed, the details of it are understood and based on those ingredients a case is made. If we find during the course of the investigation that some sections need to be added, we do so with the help of the chief judicial magistrate.

P: But why did you say earlier that this has got nothing to do with the anti-dam movement?

A: The police is here only to maintain law and order. We are not interested with the dam.... if anyone goes against the law, we look only into that.

P: Okay, in that case, I shall speak to the SP, if it is difficult for you to give me too many details.

A: Yes, please do so.

P: So now the oil is being transferred...?

A: There are actually four companies working on the dam site with NHPC – L&T, Soma, Alstom and Texmaco. This tanker was headed to L&T as it is working on the powerhouse. So this tanker is being offloaded now and the oil will be sent there.

P: But after the strong movement in December last year, which led to the creation of the camp in Ghagor, what kind of agreement was arrived for, for letting materials reach the dam site?

A: We don't know all the things that NHPC needs, and we are not concerned with that. Whenever they needed any essential materials we would provide them that. Most unfortunately this time this has happened. So now we have received orders from our higher-ups that there should not be an illegal gatherings or camps because Section 144 (unlawful assembly) of the CrPC has been imposed here.

P: Since when has Section 144 been imposed here?

A: Whenever Section 144 is imposed, it is lifted after 3 months. About 15-20 days ago, Section 144 was again imposed here.

P: But was Section 144 imposed here earlier too? On what basis...?

A: Yes, this happens sometimes. It was imposed here earlier too. This is decided by the District Magistrate, and not the police.

P: So was it imposed again before or after Bihu (Bihu is officially celebrated on April 14, but its festivities and gatherings are still going on in some places)

A: I do not remember the exact date but...

C: It was after Bihu.

P: And Home guards have been recruited too here...?

A: Actually home guards are not recruited here now. They were recruited earlier.

P: But SPOs...?

A: Well, SPOs have recently been.... (didn't complete the sentence). Actually home guards stationed at different police stations have been gathered together. Some of them receive a salary of Rs 4,500. But because we have received outside forces, now the home guards are being utilised for other work. But this is an internal matter of the district and we can deploy the home guards however the need arises.

P: But haven't there been any recruitment for SPOs too lately?

A: I cannot say much on that. Only my SP can give you answers to that.... Do you have any more questions?

P: Not really, as you are directing me to the SP for my questions!

P: So for how long will Section 144 be imposed here?

A: For about 3 months.... until June.

P: So this means that you would have to patrol throughout the highway and in and around Gogamukh too...

A: Well, we cannot arrest people in a restaurant or in the market place or private institutions. But there were many people at the camp and they would pelt stones at the passing vehicles. Because of such incidents Section 144 has been imposed. Now if 7 journalists come to meet us, then Section 144 cannot be imposed. But those people were pelting stones on the SP's vehicle! But if there are ill persons taken by a vehicle because they cannot walk, or if there are women or children as pillion riders on a two-wheeler, then of course it is not imposed. The administration is nothing but common sense.

P: But those who have been arrested were under such circumstances....

A: No. People have been arrested after due investigation! A person is arrested when he is found to be connected to a particular case.

P: ...but then there were women who were arrested, who were manhandled by the male police personnel...

A: Look, there will always be allegations, like they are visible everywhere....

P: ...of course there can be allegations, but there could be eye-witnesses too...

A: ...but whom do you term 'eye-witness'? Just because someone says that he saw something, can I trust him as an eye-witness? Eye-witness is that which one sees with his own eye! There are always allegations when something has to be done. There are allegations that police go and watch women who are bathing by the river! These are all baseless things. And there will always be allegations that there were mo women police personnel. But now it is actually very common that there will definitely be women police personnel around. The media is always ready to tarnish the image of the police....

P: ….no sir, I do respect the police because I too have to work and communicate with the police on a regular basis. But all that I am asking is from the point of view of this case.

A: Look, we are transferred to different places throughout our lives in the police force. We too have women at home. So we cannot ill-treat women while we are at work. So saying that we 'manhandled' the women is wrong. The instances of one or two policemen cannot be generalised....

P: ...I am not generalising. If I did so, I would be wary of coming to a police station or would have men coming with me for my protection. I am asking facts pertaining to the case at hand. And when I said 'manhandling', I meant the instance when women were dragged by male police personnel by their hair.

A: Then you should ask like that.

C: I am very happy that you have clarified yourself too. Which is why I ask you honestly, did you or any person face any trouble here? Have they or their vehicles been stopped midway on the road? Did people face any harassment here before this incident took place?

P: Sir, I haven't been here before the incident. So all I now see around are armed personnel. It is an obvious fact that people will be curious or maybe even fearful when they see a road full of police personnel. It is not always a positive environment. So I am aware that there was indeed such an aura here before too, based on whatever people have told me.

A: Look, in November 2011, a pressure shaft was being transported to NHPC by road. People tried to block it, and then they later began to block the highway and disallow any materials from being transported to NHPC. Then they formed the camp at Ghagor, yet we would apply just bailable charges, if we arrested them. This time the same thing happened; they blocked the highway and the tanker was burnt. Nowadays, if there is a highway blockade anywhere, the message goes right up to the Centre. Blocking the highway does cause a lot of inconvenience to people – old people, pregnant women, people going to the market. You won't see this kind of highway blockade anywhere but this has become prevalent here because in doing so, the message goes to the Centre directly. Once the highway is blocked, some senior politicians do arrive and then the groups can highlight their demands. So now we have orders to ensure that the highway is free, and whenever there is any disturbance there will surely be police around.

P: One last question, and a very personal one – what do you and the police cadre think about the movement and the reason for which the movement is taking place?

A: Look, we are just policemen. As per the Assam Police Act of 2007 and the Police Act our duty is just detection and prevention of crime. We are not concerned about anything other than law and order....

P: ... but this is one Assamese asking another Assamese what he feels about the dam project.

A: Look, the project is being done by the higher-ups. There are different views among people – those who feel that the dam should be built, and those who feel that it should not. We do not go into such details.

P: All I am asking you is, what you feel about the dam, under the given rumours that it will devastate the whole of Assam and that it would not generate just about 10 per cent electricity for Assam....

A: I am wearing my police uniform now, so I cannot tell you what I feel. I can tell you this if you come to my residence, when I am not a policeman.

P: Okay, I will look forward to that then! Thank you for your time.

++++

The jail in North Lakhimpur town is a short tiny building in white and brown on the street. One could easily mistake it for yet another beautiful Assamese home which had been modernised to some extent. A small concrete structure, akin to the bus stands in villages which had a good seating area, was where families and friends waited to meet their loves ones who were behind bars. In the waiting area were Gagan Bora's wife along with her two children. She had come neatly dressed, with a large dollop of vermilion decorating her little head. Along with her were Debo Nath's parents; Debo Nath's mother would be seeing her son the first time after 6 days. Also present were some relatives of Dipen Mudoi, and friends of other prisoners.

A simple list of the prisoners was all that was needed to meet them. One had to wait outside the grilled-door to see if the prisoner was being brought. Minutes later, Debo Nath, Gagan Bora, Dipen Mudoi and Prodeep Gogoi walked to the nearby window. It had a fine grill, but porous enough to lightly touch your loved one's hand. But there were paan-chewing non-talking guards in civilian clothes who accompanied each of the prisoners. They would bend forward if our questions were inaudible to them.

But there was good news from each of the men who had been arrested after the tanker was set on fire near Ghagor on NH 52 – they were all doing well, except for the spicy food which was inedible for most. One complained of torn mosquito nets; another of no access to newspapers. But over all, they all were doing well. Prodeep Gogoi smiled despite his aching hand from the fracture and his face still had bruises. “Are they beating you here?” was a constant question for all the men. Instantly, the guards would bend forward and look towards the prisoner, either hoping to memorise every word of the reply or ensuring that no cryptic words are leaked out. When the replies would be “No, we are doing well” or “No, we are not beaten here”, the guards would relax their posture. But all of the prisoners accused of burning the tanker – farmers, shop owners, students – affirmed that they were tortured when they were first arrested. Some of them suffered kicks in the stomachs, some of them were punched on their faces.

A blurred future... Prodeep Gogoi (left) and Dipen Mudoi (right)

It was imperative to try meet Bharat Sahu. He was with Prodeep Gogoi's son Rupankar when they were apprehended by the cops on the night of May 11, around the same time that the tanker was set on fire. While Rupankar had a narrow escape from being arrested, Sahu was left behind. The news spread the next day that he had been admitted to the Civil Hospital in North Lakhimpur town, owing to the injuries he suffered at the hands of the armed personnel – police and CRPF. But what seemed more intriguing was the fact that none of the people wanting to meet him were successful in doing so. They would be told by the cops in the jail that he did not want to meet anyone.

But this day he had appeared before us, and seemed excited upon seeing one activist he had known for long during the days and nights at the protest camp. He had a litany of complaints – he was punched in his left ear while in police custody but had received no cure; one of his fingers was probably fractured and there were no medicines for it; he was kicked in his stomach and back and they ached; he was still limping from being beaten by the batons on May 11. His left ankle appeared bent inwards. He hated the food; he wondered why nobody had visited him so far.

“But baidew (elder sister), do give us any material we could read, about our rights inside the jail. We will do andolan here itself!” he asserted, even as the guard look disinterested.

“Why don't you write an application to the jailer for appropriate medical treatment?” the activist suggested.

“They won't provide me with pen and paper!” he retorted back.

We requested to meet the jailer.

++++

Bhanu Bhuyan (20), Kalpana Gogoi (20) and Nitumoni Gogoi (23) were brought in next to meet their visitors. Petite girls with smooth skin and soft voices, they had been arrested from the camp at Ghagor on the night of May 11.

They said that were doing fine but had a few basic needs:

- the undergarments provided to them were the size meant for a child

- there was no bathing soap or toothbrush or toothpaste

- the sarees provided to them from the jail were dirty

- they had been wearing the same clothes they had been wearing since the time of their arrest

- they wanted peanuts and other lentils that they could eat, instead of the spicy food

Their mobile phones had been taken away by the police during the commotion when they were beaten and arrested. All three of them hail from remote villages of Kaziranga of Golaghat district. Hardly anyone in their village had mobile phones; they could not remember the phone numbers of those who carried a phone. This simply meant that their parents had not heard from them or seen them or learnt about their arrests, even at least a week after their arrest. The deploring case girls, in a way, represent the state of the numerous political prisoners across the country – 'lost' for their families, trapped in a political battle, hungry for life.

++++

After the girls were sent back to their cells, we were able to meet the jailer, S Baishya, through the same window as we had met the prisoners. We suggested that Bharat be provided pen and paper to write an application since he feels that he is not being treated well. But the jailer ranted how prisoners always lie and they are always taken care of.

Crouching tiger... Bharat Sahu

We complained that prisoners were not provided newspapers to read; the jailer said that they could not ensure 300 prisoners to read just the 4 newspapers the jail was provided.

We complained that Bharat was not given pen and paper to write an application; the jailer said that he could just talk openly since writing paraphernalia was not permitted for jail inmates.

We complained that Bharat's finger had possibly been fractured; the jailer said that he had been taken for an X-Ray the previous day.

They brought in Bharat as well as the jail doctor, to verify the 'allegations'. Bharat was not the same boy we had met minutes ago. What we saw was a scared child with only a murmur, who replied in the affirmative to everything that he was being asked pertaining to his treatment. The jail officials spoke to him lovingly; he didn't for once turn to look at us screaming that he was being threatened. We left the jail, requesting the jailer to provide writing paraphernalia in the least; the jailer retorted that even we could possibly be lawyers, we ought to understand the law better since it not have assert that inmates could deserve this.

As Bharat walked passed us, we murmured that he should not feel threatened. He limped away with his head hanging downwards.

++++

The mystery about who torched the tanker continues.

The jail custody of the arrested men and women has been extended.

In all, 24 are in jail under the charges of criminal conspiracy, unlawful assembly, extortion, mischief with damage to property and mischief with fire.

At least one truck owner alleged that his truck was being used by the police to transport construction materials to the dam site, when as the police claimed it needed the truck to transport some people.

It is intriguing that the age of several young boys who were arrested has been registered as 18.

People living in close vicinity to NH52 allege that ever since the incident on May 11, many more trucks have been plying on the highway, supposedly taking construction materials to the dam site.

KMSS leader Akhil Gogoi continues his fourth day of fast in Guwahati to protest against the construction of large dams in Northeast India.

Inside Tomorrow's Mayhem

2012-05-23T19:51:00.002+05:30

May 17 had been declared a day of statewide shutdown by a coalition of non-Bodo groups. However, it was imperative to meet Rajni Phukan who worked for Suma Enterprise Ltd. Soma, along with three other companies – L&T, Alstom and Texmaco – had been contracted by NHPC for the construction of the 2,000 MW Lower Subansiri hydro power project. Phukan and 462 others had offered to resign from their job at Suma the previous day. It was most likely that they would be able to clear their dues the same day, which meant that an possible entry into the project site could not be possible after that date. Besides, he was all-supportive of the movement against the big dam, and he nonchalantly proclaimed that he needed the job, and perhaps the dam too, for his own survival.

There were a handful vehicles on NH 52. The few that plied were stared for long after they disappeared from sight by police and CRPF personnel. That day, the green and blue hue of the highway was replaced with the khaki colour. Little boys carrying unusually large gunny bags were stopped – strangely, never are little boys taking big bags ever stopped on 'normal' days. Perhaps it is easy to digest child labour on a normal day, than to believe the innocence of the same child with the large bag on the day of a statewide shutdown.

The three petrol pumps on the highway across a 10km-stretch were half open. Long bamboos were put in place at the entrance of the petrol pumps, to notify that they would be doing no business. To prevent my guide for a day, a young student, from exposing himself unnecessarily before the large contingent of CRPF personnel, we avoided taking the route via Ghagor, past the erstwhile checkpost and protest camp. We took another route and the approximate 20 km ride was breathtaking. The distant mountains of Arunchal Pradesh surrounded us on three sides, as bamboo branches bent forward to provide us shade and coolness.

Tomorrow's children on Twitter will tweet

"Our forefathers sang that the woods were lovely, dark and deep..."

This stretch of road too was heavily guarded. After some distance, a godown was visible, and large rings could be seen. There were at least 50 of them parked there on someone's arable land. These rings were part of the construction material of the dam at Gerukamukh. Finally, we reached the NHPC gate. It was a mammoth iron structure, with the mountains in its background.

Waiting to be taken to the place where it won't rust....

Rajni Phukan was waiting for us, along with Jibon Bora, the Secretary of Soma Workers' Union. Both of them have been working on dam construction sites for the last 17 years, beginning with the construction of the Ranganadi dam in Lakhimpur. Phukan said, “After the resistance movement in December 2011, there has been almost no work here. No construction materials are reaching here. The company slowly stopped giving us our Sunday pay and the overtime pay. We understand that the completion of the project seems bleak in the given scenario, which is why we have decided to quit the job.” About 2 months ago, about 500 workers with L&T also went home; Phukan told me that there are just a handful left at NHPC.

We took a stroll around the campus of the headquarters of the Lower Subansiri hydro power project. A large gate notifies that it was a Kendriya Vidyalaya high school; all spic and span with no students yet. A signboard showed us the way to a shopping complex, bank, residential quarters, etc. The gate to Soma Enterprises Ltd was manned by aging guards; Bora said that all the construction materials were stored there. There was a high wall and a barbed fence over it, yet the top curve of the large rings (like the ones seen previously on the way) were visible.

A well-screened entry into the fortress amid the hills...

The administrative staff at the NHPC office were local boys and girls. But the reigns were in the hands of experts who were not from the region. Phukan facilitated me to meet the Geophysics Chief of the project, S Murugappan. A kind man who offered coffee in the tea state, he refused to go on record with our long conversation. He said that only recently it had been decided that nobody except for the Executive Director, could speak to the media. Even so, the permissions had to be taken from NHPC's main office in Faridabad. “But since you have come all the way, I will explain some things to you. Just do not note down anything,” he said. He tried his best to explain how the project was technically sound, how it was to be the largest dam in Asia, how dams in other countries had withstood the test of time, how the Bhakra-Nangal dam was “temple of modern India” like it had been quoted by Nehru. He loaded me with enough brochures that screamed out the projects of NHPC. Then he let his public relations manager Mr Toppo give me a tour of the project site, for me to understand what he was talking about and how the dam was “indeed a much-needed project”.

(To understand the social and ecological threats to the North East through a series of hydropower projects, do read this detailed report: Damming Northeast India)

Gone are the grains from the hands.

Welcome, electricity!

(In the campus of Lower Subansiri hydro power project headquarters)

We got onto Murugappan's vehicle. We stopped at a site after climbing uphill for a while. From the barbed fences, one could see a large stone crusher in the distance below, on the other bank of the river. The crusher mill was connected to a site close to where we stood, by conveyor belts. These belts took the stones way up far and high. “Can you see that patch of green in the far right? That was what NHPC has planted as part of our forestation (sic),” said Toppo with a bright smile. “You are not from any NGO na?” he asked suddenly. I denied the allegation and say that I am only an independent journalist. Toppo himself began his public relations career with two NGOs, and then he found the jobs were not promising enough. He joined NHPC 2 years ago and it took him 6 months to understand the project well, to be able to conduct such guided tours for journalists.

A few minutes later, as we continued going uphill on a winding partly-cemented road (which was once a thick forest) parts of the dam construction were visible. A CISF checkpost stopped us, ad then let us o on seeing Toppo. The concrete construction looked huge already, amid the bushes on the periphery on the road we were traversing on. And then, the mighty Subansiri river could be seen. In the distant were the cascading mountains in different shades of distance. From among their feet, the river snaked out. And then we reached the viewing point of the dam.

What a scarily large structure it was! We were on one side of the mountain, and below us was the gushing river. At our eye level was the other side of the mountain, and between us was a tall red crane. Below, a platform had been created and the few men there looked smaller than ants. Turning right, and after some explanation from Toppo, I understood that a tunnel had been created, into which the river was flowing. Of course its width was nothing as compared to the width between where we stood and the mountain on the other side (which is the actual width of the river). On the left, from a corner, the river appeared to rush out – that was the exit point. Toppo explained that below our feet was the tunnel through which the river had been diverted.

There she flows - with her path diverted, her forest home concreted....

“The dam is supposed to come up to where we are standing – full 116 metres tall. But then, everything is in the mind. Even fear. If I tell people that this fence is safe, they still walk carefully as though they will fall. How will this fall? This is strong iron! Similarly, people have decided to sta scared about the dam. They want to think that there will be an earthquake and this dam will break. That is just not possible!” Toppo laughs.

The main dam below had been constructed in large 'slabs' and would be built upwards in a sloping manner. The stone crusher mill was visible at a distant; the conveyor belts leading to the crane would transport a cooled and solidified mixture of sand and cement. “This is a very unique crane. Can you see the spirals and the long extensions? The crane moves around in a circular way so that materials can be transported easily to any particular portion on the dam below,” Toppo said.

He also showed me the gates to 8 tunnels through which water would flow. Those tunnels were connected to a power grid far on the left, on the opposite side of the mountain. The water will travel up there, and through a tunnel, fall into the pressure shafts. That is the powerhouse where electricity will be generated,” he explained. I could tiny tubes in the distant where water could possibly flow into, to the turbines.

The 'powerhouse'

I stood in awe, listening to the marvels of the possibilities of human engineering and watching the grey concrete looking alien amid the lush greens. Faint sounds of machines were interspersed with the call of wild birds. We spent about half hour in that location. “I will now take you to the powerhouse,” Toppo said. The car passed through a bridge called 'Progoti Setu' (Progress Bridge) and we were now on the side of the powerhouse. Almost every large iron machine was in yellow – the colour symbolising L&T. Toppo took us inside to the place where the pressure shafts were assembled, which is a part of the turbine at large. A similar pressure shaft was mistaken as turbine when it had to be transported from North Lakhimpur to Gerukamukh in December 2011. It was protesting this transportation that the agitation took shape, which led to the creation of the checkpost and protest camp at Ghagor. For 4.5 months, it had been a successful protest act – to prevent the materials from reaching their destination.

Inside the 'powerhouse'

“People are ignorant. They thought that the pressure shaft was a turbine an they have been making unnecessary noise about it,” said Toppo. The 4 storeys of the powerhouse was full of huge machines but no men operating them. “They men had to be asked to leave when there was no work taking place. We only now have the security guards,” said Toppo. The security guards were old, nearly-stooping Assamese men. Their tiffin boxes waited in a corner, to be opened at ease until we left the premise.

A little below, there were 2 large spiral casings; 6 more were to be assembled and fitted in a line series. Into the distant was the mountain. I realise that these large spirals were that what I had thought of as 'tiny tubes' while on the other bank of the river. “The water coming from the river will fall through a height of 80-90 metres, and they will enter these casings. They will hit the runners and then hit the pressure shafts. You can see those chamber-like things there – the water will hit there. And on top of this structure will be the transformer,” Toppo said.

We drove back to the office. Before I could thank Murgappan for the site tour, he asked me, “So tell me, how did you feel?”

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This is what you will see now....

This is what you may not get to see tomorrow....

Damning The Dam Protesters

2012-05-22T15:03:00.000+05:30

On the evening of May 11, the front portion of a tanker containing 11,000 litres of diesel, on contract with NHPC, was set on fire in Thekeraguri village adjacent to NH 52, just past the Subansiri river bridge. This bridge lies in the district of Lakhimpur in Assam and is just 2-3 kms before the adjoining district of Dhemaji. Beyond the river on the left side a mountain range is visible which lies in Arunachal Pradesh.

The same evening, a checkpost and protest camp at Ghagor was demolished. Ghagor lies on NH 52, few kilometres before the bridge. A road bifurcating on the left leads one directly to Gerukamukh (falling under Dhemaji district), which is the construction site and project headquarter of the 2,000 MW Lower Subansiri hydroelectric project on the Assam-Arunachal Pradesh border. The checkpost and the camp were jointly erected by 8 organisations protesting the construction of the dam in January 2012, after a massive people's movement to prevent the transportation of construction materials to Gerukamukh.

Ghagor on NH52, and the takeover of Prodeep Gogoi's dhaba opposite the checkpost and protest camp

On the night of May 11 and into the next morning, 14 men and women were beaten and arrested by the police for their alleged crime of setting fire to the tanker. A 13-year-old boy was slapped repeatedly on his head and detained for two hours. The next day, some more were beaten, dragged and arrested. By the morning of May 20, a total of 23 people were behind bars. It has been confirmed that the first 14 men and women have been booked under IPC 120 B (criminal conspiracy), 149 (unlawful assembly), 384 (extortion), 427 (mischief with damage to property) and 435 (mischief with fire). While the latter 3 charges are bailable offenses, section 120 B is a stringent one. The men and women arrested are either farmers, students or small-time businessmen, running shops or dhabas.

Over the last few days, I have been meeting activists and local leaders of ethnic groups, families of those arrested, officials of NHPC, police personnel, as well as some of those behind bars. Even as I write about these encounters in chapters, the repression continues: 4 people who had undertaken to sit on a hunger strike on May 20 have been arrested on charges of violating Section 144 of CrPC. The next few reports are an attempt to articulate all that has been understood in the last few days of repression.

++++

Azad Hazarika runs a health club in North Lakhimpur town. He began to go for meetings that called for the people in Assam to protest the Lower Subansiri hydro power project. During the resistance in December 2011, when NHPC tried to get in a significant part of a turbine into the project site, he was among those who lay down on the street to protest the passage of any kind of construction material. Today, he informally functions as a significant link among the people in the movement, at times when news dissemination is the most crucial aspect of the struggle.

He says that there was an informal agreement between government officials and activists part of 8 joint organisations resisting the construction of the dam, that tankers with diesel would be allowed to reach the project site at Gerukamukh only once in 20 days. This diesel was necessary as basic fuel to maintain a certain level of electric supply in project site. Hazarika gave a background to the all the events that finally led to the tanker being torched:

“The 8 organisations then formed a 'big dams construction materials blockade' camp at Ghagor on NH 52. At any given point of time, 4 boys would man the checkpost, checking the challans of vehicles that took the left turn towards the project site at Gerakamukh. Any vehicle that bore NHPC on its challan was sent back; any other private vehicle was allowed to pass. The camp, a little ahead from the checkpost, had about 50 people staying day and night, since January 2012.

CRPF personnel now occupy Prodeep Gogoi's dhaba

On May 11, the boys at the checkpost saw a tanker approaching that road. The driver said that the police had kept the challan with them. Before the boys could stop the vehicle, it sped away towards the project site. An urgent meeting was called for, and the some officials arrived at the point, along with a huge police force. I was informed about the meeting and rushed towards Ghagor – it is 35 kms away from North Lakhimpur. But I was surprised to see that NH 52 was now being patrolled by the police and CRPF, well beyond the checkpost at Ghagor. As some negotiations took place at the camp, about two other vehicles sped away. Soon the rumour spread that the tanker had been set on fire. Arbitrary arrests followed.

++++

The stretch from Ghagor to Gogamukh town square is about 8 kms. While heading towards Gogamukh from North Lakhimpur (the district headquarters of Lakhimpur), about 2 kms before Ghagor is the Boginodi police station. After Ghagor is the Chauldhowa police outpost, followed by a newly constructed all-bamboo camp of the 19 Assam Batallion, and then the police station of Gogamukh, which falls under Dhemaji district. The district borders are porous; police and CRPF personnel dot the entire stretch of 8 kms. Small CRPF camps – typical Assamese houses but with sand bags stacked up – are also visible.

Roopohi is a village after the Subansiri bridge, and about 3 kms away from NH 52. It has a predominant population of Mishing tribesmen. After some enquiry, we arrived at the residence of Anand (Babul) Mili. Like any other house structure of a Mishing family, this too is a chaang ghor – a house made entirely of bamboo on high stilts. Many young boys walk in with us – my guide for the day Purandar Mili (who is a local activist of TMPK or Takam Mishing Poring Kebang or All Mishing Students' Union) and I. Few minutes later, Babul walked in and said that he has been evading arrest since May 11.

Thekeraguri is not too far away from Roopohi. The young men told me that many of them ran deep into the forests when the police and the CRPF was hunting for the people who could have possibly set the tanker on fire. Like the other activists in the region, Babul was convinced that the tanker was purposefully set on fire as an act of conspiracy to implicate the people associated with the anti-dam movement, and thus crumble the struggle.

“Why did the fire brigade arrive 2 hours late? Why didn't the police allow photographers to photograph the burning vehicle? Cops were standing about 200 metres away from the tanker, yet none of them came forward to assess the situation near the tanker. Besides, there is no clue about where could the tanker be headed – the driver could not produce any challan when he was asked for it at the checkpost. When he was asked about it, he had said that the cops had taken it from him. There is something surely fishy here,” said Babul, as he invited someone over the phone.

On what basis have the arrests been made? “Cops says that there was a digital camera in the tanker, which exposed the people who had set the tanker on fire!” Babul says angrily.

Twenty-year-old Rajiv Saikia is a resident of Roopohi and has studied up to matriculation. He is on the run along with his friend Ritu Saikia. Both said that they were doing business as suppliers of various goods. Both of them have been on a bike, traversing through villages, begging for meals and a corner for their night's stay. “There is a businessman in our area who is close to the cops. That's how he is able to leak out information to us. He has informed us that the Boginodi police is on the lookout for 53 people. Among them are Debo Bhuyan, Deepak Neog, Pranab Saikia and I, along with Ritu and Rajiv. The same person has also informed us that the cops are picking boys from villages and promising them the job of homeguards,” said Babul. The recruitment of these boys are similar to the recruitment of special police officers (SPOs) in places like Dantewada in Chhattisgarh and Kalinganagar in Odisha.

On the run, from one village to another: Rajiv and Ritu

Nijom Mili walked in. He had a dignified look on his face, and it seemed tough to ask him tough questions. Like, did his son really take up the job to attack his own village folk? Mili ran a pharmacy shop until few months ago, when he met with an accident. Repeated visits to various doctors yielded no good health. “Finally, a doctor at AMC (Assam Medical College in Diburgarh) operated below my ear. I still d not know what was the need for the surgery. But it has taken me a long time to move around,” says Mili.

Mili's Graduate-educated son has taken up the job offered by the police, when he heard of the same from a relative. “They said that the job was like that of a homguard, but not exactly a homeguard,” he said.

“Did they say that he is being recruited to be a SPO?” I asked.

“Maybe. Something like that. But he was told that his job could be confirmed by the superintendent of police (SP) after 6 months.”

“What is his salary?”

“Rs 4,500.”

“Does he have a uniform yet? Are they giving the boys arms training?”

“He doesn't yet have a uniform. So far, they have been training the boys how to march left-right-left. As if he doesn't know which is left and right!”

Mili's son had to apply for the job, then give an interview, followed by a training session for three days, and he was then selected. He now shuttles between Boginodi police station and Chauldhowa outpost, since the time he was recruited about 25 days ago.

When a dam made us foes: Nijom Mili (left) and Babul Mili (right)

Babul said that these recruitments mean that the government would use these boys to spy on the village folk who are protesting the construction of the dam. Mili said that he did talk of such a possibility with his son, but so far, nothing like that had happened. “He was not among the police personnel who had beaten up the people in our and nearby villages when the tanker was set on fire,” Mili said.

Babul drew me a quick map about the region and we headed to meet the family of Gagan Bora in Na-Ali Gergeria village. The landscape was fresh green and brown bamboo-and-mud houses were scattered around. Colourful chaadors (worn by the women) and white gamosas (a type of towel or gamcha) were left to dry on the bamboo fences. Cows graze with no hurry. The thin ribbon road opened to an open area and a tiny shop. This shop is run by 27-year-old Gagan and his wife Ikharani. At their residence adjoining the shop are relatives visiting from nearby houses and taking care of Bora's two children – a daughter aged 3.5 years and a toddler son.

“My husband had gone to Silapathar (a village far away in Dhemaji district) on May 11 and returned only at about 10pm. On his way back, he heard about the tanker being set on fire. The next morning at about 8am, he went out to Na-Ali Tiniali (the T-junction at Na-Ali) to do some shopping for our shop. By 11.30am some boys came and told me that my husband had been beaten and arrested. I could not believe their words and thought it was someone else. But they knew that it was him who was arrested,” said Ikharani.

Waiting with my children..... Ikharani Bora

From that day on, said Ikharani, cops have been making rounds in the village every night. Young boys scamper into distant villages while women stay back. “Once the cops even wanted to hit me but I guess they did not do so when they saw I was with a child,” she says. She has visited Gagan just once in the jail and is unsure of the charges levied on him. “It is difficult to run the family without him. I got a neighbour to do some shopping for our shop. I just hope that KMSS is able to get a good lawyer to release him. He is innocent. Yes, he has been to meetings called in by the anti-dam groups, but he would never do such a thing,” she said.

Debo Nath's family resides in nearby Thekeraguri village. Close to this village was where the tanker was set on fire. The fear is palpable in the voice and words of Debo's sister Parismita, who is studying in the 12th grade. Debo is a student of Graduate-level Arts at Subansiri College, and also runs a shop nearby. He is the eldest of 5 siblings. He was in the shop on May 12 when he was arrested.

“Did Debo know that the tanker was burnt the previous the night before he was arrested?” I asked.

“We did hear something like that but we did not know anything. We heard that some people had been picked up the cops but Debo thought that it had got nothing to with him, which is why he went to the shop that day,” Parismita said.

“Do you have any idea why he could be arrested?” I asked.

“No,” she replied.

“Did Debo ever go to the camp at Ghagor?”

“No.”

“Did he attend any of the anti-dam movement meetings? There was a large meeting held in your village few months ago.”

“No.”

The only consistent emotion Debo Nath's sisters and aunt feel since his arrest, is fear.

“Was he associated with the anti-dam protests in any way?”

“No.”

“Have you heard of the dam coming up?”

“Yes.”

“Then have you heard of organisations like KMSS?”

“No.”

Her denials are hard to believe but understandable, under the current circumstances.

Having explained to her that she would have to actively participate in the legal matters to get Debo released, we headed to Roopohi Baligaon-Bongali Basti, to meet Nabajyoti Kamang. He owns a piece of land in Roopohi and his two children studied there, under the guardianship of a neighbour. Nabajyoti later told us that he could not leave his own residence because he had a job with Bhimpura Junior College, and travelling daily from Roopohi would be tiring.

Getting to Roopohi Baligaon-Bongali Basti meant several chances of falling into black mud, next to roaming, hungry pigs. Many Mishing families rear pigs and a sudden rainfall in the region the previous night ensured a tough ride through the villages. It meant eye-soothing landscapes with river streams and ponds, as well as feet falling deep into the mud while navigating the bike.

Nabajyoti Kamang too lived in a chaang ghor, with many such houses in the same compound. Which presumably were inhabited by extended family members. His 13-year-old son Paban Singh steps down the rickety bamboo staircase to meet us. Paban cooked and studied and lived in the house in Roopohi with his younger sister. In the afternoon of May 12, he had gone to Na-Ali Tiniali to buy some chillies, when the police caught hold of him and beat him repeatedly in the back of his head. He kept quiet all the while he was being beaten by few cops and was then taken to the police station, where he was kept for 2 hours.

“I did not know of all this until late that night. The police waited for some people to arrive to sign on some papers, before my son could be left free. How could he possibly set fire to the tanker? He is just a small boy!” said Nabajyoti.

Nabajyoti said that he brought home Paban and his younger daughter the next morning. “Ever since I brought him home, he has been on the bed. He is not keen on eating either. There was no bleeding but I could feel that his head was swollen. A local doctor is treating him with herbs and Paban is slowly getting better.”

I asked Nabajyoti if he was thinking of writing a complaint to the police. He joined his hands, almost as though he was begging. “I want to lead a simple life. I do not want to entangle my family with the police. I should be happy that they did not harm Paban to much – we can manage this. I know this has all got to do with the dam and the movement against it, but I don't want any harm for my family. We thank you that you have come to enquire about us but we do not want any more hassle,” he said.

Nabajyoti expressed hope that situations would permit him to send Paban to the same school in Roopohi since it is a better one. The school in their resident village was almost non-existent. “But I have to work out something. I have a huge family. We all cannot shift to Roopohi because I have my job here. My wife and daughters weave here. We have our pigs. Yet, I want a good education for Paban, but am afraid to send him to Roopohi again,” he said.

Paban Singh Kamang (slouching on the chair, wearing green shirt and blue pants) with his siblings, cousins, father and grandmother in their 'chaang ghor'

The 14 arrested on May 11 and 12 are Bharat Sahu, Tarini Deka, Prodeep Gogoi, Juti Gogoi, Nitumoni Gogoi, Kalpana Gogoi, Gagan Bora, Bhanu Bhuyan, Debo Nath, Dipen Mudoi, Apul Nath, Aghuna Bhuyan, Lakheshwari Chutia and Pratibha Chutia.

The local activists were specifically horrified in the way Prodeep Gogoi and his wife Juti were attacked by the police. Just opposite the camp at Ghagor, they ran a dhaba. They cooked food for the camp residents, albeit they were paid as per the price on the menu. Eyewitnesses say that they were both beaten and dragged on the street on the night of May 11, after the police had apprehended Gogoi's son Rupankar and his friend Bharat Sahu. Gogoi had charged the police when they had begun to attack the young boys, and that's when both Gogoi and his wife were attacked and finally arrested. Gogoi's hand was fractured; Bharat was also arrested while Rupankar fled to save his life.

Rupankar Gogoi feels safe with his cousins, but he cannot spend much time with them

When I traversed across the villages that fell under the Chauldhowa Panchayat (the expanse of this Panchayat is very large), nobody knew the wherabouts of Rupankar. Upon reaching Gogoi's father's (Rupankar's paternal grandfather) house in Baasantipur, a cold indifference was felt. Only upon a lot of insistence and convincing that I wasn't sent by the police or the Assam government did they decide to “look out” for Rupankar. Few minutes later he arrived, along with another local activist. Twenty-year-old Rupankar was in a state of shock and fear after all that had happened. In the video below, he explains all that transpired on the night of May 11. He says how the police and the CRPF attacked him and Bharat Sahu; how the armed men even beat up the pigs that they were rearing in the vicinity of the dhaba, to such an extent that they pulled out the skin from the pig's hind side.

Like Gogoi's family which had established deep ties with the movement, Dipen Mudoi was actively participating in the protest by staying at the camp in Ghagor whenever he could. A resident of Katorisapori Bharatpur village, 35-year-old Dipen lived with the family of his elder brother.

Several women were sitting together in the verandah of Mudoi's residence. One of them was his sister-in-law, Gitali. She explained how both Dipen, and his cousin Manoj Hazarika, were actively involved in the anti-dam movement. “Dipen runs a grocery shop near Na-ali Tiniali. Sometimes, when he would wind up from the shop earlier, he would go and spend some time at the camp in Ghagor or offer to screen the vehicles at the checkpost. On May 11, he didn't come home until 10pm. I did not latch the door from inside, assuming that he had been delayed for some reason. The next morning, we tried to reach him on his mobile but it was swtiched off. When he heard nothing from him until the afternoon of May 12, we began to ask around. That's when we were told that he had been arrested. We were worried, because at the same time we heard about the tanker being torched and several others also being arrested,” said Gitali.

Gitali and Manoj met him in the jail once and he confirmed that he was doing fine. “But he may not say that he was beaten even if we ask, lest we get worried,” said an old lady who was sitting with Gitali. She added, “He is a very quiet boy. Even if he was part of the movement, he would keep to himself. He would do only that was told to him; he would comfortably do anything that he was asked to do. I never saw him angry. It is unbelievable that he would torch a tanker – because I hear that he has been arrested for doing such a thing. He could never have done this. They are trapping him.”

Manoj took the photograph of Dipen Mudoi when he had gone to visit him in the jail

Dibakar Saikia's mother Ilashi too thinks that her son is being falsely implicated. She refuses to divulge further details, lest her son's case would worsen. The way Dibakar was arrested sounds familiar to the way human rights activist Dr Binayak Sen was arrested.

Saikia's residence is on NH 52 and just half a kilometre from the Subansiri bridge. It is unlike the houses visited so far. It is a large concrete structure, and neatly painted in pink. His mother Ilashi spoke to us in few words while cutting the betel nut. Saikia runs a stone crusher mill and had recently purchased a piece of land a little ahead of the erstwhile Ghagor camp, to further extend his business.

“Dibakar's papers for the purchase of the land was in place, and he was in touch with the District Collector for the same. On May 14, he got a call that the DC wanted to meet him in North Lakhimpur. When he went there, he was told that the DC did not call him at all! When he was on his journey back home, he got another call that the SP wanted to see him. When he reached the SP's office, he was arrested,” said his mother.

Was he actively involved in the anti-dam movement? “Look, we live very close to the river. If anything happened to the river, we would be among the first people to be affected. Some say that the dam would do us good, while we also hear about the threats. We are really confused about the dam. My son is just a businessman. He is not an activist,” she emphasised.

Another relative present during the conversation vehemently denied any possible association between Dibakar and any political or activist group. “He only does business and for that he meets many people. He is not aligned to any party or group,” he said.

When I requested Mrs Saikia for a photograph, she reiterated, “Please do not put me into any further trouble.”

"Please do not get us into further trouble": Dibakar Saikia's mother

Dibakar's wife wasn't present at the time of my visiting their residence; she had gone to meet some lawyers. I requested for her phone number so that I could later check on the progress of the case. When I dialled the number later that night, it turned out to be a wrong one. Clearly, the family was shaken with fear. And so was the rest of the region. It wasn't easy to meet people; many of them had several phone numbers of which some were unreachable. Like Bedanta Laskar, one of the key activists of KMSS said, “The government is hell bent on having the dam completed. It will crush all movement, any how. Even the best of police officers are today unrecognizable.”

When Rahim Chacha Says 'Laal Salaam'

2012-05-06T18:06:00.000+05:30

[A shorter version of this beautiful encounter was published in Open magazine, Vol 04 Issue 17 dated April 24-30, 2012. Below is a detailed, more intimate version is below.]

A copy of 'New Age Weekly' is visible the moment we enter the room. It lies on the window sill, and the headline from an inside page 'Our Destination is Socialism' stands visible. A narrow bed with a clean white bedspread lies adjacent to the window. A large copper-coloured chariot – from the Mahabharata scene – rests on the sill too, with details about felicitation from IPTA (Indian People's Theatre Association).

The top of an elongated wooden cupboard bears ground to an army of mementos from his days as an actor. On the wall is one sepia-toned photograph, as well as the certificate of honour of Padma Bhushan, signed by former President of India, APJ Abdul Kalam. The other wall has books authored by Engels, Eisenstein and others, whose pages are yellow and have gathered some dust. Next to it is a small shelf where bottles of syrups, and a bottle of Shower-to-Shower talcum powder, fight for space.

Quintessential dialogues by Paresh Rawal stream out from a tiny television kept low, below the bookshelf. Then, the sound of a walker reminds us whom we have come to meet. First, the wrinkled face is visible, and then the completely bent-forward body of the man who made “Itna sannaataa kyun hai bhai” a famous dialogue.

He notices the visitors and smiles lightly, pushing the walker with a lot of strength, as visible in the strains of his arms. The green-red assembly of veins and arteries of the arm are clearly visibly behind the paper-thin white skin. In his spartan white khadi kurta and lungi, Avatar Kishan Hangal moves towards his bed and settles on it quickly. A man settles the pillows and cushions, and it is only about 5 minutes later that Hangal is now seemingly comfortably seated – in a position what seems to be a painful slouch. He pulls his soft blanket and asks us to bring our chairs nearer to him. Prakash Reddy, leader of Communist Party of India (CPI), introduces us. When he introduces me as a journalist, Hangal remarks in Hindi, “So many journalists have already written so much about me. What is left to write now? Anyway, ask. I will answer.”

My lips are sealed and eyes are moist. Who am I really to ask him anything? I was visiting him because I had learnt that he had recently renewed his membership with the CPI. I wanted to hear about his days as a 'Comrade', fighting the British as a young boy and then working towards a fair world order through theatre, and thus IPTA. But what “new” will I write? How do I ask about the stories behind the long winding wrinkles, the stories of nearly a century ago? Silence. I shift uncomfortably in the chair. “Ask. Pucho. Daro matt.”

I remember the reason why I was there. He turned 97 this February, and soon enough, he had renewed his membership with the CPI. I began to ask about his association with IPTA, and he begins. “I was a Communist ever since my days in Peshawar.” He realises that the IPTA chapter was far away from the time he became an adult. So he stares up into the tubelight, and begins to talk of Peshawar. I inch forward so that his feeble voice is later audible on my recorder, despite the whirring of the air-conditioner. I did not gather the courage to request it to be switched off.

But he notices it quickly, that I am concerned about the air-conditioner's noise. He asks, “Bandh karnaa hai kya?” I smile and refuse the offer. He turns back to look at the tubelight to scan through the rich fabric of memories.

“I came from an affluent family but that was also the time when we had to fight off the British. Bahut maar khaaya, bahut laathi khaaya, goliyaan bhi lagi (I was beaten up by batons and also was shot at). I began to take up tailoring for a living,” he says. The words seem unclear when he says it at first, and after saying it three times, and louder, do we understand 'tailoring'. He makes that effort to explain that what he knows he has mumbled for a moment. “I was a high-class tailor; a highly paid tailor. The movement was also going on. I joined the movement when I was just 20. I remember the day clearly when Bhagat Singh was arrested, I remember the day when they sentenced him to death, I remember the day when he was hanged to death. Pathans had cried that day. The Pathans had cried! Everyone walked on the streets chanting 'Bhagat Singh, Bhagat Singh'. Tab toh bass dimaag mein baith gayaa tha kii angrezon ko bhagaane hai (It was rooted deep in my mind that the British power had to be overthrown).”

Sentences are paused with a long silence or a short dry cough, before Comrade Hangal speaks again. It seems he has a lot to say, and there is a lot that cannot be just forgotten. He seems far from forgetting anything. From Peshawar, he moved to Karachi, sometime in the mid-1940s, and continued his tailoring work as well as his work in the freedom movement as a Party member. “I also read that you were jailed for three years during the movement,” I say, hoping to hear him speak about that chapter. “Haan, I was in jail for three years. When I was released, I was very happy. But they told me that I have to be tadipaar now. 'Tadipaar' samajhte ho na? I just had one day to leave Karachi with my wife and son. When we were moving, scores of Hindus moved with us. We couldn't understand how our mulk (motherland) was being divided. But we reached Mumbai...” again, the voice trails off. The long pauses seem to reflect the long years spent, which have surely often been summed in just a few sentences or conversations. The flood of memories rush in at their own will or when beckoned.

Life began to move on: he continued tailoring for raees ('rich') clients. He continued his deep association with the Party. He was instrumental in making IPTA a formidable force of political action on the stage, and then he joined the Hindi film industry. Did he have any conversations about politics with the people with whom he worked in films? Comrade Hangal nods his head in disapproval. “Doing films was just work. I enjoyed my time in IPTA.” Before I could ask him any more questions from that chapter of his life which was about the glitter of Bollywood, he turns to face Comrade Reddy: “Arre yaar kuch toh bataao aajkal Party mein kya ho rahaa hai!” (Say something now about all that's happening in the Party!)

Comrade Reddy gives him updates: “Patna ko toh laal kar diyaa iss baar... dus hazaar log aaye the.... (We coloured Patna red this time... 10,000 people had assembled).” Comrade Hangal listens with wide eyes and a wide smile. After a few minutes of updates, he says, “Chalo acchi baat hai.” He turns to me, to give the journalist an important piece of analytical information: “The Party has gone through several changes. It has made many mistakes too in the past, but the important thing is to learn from mistakes. It is going through a good phase now.” He straightens his back and tries to continue sitting up for us.

Hangal's son Vijay walks in and sits in a corner, as we continue to chat with his father. Comrade Hangal says politely, “I think this is enough for today? The boy will come any minute now to shave my beard. Lekin phir aana zaroor (But do come again).” But Comrade Hangal is already clean-shaven. Before we say our goodbyes, the rest of us want to now take photographs with Comrade Hangal, and surround him turn by turn. Comrade Hangal obliges with smiles. We urge Vijay saab to join in the photographs and he shyly refuses. Comrade Hangal then says, “I wish I could have given him an easier childhood. He and his mother suffered a lot due to my involvement in the andolan (movement). Even now, he has to look after me all the time. I feel bad for him.” Vijay saab says nothing. When photographs are clicked through tiny cameras and smart phones, Comrade Hangal wants to see each of them. “Flash nahi aaya. Phir se kheecho (The camera did not flash the light. Take another photograph).” And then he is happy to see them all. “Life is not just politics. This is also life,” Comrade Hangal laughs.

The barber walks in. “Iskaa bhi kheecho photo! (Photograph him too!)” Comrade Hangal says, and then he is very pleased to see the photograph. “Please definitely make a copy and give him the photo. Please do not forget,” he urges. We walk out, and Vijay saab invites us into the facing flat of this old, dilapidating building in Santacruz east, where they have been living since the 1960s. The building is among the few of that disappearing breed in Mumbai, that have a leafy canopy over the balconies on three storeys. Vijay saab asks us if any of us enjoy poetry, and all of us unanimously reply in the affirmative. It is a Sunday evening and none of us seem to have anything more pressing. So we follow Vijay saab into his neat room and he pulls out plastic folders that contain papers. This is his poetry, and Vijay saab begins to recite them. Memories of moments now unattainable, the reminiscence of mother's touch and the desire for his wife's company (Comrade Hangal and Vijay saab are both widowers) are the subjects of his lyrical words in English. He says later, almost apologetically, that he prefers to write in English although he is fluent in Hindi.

Vijay saab is 74 years old, and has been taking care of his father since a decade. He was a photographer but long travels had begun to take a toll on his health. Besides, long days away from Mumbai meant a constant worry about his aging father. He says that few people visit them, although the father-son duo would both love the company of people.

We hear the click of the walker and Comrade Hangal walks in slowly, looking brighter. He decides to sit on a sofa and begins to inquire about each of us. He wants a detailed background – not just names. He listens intently and later jokes about a few tongue-twisting surnames. He then suddenly remembers that he had not worn his denture. Nevertheless, he continues to chat. This time, he is more upright in his seat.

It is time to leave, finally. As we greet him, he presses our palms, one by one, between his tough yet soft hands. After we all are done greeting, he says aloud, “Come again when you are not too busy. I will like it.”

One of us says “Laal Salaam Comrade!” Comrade Hangal smiles widely and raises his fist up and shakes it vigorously, saying “Laal Salaam, Laal Salaam!” He laughs, and then coughs vigourously.

Slogans As Songs, Songs As Slogans

2012-04-28T11:06:00.000+05:30

(This article first appeared in The Times of India Crest edition, dated April 28, 2012)

Pakistani protest band Laal uses music and satire to take Marx to the masses.

When the Pakistani band Laal walked into Hard Rock Cafe Mumbai hours before their performance there, they were clear about what they wanted - a clean stage without many props. "It would be amazing if we could project the video of Dehshatgardi murdabad (Down with the perpetrators of mayhem) while we play live. That video says it all, " says Taimur Rahman, the man behind the music, videos and politics that makes Laal a progressive and rebellious band. After years of free performances for workers and peasants, singing the poetry of Faiz Ahmed Faiz, receiving hate mail but also thousands of internet hits - especially for Jhoot Ka Uncha Sar, which had an all-woman crew wearing moustaches to mock the system - the band recently toured India to launch their second album Utho Meri Duniya (My World, Wake Up).

"In a way, we follow Gramsci's position on warfare: using the little space available for dissent and pushing the boundaries to expand that space, " says Taimur. "Laal has been successful because we have managed to get our voice into the mainstream media. Even if we do not agree with the mainstream entirely, we can find a common ground. Strategy is the key. "

Taimur is accompanied by wife, Mahvash Waqar, who was a journalist with a news channel until November 2011 when the channel was pulled off the air. "I am jobless now but a fulltime singer for Laal, " Waqar smiles. Then, there is banker Haider Rahman, Taimur's cousin, who takes the place of third vocalist with his flute. Taimur, Mahvash and Haider have kept Laal alive, with sessions musicians joining them whenever there are funds available to pay them.
Taimur grew up in an environment where Marxism was part of the air he breathed - his father is a well-known Left-wing intellectual while his mother is a founding member of the Women's Action Forum. "I grew up listening to Bob Marley and songs of protest, so my path was an obvious one, " says the 36-year-old assistant professor of political science at Lahore University of Management Sciences (LUMS), who is also the General Secretary of Communist Mazdoor Kissan Party (Pakistan) and is associated with various trade unions and peasant organisations.

The band is excited by the impact of the Dehshatgardi murdabad video, a montage with a rock-and-roll feel to it, with the lyrics exposing the role of the US in supporting the early Taliban. Taimur wrote the song and directed the video. They got plenty of hate mail and comrades from the party advised Taimur to absent himself from public meetings for a while. "The state is more predictable;we know the triggers for state action. But the vigilante phenomenon from the last few years in Pakistan is much more dangerous, " says Taimur with a serious voice. A moment later, he loosens his shoulders and smiles, "But I cannot be talking of my little fears compared to what is happening in Karachi or north-west Pakistan. "

"We would shout and sing out slogans, and that was in a way our training. Our songs were slogans, and our slogans were songs, " he says. The video of Maine Unse Yeh Kahaa (I said to him. . . ) was shot outside his room and uploaded on Youtube. It was an overnight success and Laal was formally born in 2008. Geo TV released their first album, which was a huge hit.

"It seemed like the media was hunting for artistes and musicians who were ready to speak aloud, especially after the veil of Emergency and censorship by General Musharraf had disappeared, " says Taimur. "The media was ready to go beyond its role of reporting. Today, we do enjoy freedom of speech. The newspapers are doing their job. The surge of news channels has meant more space. We have taken up that one per cent space for free speech;taking up the 99 per cent space won't be long. "
When he is not practising with the band or lecturing at LUMS, Taimur conducts seminars on labour rights for workers and trade unions. Then, there are the free performances across the country, throughout the month. "Somehow we manage to do at least one concert a month to bring home some money, " says Waqar. They are only too aware of the big money that they could have made if they had a corporate sponsor. "But our mission is not to make money. We are very happy to do the free performances among peasants, " says Taimur. Recently, Laal toured through Europe and none of the performances, except for one, earned them anything. Whatever profit they possibly make is reinvested into making videos. The video Doob gaya was used to raise funds after the devastating floods of 2010.

Despite being an internet sensation, Taimur knows that the band's real stomping ground is at the grassroots level, where issues like growing religious extremism need to be tackled. "We should remember that without grassroots action, there is no other alternative. We made the video of Utho Meri Duniya during a rally of 10, 000 people. We sang with them using loudspeakers from the village mosque. Our work in the last 15 years has been with the grassroots;it is only now that we are doing albums. The one who doesn't go work with the grassroots will have his work only floating in the air, " concludes Taimur, with a 'Laal Salaam' instead of 'Khuda Hafiz'.

A Film With A Difference

2012-01-28T06:35:00.000+05:30

(This article first appeared in The Hindu, dated January 28, 2012)

It took 14 years to make the 200-minute-long documentary “Jai Bhim Comrade” on Dalits.

Director Anand Patwardhan explains why.

A still from the documentary.

On January 9, in the bylanes of Byculla's BIT Chawl, a documentary was premiered after sundown. A huge white screen ensured that people from the three-storeyed buildings nearby could also view the film. For over three hours Anand Patwardhan's “Jai Bhim Comrade” took us on a musical-historical journey. Beginning with the rousing voice of Vilas Ghogre, we move quickly to the police killings in Ramabai Nagar in 1997. Suddenly, the camera takes us inside Ghogre's home, where he scribbled his last words before committing suicide on the fifth day after the police firing.

Why did the film take 14 years to make? “I wanted to continue filming till all the false cases against the people in the colony were removed, or until the police officers who had ordered the firing were sent to jail,” explains Patwardhan. The Ramabai Nagar case took its own natural course. Another thread was exploring the tension between caste and class. Patwardhan says, “Vilas was a Dalit who became a Marxist, but then chose to reassert his Dalit identity, by tying a blue scarf as he hung himself. I wanted to understand this seeming clash of identities. As Vilas was no more, I began filming others from his musical tradition. A few were Leftists like Vilas, others celebrated Dr. Ambedkar's life and message. I wanted to do justice to this whole spectrum.”

A still from the documentary

The spectrum is broad indeed — from a proud song describing the Dalit who became a barrister, to those that recount the travails of migrant workers to the city; from lullabies based on the teachings of the Buddha, to naughty qawaalis that celebrated sexuality equally by men and women. Almost each song is juxtaposed with evocative visuals — claustrophobic slum-dwelling illustrated by a chicken coop; “My barrister husband is coming home” juxtaposed with visuals of men sweeping the streets. As Patwardhan points out, this is not an ethnographic film. “It is a record of the people and events I encountered. Many were not recognised as singers. Saraswati Bansode was a housewife. Shanta Bai Gadpaile's husband was a poet and she remembers his songs. The tradition is so strong that ordinary people just sang.”

Many songs in the film narrate the game politicians have played with Dalits. In one instance, at an Ambedkar Jayanti function, small boys are dancing to the tune of “In the Mumbai... we are the Bhai..” from Bollywood's “Shootout At Lokhandwala”. Somehow the lyrics fit — Dalits have been used by the underworld, as well as political parties.

Actual statistics higher

The mention of the Khairlanji incident was thus expected. “Official records show that two Dalits are raped and three killed daily. The actual statistics are higher. The film speaks of two other cases from Beed — a teacher murdered and a girl raped. So people cannot say that Khairlanji was a one-off incident which won't happen again. These incidents are part of our daily occurrence,” says Patwardhan.

The fact that instead of addressing this, Dalit leaders are busy flirting with the Congress or with Hindutva, got the audience to acknowledge the movement's weak leadership today. Several of them, including Dr. Ambedkar's grandson Anandrao, felt that the documentary was a wake-up call. But what generated most outrage was the way in which Kabir Kala Manch (KKM) was forced by the police to go underground.

Singers and poets

Patwardhan had met KKM in 2007 during a memorial meet at Ramabai Nagar. He followed these cultural activists and their families as they raised questions about the effects of a “development” that displaces the poor and Dalits alike. In June 2011, Sheetal Sathe and all the people from KKM had been pushed underground as they had been branded as Naxalites. “That's when I realised that I have to start showing this film. I want this country to understand who these singers and poets are so that people like Sheetal can come out in the open again and prove that they hadn't done anything wrong, anything more than speak up for the powerless,” says Patwardhan.

The premiere on January 9 had its effect. Born out of the Dalit movement, the film was going back to the same people on the day when they remember Dalit Panther theatre activist Bhagwat Jadhav. A resident of BIT Chawl, Jadhav was killed during a rally in 1974, when Shiv Sena supporters dropped a grinding stone on his head. Since then, every year, his family conducts a memorial talk. There couldn't have been a better tribute this year than the premiere of “Jai Bhim Comrade”.

A still from the documentary

“Basti screenings are a must. The intellectual class in India laps up and understands every political nuance of the developed world, but the reverse is not true. We like to be spoon-fed with over-simplified cliches, and that concession I have refused to make,” says Patwardhan, about his 200-minute-long documentary.

But tell him that this is his first documentary that has managed to get a Censor certificate without a major struggle, then he smiles, “Perhaps the democratic system is maturing? I think the upper castes know that they have been oppressing Dalits for thousands of years. If Dalits don't have a right to say ‘Gande Mataram', then who does?”

Greeting 'Tashi Delek' in Mumbai

2012-01-06T16:02:00.001+05:30

On November 12 last year, 25 people congregated in a Bandra flat to prepare and eat momo. This delicacy was the magnet that drew about 20 Tibetans living in Mumbai to come together and chatter in the language of their homeland – greeting each other with 'tashi delek'. The news of 11 monks immolating themselves in the Kirti Monastery in the Ngaba region of eastern Tibet seemed like a news from a distant land. Only, this was news about their own people.

This momo party was the only time when Tenzin Choedhar (26) saw so many Tibetans in Mumbai come together, in the 5 years that she has been living and working in the city. “Tibetan students in Delhi have the time and space to raise the issue of Tibet. Moreover, they are mostly living together as a community in the refugee camp. But Mumbai is the launchpad for our careers. There is a feeling of helplessness about our identity. But we aren't able to do much and hence have no other option but to move on with our own lives,” says Choedhar, who grew up in Delhi, far from the Tibetan refugee camp. She works at a MNC that does business in China and Taiwan. “I never engage in any political discussions with my colleagues, because I am not too clear of what I have to say.”

The story is a little different for Tenzin Methok, who had been accompanying her father to Mumbai every winter, selling sweaters in Parel. Raised at a boarding in Ooty, Methok came to Mumbai for her graduate studies. “People assumed I was from Nepal or Manipur. When I would correct them, they would have many questions about I was not living in my own country. I did not have clear answers myself, until I met Kallianpur jii,” says the petite girl, who now works with a HR firm in Powai.

Fifty-eight-year old CA Kallianpur has kept alive Friends of Tibet (FoT) since 2003 from his home in Bandra – the site for the momo party. An avid reader of military history, he prepares packages of articles on understanding Tibet better. These are posted to people, whose addresses he might have come across through lay visiting cards. “Most Mumbaikars do not know where Tibet is. After explaining the Geography, I tell people that Tibet's case for independence is clear under international law,” says Kallianpur. His residence has become the arrival lounge for Tibetans who wish to shape their career in Mumbai.

Bhutanese Kelly Dorji came to Mumbai to further his studies, and became a ramp model and actor. In 2008, he was invited by his aunt to join her in praying for Tibetans at a rally in Mumbai, during the Beijing Olympics. Dorji's grandmother and several other relatives are from Tibet. "I felt honoured when I was asked to say a few words to the large gathering there, which comprised mostly exiled Tibetan monks. I stood in prayer on Indian soil as a guest, praying for the people of Tibet. But I think Mumbai had the same reaction as most of India – after a fleeting glimpse, the page was turned to the latest scores in cricket!"

But 'career' no more means becoming a waiter or hairdresser. “Today, you will find many Tibetans taking up significant roles in large companies. They are well-educated, and have developed the confidence of doing much more than making the traditional noodles,” says Tibetan writer and activist Tenzin Tsundue, who lived in Mumbai for five years. He was one of the founding members of FoT in Mumbai in 1998, which organised a seven-day cultural Festival of Tibet in March 2000, across several venues in the city. It was in Mumbai where Tsundue nurtured his talent as a writer and poet, under the guidance of several noted poets of the time.

The momo party was Tsundue's idea. He knew that the Tibetans in Mumbai ought to be woven into a community. That was also the week when the Bollywood film 'Rockstar' was to be released. The Tibetans were thankful to filmmaker Imtiaz Ali for talking about Tibet and freedom, through a song. However, the Indian Censor Board dashed their hopes when it asked the filmmaker to blur 'Tibet' during a scene that carried a banner of 'Free Tibet'. Tsundue met the Board but brought back no happy results. The previous week, on November 4, 25-year-old Sherab Tsedor had set himself on fire outside the Chinese Embassy in New Delhi, in solidarity with the 11 monks who had immolated themselves. Alert cops managed to rush him to a hospital. Today, Tsedor updates his progress in healing on Facebook.

“Facebook is one of the best mediums for us in Mumbai to stay connected,” said Dolkar Tenzin. She created the 'Tibetan Mumbaikars' community page on Facebook, and updates it with news and events pertaining to Tibet. A few non-Tibetans are also part of this small online group of 72. Methok, on the other hand, says that she has become synonymous with being the contact person for any Tibetan who wants to step foot in Mumbai. “Some days, I have to bunk work to be at the programmes organised for Tibet. It was easier when I was a student at St Xavier's College,” she says.

The girls are joined by Pasang Tashi (25) who is hoping to take up a more active role in organising events and demonstrations. Pasang was separated from his parents at the age of three, when he was brought to live and study in Dharamsala. He completed his graduate studies in Bangalore and came to Mumbai in 2010. “I do not miss my family as I did not develop any bond with them. China did not allow me to know my family. Now, I can only try to get more people to know about us and stand by us in our freedom movement. We cannot lose committed people to self-immolations, which is a desperate step. The Kirti monastery has become an extreme prison, with no food or water being supplied to the devout monks inside,” Pasang explains.

Ask him if he remembers anything of his early years in Tibet, and he says, “My only memory of Tibet are the mountains, the grass all around, and our house which was a tent. All of that feels like a dream, as though I never lived it.” Much like the nomadic lifestyle of the resident Tibetans, and the ones in exile, Pasang lives in the office of the production house where he works.

Remembering those who self-immolated themselves for a free Tibet, for a better tomorrow -- at McLeod Ganj, Dharamsala, November 2011. © Nitesh Mohanty

'Why Is Narendra Modi Afraid Of Sanjiv Bhatt?'

2011-12-03T12:37:00.002+05:30

("I asked for water; not caste")

A mosaic in the backyard of Gandhi's Sabarmati Ashram in Ahmedabad. Is this the same Gujarat?

+++

[Sanjiv and Shweta Bhatt are caring hosts to their guests. The large and yet simple Bhatt residence oozes warmth from all corners. This home, that has nurtured this brave family to do what is right before might, leads me to understand them a little better. Over a cup of appropriately-spiced masala chai, I relax in their leafy terrace. Shweta Bhatt narrates to me her feelings and thoughts about the Gujarat that was once safe, her brave husband, and the sea of humanity that keeps her family afloat in these rough times. On the other hand, the suspended IPS officer who is in no hurry to get back to his office, always has a fixed answer with a smile: “Life is good.” The answer and the smile: neither of them are false. Here are Shweta's words, as she urges me to “tell the world the truth about Narendra Modi...”]

I have always been a housewife; I am a housewife still, and am happy to be one. Sanjiv and I both love our families a lot, and our family has always stood by us. We had a love marriage. We were preparing for the UPSC exams, but I did not go for the interview because we were in a steady relationship by then – why waste a seat when I wouldn't be in the Services? When Sanjiv had filled his form, he wrote “IPS”, “IPS”, “IPS” for the three options of choice of the Service. He was always in love with the force; he was in love with the uniform. So when he saw what had transpired in 2002, he was shocked. But more than anything else, he felt sorry for the force. The way the policemen had barged into our house showed us how they stripped away dignity and discipline from the uniform.

There is something special about the police uniform, or any other uniform for that manner. A man who wears even the driver's uniform transforms his behaviour. The uniform commands some respect. Similarly, any police officer would stand up to greet the lady-wife, even if she is the wife of one's junior officer.

But none of that respect for the uniform or the senior officer or for the lady-wife was to be seen, when 35 policemen barged into our house, without any prior intimation or without any search warrant. We realised that this was dictated and threatened to them, on the lines of “Go and abuse your senior officer.”

Sanjiv would discuss everything with me, so I knew what needed to be spoken or asked at the right time. When he decided to speak aloud, we knew that there would be repercussions. But we never dreamt that the police force could stoop to such low levels. When they came to my house, they began to dig through every item. Few of them would apologise for what they were doing, stating that they were under compulsion to conduct such a behaviour. I said nothing to them, because I knew that this was Modi's ways of harassing us, to break our morale. I never resisted what they were doing either. I told filmmaker Mahesh Bhatt, “I thought it was only in Hindi films that cops barge into people's homes and throw up clothes and everything around in their search operations. But we saw this happening with our own eyes, in our own home, by the same police force that Sanjiv loves.” मुझे अब तो इस फोर्स पर घिन आती है (I look down at the Force with disdain now).

The IPS Officers' Association was lying defunct for several years, but then I heard that they had a meeting after many years, when Sanjiv was arrested. Some of Sanjiv's peers would call me up on my landline phone and ask me in whispers, “Can we do anything for you Shweta?” I would reply to them, “At least begin to talk a bit louder so that I can hear you clearly!” This is the level of fear among the officers.

Only one who lives in Gujarat can correctly define the word 'subversion'. Men from the IB (Intelligence Bureau) had begun to jot the phone numbers and car numbers of every visitor discreetly. I finally asked one of those constables to stop behaving like a thief in copying the car number plate. Now, they just thoroughly question the visitor.

We learnt that Special Public Prosecutor SV Raju was being paid Rs 1.5 crore to 'manage' the court proceedings, and on Fridays, he was being paid some more so that the remand would drag onto the next week. But it was heartening to see the media come to the courts daily, to watch the proceedings. When he was finally granted bail, everyone cheered aloud 'Singham'! This sudden fame and hero worship has been overwhelming, yet assuring us about what Sanjiv had done.

I am sure many more policemen would have much to talk about to, but not all have the courage to do so. They are bound by other restrictions. But then again, we have been fortunate to have found the support and strength from so many different directions. So far it has been believed that anyone who speaks against Modi is the enemy. But something changed this year. On Dusshera day, at several places across Gujarat, Modi was portrayed as the Raavan and Sanjiv was portrayed as Singham!

The protection that the Home Ministry is offering us is so weak – just three men, and only one of them with a gun. We do fear for our lives. One of the constables comes with us wherever we go. But now Sanjiv has to travel to Jamnagar for his cases, or even Delhi. He is also being invited at various fora across the country, wanting him to speak to eager audiences. He cannot say refuse such invitations because now it is our time to stand with them. He is the hope for many people today. They stood by us in what was our dark hour when Sanjiv was arrested. But all this travel means he is being watched all the time. The phones are tapped; his official phone number has been cancelled. These are Modi's ways of harassing anyone standing against him.

Sanjiv kept on insisting the SIT that he should be summoned to give his statements. But they ignored him because they knew that मोदी का पोल खुल जाएगा (Modi's secrets would be out). Why is Modi afraid of Sanjiv? Because Sanjiv has everything to say which Modi wants to hide.

What Modi did in 2002 was nothing short of a systematic and well-funded killing of Gujarat, which was once a truly prosperous and harmonious state. We never had a communal flare-up before Modi reign. BJP has changed that picture of Gujarat. There are flyovers being made in Kanpur; there are flyovers being made in Allahabad; there are flyovers being made in Ahmedabad. So why are just flyovers being deemed as development? There is no development in Gujarat; on the contrary, we are moving backwards.

Many have asked skeptically, why is Sanjiv speaking out now? Has he done it for Congress? My answer is this: there is something beyond politics, and that is one's one soul and conscience. Sanjiv is doing what he is doing for himself, and in doing so, to prevent any such communal flare-up ever again.

For all those 18 days when Sanjiv was in jail, my 75-year-old father, despite his ailing knees, would arrive here at 9 am each day, to be with me. People whom I had never known would just come home – they were people from different human rights groups, students from colleges, and others who had no group or organisation as their affiliation. I was buying up to 45 packets of milk everyday, for a constant supply of tea or nimboo paani to the visitors. That strength they offered was unbelievable. They knew that Sanjiv was doing the right thing.

Many many many people stood with candles every evening when Sanjiv was in jail. They would come and say, “We are with you.” We were at the mall the other day, and at least 12 people walked to our table and said to Sanjiv, “You are a brave man. We are proud of what you have done. We are with you.” Saniv and I wonder what it is that they mean by “We are with you.” We wonder if the people uttering those words would also know what they mean by that sentence. But we are happy to hear those words and are assured to know that people can see between right and wrong.

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Be it on the streets....

Or on the bus....

On a residential building's wall...

Or on the concrete fence of a beautiful garden....

Just remember: Modi Bhai Is Watching You. It isn't anymore surprising that 'Modi' rhymes with 'moti', which, in Gujarati means 'big'. Literally, Big Brother is Watching You, in Gujarat!

When Modi Bhai isn't watching you directly, he urges you to look up at the photograph of Hrithik Roshan, which in reality is the compulsion for you to check out the gymnasium that has been sponsored by the Hindu Saamrajya Sena (Hindu Imperial Army).

Note: all of the photographs above have been taken within a stretch of 300 metres. On another day in South Gujarat, when I had to change 8 buses, I greeted Modi on each bus as he waved to me from the bus's side panels.

Resistance to dam project grows in south Gujarat

2011-11-21T00:39:00.000+05:30

People from 16 villages on the Gujarat-Maharashtra border have been demonstrating their resistance to the Par-Tapi-Narmada river interlinking project, another multi-dam project which is slated to submerge 3,572 hectares of forests and displace 25,000 people

It was noon and the sun could no longer hide behind the clouds. One by one, women trickled in to sit on the black tarpaulin laid under a cluster of bamboo trees. Behind them sat the men, in the shade. K P Sasi’s Gaon Chodab Nahi blared from loudspeakers nearby.

Finally, it was time for the meeting to begin. Anusuya Ben, who had travelled 20 km in a tempo, took the mike and began to sing a song she had composed specially for the event: “Paikhed gaamcha dam aamhi baandhoon denaar naahi” (“We won’t let the Paikhed dam be built”). The assembled crowd of around 200 joined her in song.

For the next two hours, Naragdhari village reverberated to the sound of loud, angry, determined speeches. Hot, thirsty and hungry, people from 16 villages on the Gujarat-Maharashtra border sat in the sun to show their collective disapproval of the Par-Tapi-Narmada river interlinking project. A month earlier, they had coloured their thumbs blue and stamped two memorandums to be sent to the Ministry of Tribal Affairs and the Ministry of Water Resources requesting that the mammoth river interlinking project aimed at supplying water to already-irrigated central Gujarat be shelved.

A few quick figures would best explain the significance of this meeting and other such congregations in the past: seven rivers, seven dams, seven reservoirs, a 401 km-long link canal, submergence of 3,572 hectares of forest land, displacement of 25,000 people, and cattle.

The project is part of the peninsular river development component, proposed in the 1970s. It comprises the building of seven reservoirs on the Par, Nar, Tapi, Purna, Ambica, Auranga and Khapri rivers, and a 401 km-long link canal connecting the reservoirs, to irrigate 1.88 lakh hectares in Bharuch and Vadodara districts which are already slated to be irrigated by the Sardar Sarovar dam waters. The feasibility reports prepared by the National Water Development Agency (NWDA) mention that the project will also generate 93 Mkwh of electricity; the end consumers are only vaguely mentioned. The human price to be paid has been calculated using census data from as far back as 1991: the displacement figure has been put at 14,832 people. Today, the number of people likely to be displaced easily stands at 25,000.

***

One day in 2010, men with large maps and measurement paraphernalia arrived in some of the villages and began taking measurements of the river and the soil. The men told the villagers they were from the irrigation department. “Ramesh called me up to tell me about the measurements being taken. I looked up the Internet and was shocked to find out about the river interlinking project. It was then that we realised that the NWDA had been discreetly conducting its surveys without informing the people about the project or its consequences,” says Michael Mazgaonkar, an activist based in Narmada district. Since that phone call, he and several others have been travelling to villages in Dharampur taluka, Valsad district. Everywhere they go they speak to people and sense their anger at not being consulted on the project.

Collective realisation of their possible submergence, and the subsequent anger, resulted in the formation of the Par-Purna Adivasi Sangathan comprising people from Gundiya, Khadki, Tutarkhed, Chikhalpada, Mohanakavchali, Satvakal and other villages and hamlets across Dharampur taluka.

The NWDA’s feasibility report says surveys could not be completed at sites where the Paikhed, Jheri, Kelwan and Mohankavchali dams are to be built “due to local resistance”. Surveys at other dam sites -- Chasmandva, Chikkar and Dabdar dams -- have been carried out by the Survey of India, entrusted either by the Government of India or the NWDA. “Water from the seven proposed reservoirs will take over part of the command area of the ongoing Sardar Sarovar Project, while irrigating small areas en route. This will save Sardar Sarovar Project (SSP) water which will be used to extend irrigation in the Saurashtra and Kutch region,” the report says.

But there are several loopholes in the report: apart from incomplete sub-surface geological and other surveys, there is no mention of the areas to be irrigated, or details of provision of drinking water to Vadodara municipal regions, or data on existing and future industries and their water requirements.

***

The Miyagam and Vadodara branches of the SSP currently supply water to Bharuch and Vadodara districts. These are regions that also support a large number of industrial estates and Special Economic Zones (SEZ). At the ‘Vibrant Gujarat: Global Investors Summit’, held three times during this decade, 69 and 38 MoUs were signed within Bharuch and Vadodara respectively, with a total investment of Rs 1,01,810 crore and Rs 14,414 crore respectively. These districts get their water from the SSP. Clearly, the surplus water to be brought from south Gujarat -- if the river interlinking project does manage to see the light of the day -- will be directed at materialising these bulky investments.

Based on the 2004-2005 price index, the project was cited to cost Rs 6,016 crore. The NWDA report puts the cost-benefit ratio at just 1:1.08 -- the usual ratio for approval is 1:1.5. The cost to people and the environment have not been factored in.

The catchment area is pristine forestland that falls in a seismic III zone. The NWDA mentions that the reservoirs will together submerge 7,559 hectares of land. This includes 3,572 hectares of forestland, and around 24 villages. The NDWA claims 51 villages will be partially submerged, although people in the area say their common understanding of the hilly terrain places the number much higher. Like any large dam project, this project too will be responsible for large-scale displacement of people and livestock.

***

Over the past two years there have been several calls for solidarity, culminating in meetings and a massive rally earlier this year. The Par-Purna Adivasi Sangathan has passed at least five resolutions at the panchayat level.

In September, 1,500 residents of Gundiya, Khadki, Tutarkhed, Chikhalpada, Mohanakavchali, Satvakal and other villages in Dharampur taluka, Valsad district, assembled on the banks of the river Nar. By 11.45 am, the grey riverbed, as seen from the winding road leading down to the river, was dotted with colour. A stage built the previous day out of large rocks was the focus. One by one, the sarpanch of each village represented in the Sangathan spoke about why unity was important in protecting rivers, fields, livelihoods, homes, humans, cattle -- indeed all of their futures. “We are happy to come here together, but don’t take our photograph now. Take my photograph when I’m angry, when I’m crying,” said one woman who had walked for almost three hours to get to the meeting site. I asked her if she had come alone. “My whole village is here, my husband, children and grandchildren too. We all woke up early today to clean and cook so that we could be here on time.”

In another corner, a woman was breastfeeding her child. After a while both were still -- the child had fallen asleep, the young mother listened with rapt attention as the details of two memorandums were read out. They were addressed to V Kishore Chandra Deo (Minister of Tribal Affairs) and Pawan Kumar Bansal (Minister of Water Resources), offering scientific explanations as to why the proposed project would only spell doom for the region. The two-page letters detailed the illegal way in which the NWDA had been conducting surveys in several villages without any consultations with the gram sabha.

Besides issues like flood damage and increased river salinity that could be caused by the proposed project, questions are also being raised about the efficacy of the project at a time when the impact of the SSP is yet to be assessed, and the need for additional water clearly established.

Although around 6,500 people eventually signed the memorandums, Sujata Shah, who has been at the forefront of the struggle, believes the fragmented nature of resistance among various sections of the people will weaken the effort. “We need to set up committees in every village, and committees led by women too. While large meetings like this are essential, you have to take the lead in preventing this project from displacing you,” Shah explained at the meeting.

For now, people are contributing small sums of money to fuel the resistance. Anusuya Ben says: “I do not know what to do. My anger and fear about this project come across through my songs. I’m glad that these songs are becoming famous and people are singing them at every meeting. But finally, the sarkar should hear our pleas.”

(This article has first appeared on Infochange News & Features. View it here)

The Story of an Ideal Village

2011-09-14T17:15:00.004+05:30

(A tightly-abridged version of this story first appeared in Open magazine, September 15-21, 2011. You can read the abridged version here. Below is what was originally written.)

The entrance to Devli is marked with this board. A significant amount of funds have been raised

through fines, which are being used for the development of the village, by its inhabitants.

After a 2-hour rickety bus ride from the cotton town of Sendhwa in Madhya Pradesh, the signboard 'Nasha Mukt Sankalp Sthal' is an intriguing white spot before the serene landscape of the Satpuda mountains. A closer examine mentions a mass vow taken towards complete abstinence from alcohol and other intoxicants, and petty quarrels too. A thin grey ribbon leads to several mud houses interspersed with fields of corn and jowar, and the story of this village began to slowly peal open.

In 2009, 25 Sarpanches of villages from Sendhwa and Niwali blocks headed to Hiware Bazaar, a village close to Anna Hazare's Ralegan Siddi. There they witnessed the Gram Sabha functioning in a Utopian way. Upon returning, Mukesh Duduway from Devli began to discuss his village with the members of Adivasi Mukti Sangathan, a grassroots group which has been working in Badhwani district since the early 90s.

“Our village is home to some brilliant minds – one auditor in the Panchayat, one thana inspector in the police, one engineer and 19 teachers. And yet, we are reeling under bad health, malnutrition, low agricultural productivity, low standards of education and corruption,” Mukesh remembers.

Meanwhile, another worried soul was another resident Kahar Singh Senani, who had a wide perspective on development owing to his job as a senior engineer with the state government. In February 2009, he invited the village folk – mostly by the Bhilala and Barela tribes – to his residence for an informal chat. Surprisingly, the 500 men and women who turned up openly spoke about petty fights being bred through the government's non-delivery of schemes, and alcohol as a nuisance.

A detailed survey for the 380 households revealed that only 15 families were living off their own agricultural produce, while others survived as daily wage labourers. Despite this poverty, people had been extravagant during weddings, and alcohol and beedi for guests. “Some men had 14 pairs of trousers! What is the need? We concluded that any man owning more than 14 pairs of trousers would be considered rich. Only this way can we ever think of bridging the rich-poor gap,” explains Mukesh, over a cup of black tea in his house decorated with idiosyncratic tribal images in white.

A 14-point manifesto was drafted during a Gram Sabha on April 14, 2009. That's when a collective oath was taken to ban the entry of alcohol in Devli, and slap a fine of Rs 1,500 on any resident who would be found to have entered the village after having consumed alcohol outside. Suddenly, an existing alcohol shop with no permits became an eyesore for the reforming village. “Senani is a rich man. He paid the shop owner Rs 52,000 to shut the shop. Now, we have a general store there which is run by women,” says Mukesh, 42, proudly. Once, a letter was sent to the cops to get 14 men of two other villages punished, as they had been luring the youth of Devli to get back to alcohol.

As part of the manifesto, several committees were created. The senior men and women have been entrusted the work of advising on marriages and compatibility; another committee of women inspect cleanliness within the village. Another committee is helping build a corpus stock of grains with an aim towards entirely doing away with the government's public distribution system (PDS). One committee is investigating the details of families which migrate to neighbouring Maharashtra and Gujarat. The village also has a vision of a colony of concrete homes for all by 2015.

During each Gram Sabha, a new President is chosen, with caution that the Sarpanch and Sachiv never being elected as the President. Money boxes pass around one chosen hamlet, on every full moon night. People contribute Rs 20 to Rs 50. Another money box is circulated among the government employees, who pay a higher annual sum. The people in Devli have also collectively decided against burning wood during Holi.

“We suddenly realised that the women from our village had never stepped out. In November 2010, three men accompanied the women during a day-long trip to Indore. Apart from the tourist attractions, we went to Big Bazaar mall where we used the elevator. We went to the airport, and got each woman a platform ticket to explain the railways to them. The women were surprised to see other women driving cars all by themselves. The journey made our women to think a lot about their own lives,” smiles Mukesh.

A photograph taken during the day-long visit to Indore is cherished.

Mukesh sees himself as the people's mobiliser, and has no ambition of becoming a Sarpanch. He leaves that job to Lakha Duduway, who has recently taken on the reins of the Sarpanch from the younger of this two wives, Jinabai. “I offer my tractors and bulldozers for free for development work within the village. This is my 'shramdaan',” Lakha says. Village naysayers are happy that Lakha is leaving behind his crude ways, albeit in the hunger to be known as the Sarpanch of the 'ideal' village.

“Look at our village today. You will realise that there is no poverty in the world; only laziness,” Lakha says, before he zooms off in his bike.

Who Will Wash The Tribal Blood Stains On Tata's Image?

2011-09-02T15:52:00.000+05:30

These are the observations and revelations penned by an activist and filmmaker, Surya Shankar Dash, who has been relentlessly documenting the atrocities on the people of Kalinganagar in Orissa.

A little more than a year ago Nira Radia was heard telling Vir Sanghvi about her fight with the 'Maoists' for the Tatas in Kalinga Nagar. Around the same time Madhyantara Vol 4 (a video magazine by the Samadrusti TV collective) was released and featured extensive footage of hundreds of policemen pillaging villages in Kalinga Nagar. A few defenseless villagers threw stones at a sea of marauding para-military forces but at the end their foodstocks were on fire, their utensils were systematically broken and their water sources were contaminated with kerosene.

This is part of a long drawn battle between the Adivasi inhabitants of Kalinga Nagar and Tata Steel, with the entire administrative and police machinery at Tata's disposal. Had it not been for the Radia tapes then one would have found it almost impossible to prove that indeed the Tatas had campaigned with the media to portray the anti-displacement activists of Kalinga Nagar as 'Maoists'. After the 2nd Jan 2006 massacre of 14 people, Tata Steel engaged in a media war against the tribals of Kalinga Nagar. The strategy was very clear, to paint the movement as a Maoist movement and facilitate excessive police action.

Despite everything Tata Steel was unable to wash off blood stains from its image. Despite attempts to completely censor news from Kalinga Nagar during last year's raids on the villages, illegal evictions and atrocities by a mixed force of goons and para-military, a lot of revealing information came out in the form of videos shot by the villagers that were put up on Youtube immediately. And around the same time even the Radia tapes started surfacing.

A year later, Tata has got much smarter. They are no longer banking on the Nira Radias to do the job. Rather they have hired some of the most credible documentary filmmakers to do the best whitewash job in recent advertising history - a series of TV Commercials highlighting some CSR ventures by Tata Steel - namely Bachendri Pal's mountaineering antics; the story of another woman who has supposedly been empowered by wearing pant-shirt and being employed as an earth-moving vehicle driver, etc. Perfectly timed to bolster the company's announcements, of completing the Kalinga Nagar plant by next year.

In short, the TVCs announce that the Tatas have won Kalinga Nagar. Not only the battle on the ground but the information war as well.

To get top-notch documentary filmmakers, known especially for their rights based approach, to do their whitewash job is a clean triumph in the media turf. They have won after getting about 20 Adivasis killed by bullets. Including the 12-year-old Janga on the night of December 31, 2010. Hundreds displaced. Villages divided. Scores arrested. Tortured. Many more denied of medical services. Pregnant women unable to go to hospitals fearing they and their accompanying relatives will be arrested. Half a dozen villagers died when Kalinga Nagar remained out of bounds for the rest of the world except for Tata goons and an all pervasive para military force.

What compelled the filmmakers to do the job is hard to put a finger on. Most of them were aware of Tata Steel's doings in Kalinga Nagar. I have reason to believe even some of them had seen the videos on Youtube. In the past, a national Award winning filmmaker had done a similar job for Posco and then more recently another emerging 'development' filmmaker's company was found to be doing videos for Vedanta.

It is sad to see the kinds of Nira Radia being replaced by brighter and more sensitive people which will only lead to more compelling propaganda from the house of Tata Steel. The people of Kalinga Nagar will have to re-invent their communication skills now as a more evolved breed of communicators and media practitioners have arrived to silence their voices.

Below is one of the Tata Steel TVCs. This link gives further details about this campaign.

This Is About Me

2011-07-27T13:59:00.000+05:30

I love animals. I hate to see them dying on TV or on the roads. But I love mutton too.

I do not like what the US of A has done to the world. But I'd love to visit California and Alaska.

I do not like that McDonald's is so unhealthy and that people live on it. But I do sometimes yearn for KFC's chicken.

I respect Gandhi. I do get goosebumps when i think of his work. But I do not like what he did to Kasturba.

I'm scared of lizards. I'm scared of the thunder. But I love the adrenaline high when riding on a roller coaster.

I like khadi. I like the ideology behind hand-woven cloth. But I also like muga silk from Assam obtained from killing millions of silkworms.

I know chemical colours are bad, and hence white is most eco-friendly. But I love fuschia. And lemon green.

I like flat sandals because they are cheap, I can walk miles in them. But I love stilettos.

I respect the Maoists but I do not like them being violent with poor tribals.

I think simple marriages are best. But I'd like to have a good mehendi evening full of dance on the day before my wedding.

I think in English, and can impress boys with nice English words. But I know that without Assamese language, I am rootless.

I respect all politicians and senior police men. But I do not respect their lies, hypocrisy, violence, manipulations.

I hate Mumbai for its traffic and apathy. Yet, I cannot see Mumbai not knowing about the beautiful India that I travel through.

I support the India Against Corruption campaign, but I know that its middle-class supporters are equally corrupt too.

I love Delhi for its wide roads, gardens, open spaces, old Dilli charm. But I hate the expensive transport system.

I do not like the Congress. But I still hope and want Rahul Gandhi to be the Prime Minister, to bring in some youthful ideas to our country.

I stand up for women's rights. But I will wear my bra too and shop for it with utmost care.

I cannot live by excluding some ideas, in order to include some other ideas, into my life.

My honey is your poison. My poison is your honey.

And someday, I might campaign for your poison because it is healthier than my honey.

Am I a hypocrite? I think I'm just being honest.

Am I a bad person because my interests and disinterests are conflicting? I'm just being honest.

All I know is this: I cannot live in isolation. I cannot live in rejection.

Embrace. Embrace. Embrace.

This is about me. Or you too?

Condom Madam

2011-06-30T20:10:00.001+05:30

(This article first appeared in OPEN magazine: Vol 03, Issue 13, dated June 29 - July 5, 2011)

How one sex worker reformed a brothel in Sangli by counting condoms collected in a bucket

Brothels are dirty places. In Kamathipura, India’s most famous red light area, you will find torn condoms and gutka packets strewn around, paint peeling off damp walls, and posters of C-grade films ripped strategically at the breast or crotch of the actress. There are few condom-vending machines. Then you notice the women—cigarettes dangling from their betel-red lips or between thin fingers with long nails, midriffs exposed, chests protruding from tiny blouses, and a blazing arrogance writ large on their faces. In the brothels of Kolhapur, pigs and women dot the periphery of the road; the pigs scout through the drains, the women scout for customers.

Sangli is clean. It begins with the railway station, which has been awarded the second cleanest station’s title in Maharashtra. A five-minute auto-rickshaw ride takes you to Dusshera Chowk. Through clean roads canopied by huge trees, you arrive at a small junction. A clean swept road from there leads to Sangli’s red light area. Pink doors on pink walls flank the street. There are no open drains with floating condoms in them. A decorative rangoli adorns the doorstep of every house. A few young girls stand next to a door, waiting for customers. Most others are busy with the chores that keep any housewife busy every morning—washing utensils and clothes, running after children, cooking meals, and taking dried clothes off the clothesline. Another lot are languidly grooming themselves—some women are combing their hair, some are painting their nails, and some are pouting their lips with a tiny mirror in one hand and lipstick in the other.

Until about 20 years ago, most people in this place walked with hands covering their nose and mouth. Today, there is a general aura of calm.

+++

A deep female baritone rings out from behind one of the lattice windows. There are a few sandals outside the door. You take yours off, notice the walls covered with portraits of young girls, and then your eyes move left towards the source of the voice. Her stout body sitting on the bed takes most of the space, with a hand rubbing her knee. A frail boy sits next to her, oscillating between reading a book with pictures and watching a dance show on TV. The lady signals a plastic chair to be brought, and, after the pleasantries, a girl wearing a neatly pinned sari brings in tea. “She is my daughter. I have so many daughters here. Rafiq is my only son,” says Bandawa Madam alias Amirbi Sikander Sheikh, rubbing the boy’s head. The girl standing with the tea tray beams. Another girl comes to greet me with a namaste, while two others peep in from the door.

Suddenly, Rafiq gets up and runs out with his book, calling out another boy’s name. And then Madam says quickly, “His mother died of AIDS. She hardly used the condom, despite my telling her repeatedly. Then he was born, and he had AIDS too. I send him to school but haven’t told the teachers yet. But I do not want any more AIDS in Dusshera Chowk.” The end of the sentence is almost a growl. “Today, my girls will refuse any customer who will not wear a condom.”

Two decades ago, when Madam was just 18, she eloped with a boy, but he was too scared to marry her. She couldn’t go back to her parents and so she decided to stay on in Dusshera Chowk, doing sundry jobs. Eventually, she became a sex worker. Seven years into the business, she saw contemporaries suddenly falling ill, developing blisters in their mouth and on their tongue, and then becoming just a memory sooner than expected. “The fat girls suddenly became sticks. Then someone said it was AIDS. We had never heard of it before. We never thought that our work could kill us,” she says.

She began to work with Sangram, an organisation in Sangli promoting awareness about HIV and AIDS. That’s where she first encountered the condom. “I thought ‘What kind of weird sticky rubber is this?’ But then, since we were getting it free, I decided to try it,” she says, “I eventually understood that it was for my protection as a sex worker.”

She took it upon herself to teach other girls how to use condoms. And also the customers who strode in. “Sex workers saw condoms as a hurdle not just to the sexual act, but to their business,” she says, “The girls would argue that asking the man to wear a condom was as good as showing him the door and not earning anything. They thought that the pleasure of sex would be lost if a condom was worn.”

Since most of the girls were from next-door Karnataka, they spoke only Kannada. Talking about condoms in Marathi or broken-Kannada was not really helping her get the message across to other sex workers. So she had an innovative idea.

“I bought two huge plastic buckets and put them in an intersection of the lanes. I told the girls to throw used condoms into the buckets. Around midnight, I would ask the girls about the number of customers they’d had. Then, I would thrust my hand into the bins, pull out the used condoms, and count them. If it did not tally with the number the girls had told me, it meant someone did not get her customer to use a condom. I just had to call out once, and the errant girl would apologise. If they address me as ‘Maa’, then I have every right to scold them.” She is the boss of about 200 girls now, most of whom are from Karnataka’s Devdasi tradition, with tiny white beads on a red cord around their necks identifying their lineage.

Madam’s efforts took three years to come good. Today, none of the women will ‘bithao’ (seat—for sex) a customer who refuses to wear a condom. But are the men willing to oblige? “Not if they are very drunk,” says Madam. So she does what a good mother will do for her daughters—she screens the customers. By 6 pm, Madam settles herself under a big tree at the entrance of her territory. Every prospective customer has to pass her screening—essentially, an assessment of his level of inebriation. “No man comes to a brothel unless he has had some alcohol,” she says, “I look at a man and I can tell how drunk he is. If he is too drunk, then obviously he won’t be able to wear the condom. Then I send him back, even if that means shouting and pushing him away. For the rest, I ask if they are carrying condoms, though my girls are well stocked in any case.”

Many a times, girls have had to show the door to rich customers who try offering more money for condomless sex. “My man asks me, ‘Why do I have to wear the condom even after being with you for so many years? Don’t you trust me?’ I say that this is the way it needs to be, because I do not want him to bring in diseases from his wife,” she says.

At some point, Bandawa split from Sangram. “I am my own boss; I didn’t like being instructed on how to do work anymore,” she says. In 2004, she started the Vaishya Mahila AIDS Nirmulan Kendra, and had it registered two years ago. She doesn’t reveal how large her family is, or how many condoms are found in the bins every night. “There was once a raid in 2007 because cops thought we had minor girls here,” she says, “Several of my girls were in jail and their children were hungry. I had to sit on a fast until the girls were released. Society will not remove poverty, but when we want to earn a living, they say we are bad.”

Over at Sangram, Bandawa is no longer a popular figure. Meena Seshu, director of Sangram, calls her a publicity hound. “She wants to hog the limelight, and is way too friendly with the cops,” says Seshu, “She wants to be a domineering force among her girls, and keeps saying that Dusshera Chowk is the only clean brothel in Sangli. But she forgets that it was Sangram, 20 years ago, which undertook the work of communicating with the girls of Gokul Nagar—the other brothel in Sangli—to ensure cleanliness and hygiene. We get 350,000 free condoms a month from the government, but Bandawa also gets her girls to sell condoms to customers. That is strictly against the principles of Sangram.”

What no one disputes, however, is that Bandawa is committed to her girls. She is also, in her own little way, trying to give her sex workers a measure of literacy. The effort began with the girls asking her to teach them how to identify the buses they would take to their hometowns in Karnataka. For about three years now, 10 sex workers have been teaching about 50 of their illiterate sisters to read and write. From 4 pm to 6 pm daily, they use a backboard outside a tea stall to impart maths and alphabet lessons. “The girls can now read bus destinations and do a little maths,” says Madam, “But I want them to learn how to speak English.”

After school, it is time for business. Time to dress up, apply make-up, solicit customers, strike deals, provide sex, collect money, solicit men, strike deals, provide sex… the day’s business ends with used condoms going into the buckets. A man has now been hired to collect the used condoms from the buckets, for which the girls pay him Rs 10 each every month.

Apart from this monthly fee, the girls shell out Rs 20-25 every Diwali season to give their tiny home-cum-workplace a facelift. “I get all the houses painted pink at Diwali. Why shouldn’t we?” says Madam, “The whole world looks down upon sex workers, although sex is such a basic thing. People see such violence against women, they see them raped, but society doesn’t want to help girls who come here out of poverty.”

+++

Inside the rooms, the curtains are colourful and frilly, the bedsheets clean, and the walls plastered with posters of Bollywood actors and actresses. Ornate photo frames hold photographs of the girls’ families or of them in pleasant poses. Sharing space with shining steel utensils are bottles of nail polish, lipstick, bangles, packs of bindis, combs and mirrors. The cement floor is shiny and smooth. Every morning, the entrance to their house is swept, and water is thrown to settle the dust before white rangoli floor patterns are made outside the door. Some are simple designs with dots, others are elaborate. The white particles merge with the dried dust by late noon, when the girls begin to head out for school.

Quite a few women in Dusshera Chowk can read and write today. They send their children to schools in the vicinity. Geeta Osmani’s seven-year-old daughter studies in a Kannada-medium school. Geeta was a Devdasi who came to Dusshera Chowk when she was 18 and illiterate. “After having worked for 11 years here, I have made enough money to educate my daughter,” says Geeta, who likes to watch her doing homework, “She needs to study her mother tongue, and so I have enrolled her in a Kannada-medium school. Next year, I will send her back to my village to complete her studies. We women are happy here, but I want her to be as far away from my place of work as possible.”

Madam sees literacy as an obvious tool of empowerment. Yet, it is the condom that holds the key. “No wife dares tell her husband to wear a condom, but my girls can tell another woman’s husband to do so. No mother tells her son to wear a condom, but we teach boys how to become men. Who is more empowered—the housewife or us?”

It’s time for me to leave. I thank Madam, and she asks me to come again. And then, for the first time, her voice turns mellow: “I want to start a playschool for the smaller children. Can you get some help for the children?”

Broadcasting Dantewada

2011-06-03T06:11:00.000+05:30

(This was first published in the June 2011 edition of Himal Southasian magazine.)

Earlier, what went on in the jungle remained in the jungle. But no longer.

On 27 March, Anil Bamne gave a missed call to a Bangalore number from his mobile phone. Within ten seconds, he received a call back and, moments later, he had recorded a news report detailing how children less than five years old had been going hungry for the past five months in Bahaud, a village in Chhattisgarh. Bamne’s report described how the children were sitting throughout the day in their aanganwadi – a government-sponsored childcare centre – playing with mud, while the food packets meant for them had never arrived, beyond a few bags of puffed rice. Two weeks after Bamne’s report, food materials reached the aanganwadi. A government programme officer later told a journalist that, although he had been in his position for three years, he visited Bahaud for the first time, thanks to the news story.

This and similar reports have been made possible due to a mobile-phone-based ‘citizen journalism’ system called CGNet Swara. Here, CG stands for Central Gondwana, referring to the area that takes in parts of Chhattisgarh, Maharashtra and Madhya Pradesh; swara means voice. Despite this geographical designation, since February 2010, CGNet Swara – a free service – has offered a journalistic platform to any caller anywhere in India.

This is how the system works. If a caller has a story to report, or simply wants to hear the news, he or she gives a missed call to a Bangalore-based server number – 08041137280 – and waits to receive a call back. The caller can then choose to listen to reports recorded by others, or record their own piece of news, or even a song or bit of poetry. After a few hours, the recorded news is aired for the world to listen, either over the phone or via the organisation’s website, www.cgnetswara.org. The gap of a few hours allows CGNet Swara’s editor to check the credibility of the reports, a critical element when callers are leaving significant information about, for instance, violence or corruption. In the year-plus that it has been operating, CGNet Swara has become a potent source of news for journalists and a major tool for activists. It woke up the Chhattisgarh government to realise that there is indeed a malaria crisis in the state, for instance, when 47 malaria deaths were reported from just one of the state’s 18 districts.

The project is the brainchild of Shubhranshu Choudhary, a former BBC journalist who developed the service while he was on a Knight Journalism Fellowship that began in 2010. A native of Chhattisgarh, Choudhary says that he had watched the shift in Adivasi support from a negligent government to the Maoists. ‘Our system wants the tribals to give up their oral culture and be textbook educated,’ he said. ‘The tribal population in central India numbers nine crore, and we do not have a single AIR [All India Radio] bulletin in a tribal language. There is a major communication gap here.’ Choudhary continues: ‘In the end, the tribals have no one to talk to. Who will then listen to them? The Maoists, of course.’ Choudhary says that he sees journalism as one of the least democratic sectors in India.

News For Some
The burgeoning Adivasi allegiance to the Maoists surged when the government signed several new agreements with mining companies that would permanently disenfranchise communities of their land – some 300,000 people in nearly 650 villages, according to estimates. As Maoist activity rose, riding on the back of this growing public frustration, Choudhary says that he observed a simultaneous rise in important news stories going either unheard or, at best, wrongly reported and misinterpreted.

‘The Central Gondwana region is categorised as among the most backward regions of the country,’ he says. ‘The media reports emerging would mostly reflect only the official version. And we have missed the community radio bus. Today, news all over the Internet is legal, but news on the radio is illegal. I know of many men who can make a radio for just 100 rupees, but that has been made illegal. The government wants us to buy transmitters from only licensed vendors – who, of course, sell it at a high price. How then can news be for everyone?’ While Choudhary says that newspapers were a ‘revolutionary medium’ many years ago, ‘Today we need to go beyond the newspaper and make use of the mobile phone, short wave radio, the Internet and oral traditions. In that respect, Swara is a mere experiment in democratising the process of broadcasting news.’

In early 2010, he began training 33 people on how to use CGNet Swara. At that time, the participants were mostly working in Chhattisgarh on various community issues. ‘During the second day of the workshop,’ Choudhary recalls, ‘I realised that asking them to write the news and then speaking it aloud lacked in spontaneity. The tribal communities have an oral culture, which is their essence.’ So, he let the participants ‘speak on their own, asking them to narrate like they would have done it before their family and friends. The idea was to lower the entry barrier into journalism.’ The first batch would talk about Swara wherever they went, and that is how the news trickled in.

Today, the Swara website is overflowing with reports of various stripe, in the primary area of Central Gondwana and beyond. The stories cover, for instance, non-payment of NREGA wages, illegal stone quarrying in Rajasthan, women digging their own bore well in Andhra Pradesh, the push against unfurling of the Indian flag in Assam for Republic Day, Santhali men and women dancing in sub-zero temperature, public anger against new coalmines, anti-liquor campaigns, children’s hopes for their schools, and more.

Given his journalistic background, Choudhary says, he understands the importance of credibility. As such, he has focused on building a wide network of sources who can vet and verify the news posted on Swara. In mid-March, for instance, he began receiving reports of arson, murder and rape taking place by Salwa Judum in Tadmetla, Timmapur and Morpalli; some 300 homes were gutted by fire, while three women had been raped and at least two men murdered. Choudhary says he sat on each of these stories for a week so they could be verified. But almost immediately after these reports were posted, journalists from prominent newspapers began to highlight the ongoing stories. Eventually, the incident led to the superintendent of Police of Dantewada, S R P Kalluri, and the collector, R Prasanna, to be transferred for neglecting to check the abuses; the state government has also ordered an enquiry into the matter.

New Voices
Prior to Swara, Choudhary had tried to connect Chhattisgarh through the Internet, by moderating a Yahoo! Group where people would send news about Chhattisgarh and discuss the issues. However, that still did not cater to Adivasi communities. After all, India does not have a single Adivasi journalist from central India. When Swara was born, the network of these people who had been connecting over the previous eight years began to help Choudhary to verify facts and vet the stories. ‘If there was a news item about a certain incident in a village in Bijapur,’ Choudhary says, ‘I would call up the most reliable person there to check for such an incident.’

Clearly, Swara’s verification process leans on the robust wall of goodwill and the keen outlook of all concerned citizens, however, not necessarily Adivasis – a fact with which Choudhary is clearly uncomfortable. Eventually, the idea is for Swara to become system with many more ‘citizen journalists’, and with Adivasi youths themselves acting as moderators. For now, for instance, Choudhary has to rely on just one person, Himanshu Kumar, for translations into Gondi. (Kumar is an activist who had lived and worked in Dantewada for 17 years before he was thrown out of the state for raising questions about the Salwa Judum.) Choudhary says he now intends to conduct workshops with Adivasis from different parts of the country, who would be given basic training on reporting with an eye to becoming moderators for multiple language channels on Swara.

Still, for now Swara’s numbers are impressive, if nascent. Since its inception, more than 31,000 calls are reported to have been received (both to report and to listen), about 17,000 of which have come in since the beginning of this year. About 800 news reports have been published during that time. Choudhary says that he has received some opposition to Swara’s work, as well, though he brushes this off by saying that the project is fuelled by the possibility of shaking up callous government institutions. ‘Waking up the authorities and getting them to do their job right,’ he says ‘that’s what gives the people the hope that their basic needs can be fulfilled.’

~Priyanka Borpujari is an independent journalist based in Mumbai.

The Call of the Camera

2011-05-07T12:21:00.002+05:30

(This article first appeared in OPEN magazine: Vol 03, Issue 6, dated May 11-17, 2011)

When Rajesh Jala made one documentary on the son of a militant and another on children who stole shrouds for a living, he didn’t expect the films to transform their lives, least of all his own

In May 2004, Rajesh Jala was walking along Srinagar’s Dal Lake with a camera when he saw a little kid scooping water out of a boat. Jala began to photograph him. The kid, seeing his journo jacket and long hair, mistook him for a foreigner and started speaking in broken English—only to be surprised when Jala replied in Kashmiri.

The kid asked whether Jala wanted a ride. Surprised that someone so young could handle the boat, he was thinking it over when another boy came running and warned him against it. The kid had drowned a customer a few days ago, he said. Jala turned a little cautious, but some instinct made him accept the offer. Thus did they embark on what turned out to be a long boat ride. Arif, the kid, was a very good boatman, it turned out.

Jala, a Kashimiri Pandit, had grown up without a mother, and, uprooted from Kashmir in the mid-1990s, he had lived with several Kashmiri families in a cramped hall in a Delhi refugee camp, constantly yearning for his father. Something about Arif struck a chord. The kid was his family’s sole breadwinner, and when Jala met Arif’s mother Farida, he was instantly drawn to their story. “Farida had been kidnapped as a 12-year-old by a militant, and then gave birth to his first child two years later,” says Jala, “Today, in her thirties, she is the mother of five children.”

Jala just knew he had to make a documentary on the family. “It was very difficult for me to come to terms with her story, but I was selfishly involved in my film. I could understand her misery, but did not allow myself to contemplate her misery.” His effort, Floating Lamp of the Shadow Valley, came out in 2006.

Later the same year, Jala wanted to make a film on Varanasi but did not know how to go about it. He was there for a month, and began visiting cremation grounds. On the second or third day, he saw a little boy snatching a shroud off a corpse and going to his gang of friends. Intrigued, Jala followed the group. There were seven of them—Ravi, Gagan, Sunil, Yogi, Kapil, Manish and Ashish. He struck up a conversation, and became friends with them. He realised that the children regularly stole shrouds and sold them. They fed their families this way. The story of another documentary was staring at him.

Manikarnika Ghat is Varanasi’s busiest cremation ground, with over 100 bodies cremated daily. It is especially hot here in the summer, when temperatures rise to nearly 50º Celsius. “I kept wondering if I would be able to shoot there,” he says, “Then I thought, if these little kids are earning their livelihood here and surviving this place, then why can’t I just shoot this film?” Jala’s Children of the Pyre came out in 2008.

There is nothing to connect the seven boys of Varanasi with Arif of Kashmir, except that the real life sequel to their lives has been similar—the films changed the future of all of them. After the screenings and many awards that the films fetched, none of the eight children are doing what they were when Jala met them.

Jala says he got involved with their future once he began questioning his own motives. During a conversation, Yogi, one of the shroud thieves, had told him that he wanted to escape the cremation ground but his parents forced him to earn money this way. “That echoed in my mind. I realised that these kids needed help,” he says. Also, he felt guilty of having taken advantage of them. “I had this big dream of being a filmmaker since I was 12. When I first met these children, I had a purely selfish reason to make the film. I wanted to make a film that would have an interesting story to engage audiences with, that would also fetch me some money, awards and critical acclaim… But in both cases, especially when I was making Children of the Pyre over 18 months, I developed a deep bond with them. I initially thought that when I sell this film, I would give a certain portion of the profits to these kids. But I wasn’t sure whether anyone would buy a film of this kind.”

Jala’s friendship with the kids grew stronger once he realised how completely they had put their faith in him. They began to give him missed calls when he would get back to Delhi. On calling them back, they would ask him when he would return to meet them, and request him to bring along some clothes or sweets. Though he was giving them some money for their participation in the film, he wondered whether he was exploiting them. “Justifying my actions wasn’t easy. It was okay to give them the little money I was, but eventually, I knew that I was the one gaining the most from the film. So I had to answer that question of my conscience.”

Arif today goes to a private school and has a tutor to guide him. “I assured his mother that I would help them on the condition that he would stop rowing the boat,” says Jala. The boy was miserable at being told he couldn’t row anymore, but Jala says it was important to ensure his future. “Besides, the boat was also in very bad condition, so they couldn’t pull it anymore.” Some friends of Jala who saw the movie donated money to the family. One lady from the US gave $550 in 2007, which ensured that their entire expenses were taken care of for the year. “A publisher friend of mine is now taking care of Arif’s school and tutor fees for a year. But it is complex, giving the family money—the father would snatch it away. Immediately after I had made the film, I opened a bank account in Farida’s name. I direct people to that account when they want to offer help. Last summer, they received two big cheques after a screening in Chennai.”

Children of the Pyre also did well for its subjects. Thanks to its release, in 2009, Plan International, an organisation working to relieve children of poverty, launched the Bhagirathi Project to transform the lives of 300 children working in different ghats of Varanasi, including these seven kids. They don’t give money, but empower them with skills.

Jala was grateful, but didn’t feel it was enough for the seven children. “My immediate concern was to stop these kids from going to the cremation ground. Bhagirathi Project did not yield that result because the kids were still going to there for their livelihood. So I had to find some money that would help them run their families some other way.”

Jala himself is not rich. To make Children of the Pyre, for example, he had to use the money he’d saved to buy a flat. The Best Documentary Award at the Montreal World Film Festival in 2008 came as vindication. After that, whenever the film would be screened anywhere in the world, he would get an overwhelming response, and people would come asking for ways to help these kids. After a screening in New York, a man called Kevin contacted him and offered to educate the Varanasi children. Three of them had crossed that age when they’d want to study, but there was hope for the other four. Kevin found a boarding school in Sarnath run by an Italian man, and the four children have been admitted. As for the elder three, Jala is trying to help out in other ways. “We sent them for English-speaking courses, but they didn’t do well there either. They are not disciplined kids. Their lives can get on track only if I have a more active role in Varanasi. One plan is now to give them driver’s training, and then we could perhaps arrange the capital investment to get them auto rickshaws through a loan, which they could then repay on their own. It’s not final, but I don’t see any other way out. Except for Gagan—I am very keen to see him as a dancer, but it’s all about his own commitment.”

In Children of the Pyre, one of the younger kids, Sunil, says, “I don’t love my father.” That is also what Arif says in Floating Lamp of the Shadow Valley. Jala says such moments make him look back at his own dark times. “Working with these children brought back memories of growing up in Kashmir without a mother and an absentee father. In some ways, we were all in the same boat, in different circumstances and at different times. Perhaps this made it easy for me to relate to the kids.”

Whenever Children of the Pyre is screened, Jala says he is typically asked if the experience has changed him. “Considering all the struggles that I have gone through in my childhood and youth, the experience of working with these children has made me very conscious of complaining. I do complain, but now my thoughts immediately go to these kids and their struggles. I am not saying that both these films have changed my life, but… Earlier, I would look back at my childhood and pity myself for having been through hell. Now when I try to do that, which is rare, I realise my agony as a child pales in comparison with theirs. In a way, therefore, these two films are the beginning of what I am.”

Dr Binayak Sen, Perhaps It's Time For 'Goodbye India'?

2011-04-21T13:15:00.003+05:30

Dear Baba,

Everything pales to the warm feeling of returning home. If leaving home means the search for wisdom, then returning home means wisdom soaked under the skin. One hundred and fourteen days spent behind some crude bars, with a stone slab for a bed, a window perhaps to let the eyes travel far, watery or burnt rice as nourishment for the body, and those minutes and hours and days that crawl and whoosh by alternatively -- you surely need rest back at home. Your eyes looked tired in a video made almost immediately after you had reached home in Raipur.

But Baba, as I like to address you with as much love and respect as the civil society does, I take the liberty of sounding like I have been hallucinating. Of course, with a country like ours where one feels empowered on receiving a pizza in less than 30 minutes, but feels impotent on having the ambulance arrive not before 60 minutes, words like 'freedom' and 'equality' and many other simple big words provide that hallucinating experience. But, I will let myself 'hallucinate' aloud: I think it is time you left this country where you were born, educated, worked, served, idolised, harassed, implicated, jailed, and finally freed, which gave the people of this country an illusion of a just judiciary.

I know how you would cringe when people would shower you with laudatory words of praise. I know how you would just listen quietly to anyone who had much to say. You listened, absorbing every word, as though it were a patient's faint heart beat or deep sigh of pain. And when you spoke, not a pin would be dropped around. But I guess, that's the problem with idolising someone -- we listen, feel charged like that moment of orgasm, and then walk home enlightened but confused about action.

Yet, there will be many who know exactly what you are talking about. Doctors, for example. The website of the Medical Council of India lists 314 recognised colleges which offer undergraduate MBBS courses, and many more which offer PG courses. Your specialisation of Paediatrics alone is taught in 214 colleges. Now, let's assume that each college has an intake of 50 students, which is the number of seats available at the prestigious AIIMS in Delhi. In a year, we then ought to have a minimum of 15,700 MBBS doctors graduating each year. Even if we have half the number of confident Paediatricians graduating each year, why do we still see that of those infants who were lucky to be born alive, 63 of every 1,000 of them die before they cut their first birthday cake? If doctors remember what they had studied, how come do they forget the Hippocratic Oath ever so often -- when they insist that forms be filled before an accident patient is looked upon; when they write references faster than writing their signatures, when they know best that just one bottle of IV drip would provide much-needed instant relief to the dehydrated patient; when they confuse their diagnosis upon assessing the lifestyle and thus the class of the patient; when they give 2 Crocin pills and take Rs 150 from a farmer who can at best offer 2 handfuls of rice?

Despite this grim picture, I had heard of many doctors who chose to go to places where a majority of India resides. Yet when I met you, and got to know you better through your daughter with whom I share some enjoyable girly moments, my one deep regret in life began to resurface: why didn't I study few more extra hours to get into a medical school? Why did I instead write songs and poetry and stories? Why didn't I learn more about the difference between xylem and phloem to understand how chlorophyll would makes its passageway through them? (You see, even if I wanted to be a doctor for human beings, I had to learn about plants first. Never mind.) Why didn't I try to understand the intricacies of the carbon and nitrogen cycles? But I sure did enjoy poring over the diagrams, and would be waiting for the day when we would be shown the diagrams come to life and see the various mechanisms of our bodies play out before my eyes.

Most of my friends at that time drank Horlicks every morning to be able to cram up organic chemistry formulae. I hated Horlicks; a bottle of Bournvita was put on my table instead. I preferred to cut out the wrapper and make snow flakes out of them. I'd spend more time at the Zoology lab watching the different bottles filled with formaldehyde, which had many dead foetuses (would they have been cute babies with black eyes and curly hair?), during their different stages of growth. I drew each of them, while my friends listened to long lectures. I waited desperately for the experiment when we would have had to dissect a cockroach, goroi fish, and a frog's thigh muscle. I had made deals with some classmates: they would complete my magnetism and electricity experiments for Physics, while I would do all the dissection for them, draw all of their diagrams and leave the miniscule work of writing to them. I think I could have been a doctor.

My family in Assam is full of doctors. Almost all of them had cleared their exams with nice numbers before they began to practise medicine in a hospital or in private clinics. Almost all of them would bring their own loved ones to places like Delhi and Mumbai for treatment -- they never trusted themselves or their colleagues. Every news of a relative's death would be followed by either of these statements -- the doctor couldn't diagnose on time; the doctor diagnosed the myocardial infarction (heart attack) as acidity; the doctor wouldn't come late at night because it was raining. And this isn't because the relatives live in villages -- they have good jobs with the government, they own at least one car, they have palatial houses, they eat meat and fish daily, they throw big weddings for their children. The Guwahati Medical College spews out 156 doctors each year; 170 doctors graduate from the Dibrugarh Medical college. Yet, doctors within the family were sceptical of the idea of my father visiting Assam, after he had had a bypass surgery, a failed kidney and pulmonary oedema (water in the lungs) -- they knew that no doctor would be able to touch him if there was an emergency. But I wonder, is it really possible to make palatial homes by just treating patients with Crocin? So what did they really study in the medical school?

Okay I understand the need to make decent money, to live up to the dream of a glowing India. And I do understand that it is much easier to work with bottles of blue Sterillium around, to sanitise the hands before entering a patient's cabin, before wearing the gloves, after wearing the gloves, after shaking hands with an educated and English-speaking patient, after taking the gloves off, and after leaving the patient's cabin. But what about the 'type' of people you worked among, Baba? They may have at best offered you just a 'lota' of water to wash your hands after you had wiped the phlegm and blood off the nose of a little crying thin doll. But you know, every now and then, when I read those philosophical musings that one ought not to regret anything in life, I make this plan in my head: suppose I zero on this little village (or even a slum settlement in many of our shining cities). Suppose I am able to convince 12 doctors working in some Sterillium-smelling and sea-viewing hospital to bring for themselves a lot of genuine blessings. Suppose I am able to get a lot of doctors to give me the free sample medicines that they get from MRs. Suppose I am able to get each of the doctors to sacrifice their one month's salary and comfortable life in the city. Suppose I am able to get a room free in that village, from among the relatively richest person there, for the doctor to stay. Suppose that doctor is given his food on time, while he meets patients, talk to the poor, offers them advice of ways to have a healthy diet within their limited grains and vegetables and the occasional egg. Suppose I am able to continue this every month, year on year, with the same set of doctors or new ones. I am not asking anyone to sacrifice any lifestyle for all their lives. I am not asking any doctor to offer his daughter's bed to check an emergency patient, like you have done so many times. All I am asking for is a chain reaction for health. Is this possible?

But I think it would be best that you not spend more time thinking of solutions or possibilities of my mad ideas. It is best that you leave for a foreign university, and spend your days talking about malnutrition in India, and spend the evenings discussing it again during gatherings meant to honour your release from the jail. I guess you should have done that years ago, like most doctors have done. Because if you continue to stay here, we the young and the not-so-young will continue to idolise you, talk about your work, but would never venture to walk your path. Other than campaigning for your release and then shouting slogans further idolising you (which embarrasses you no end, for you are just a doctor doing your work), it is time you expect something more from the middle class Indians.

Very soon, you will be invited to talk at different forums about your stint in the jail. You will be asked to comment on Anna Hazare's fasting with a fixed smile which gave the media enough fodder to be sandwiched between the World Cup and the IPL. (Oh, while you were behind bars because the patriot in you couldn't bear to see violence, India won the World Cup, and we celebrated on the streets by scaring the Sri Lankan team and their families on the bus while they were leaving the stadium. We went a step further in being patriotic: we shouted slogans against Pakistan, and we yelled out "Leave India" to any 'gora' that we saw on the streets. The cops were out to ensure that we would have a peaceful frenzy to celebrate, and the next day, the site for most revolutions - Facebook - was filled with colourful abuses against the teams that India defeated. The 'patriotism' was reaching unbelievable heights: people spent Rs 25,000 for a ticket that was originally priced at Rs 10,000.) You will be asked to comment on a book written about you. You will be asked to comment on Jaitapur, Dantewada, Kashmir, Forest Rights Act and much more. But I know you will patiently reply to each of them, choosing your precise words of expression. But that's about it. Your words would stir some, but not the students from the medical colleges across the country who have been agitating against being posted in rural areas. They prefer to treat lifestyle diseases like diabetes and hypertension, rather than really prevent illnesses in the first place.

We are all happy that the Supreme Court has released you on bail. The activist brigade is singing and dancing, before hitting the road with slogans that nobody wants to read or hear, for the next big 'mudda', or writing long petitions to be sent to the President hiding behind her Kaanjivaram veil. But it would be practical that you stay safe. It would be practical that the country decides to wake up to the grim realities you have been talking about. If your work was so good, why are we so lazy to be inspired to really work like you have done? Haven't we all read enough of human rights abuse reports and newspaper articles and theories about 'paradigm shifts'? When will we stop reading and start implementing on what have we read? Hence I say, because I love you, and idolise you, and want you to feel content that hordes will walk up to the weak of our society -- you need to pack your bags for a long holiday. Unless you stop working, nobody else will.

Would I have been a good doctor? I don't know. But today, where I stand on my life's quicksand, I do know this: when I see your eyes well up each time you talk about violence, I know that those tears are juices of strength to keep you walking where you walk. And I am glad that my tear glands are functional too, each time I sit down to write about yet another smiling bony tribal kid. Three days ago, I heard children from the Bareli tribe in Madhya Pradesh singing out songs of revolution in their language. And then, to honour my presence in their soul-rich and belly-poor lives, the sung to me Joan Baez's "We shall overcome." No, not the Hindi "Hum honge kaamyaab", but the English "We shall overkummmm". Through the hot tears, I was fortified with hope again, just when I was swinging between losing my head and losing all hope. But I have wiped my tears for now, and hence I say this -- unless you make your visits to the embassies, nobody will make their visits to real India.

With love, and in anticipation of your ever-warm hug,

Just another fan -- Priyanka

The Traffic Jam That Was Not

2011-04-02T19:18:00.001+05:30

(This article originally appeared in Tehelka: Vol. 8 Issue 14, dated April 9, 2011)

After walking hundreds of kilometres, an Adivasi rally arrives in Mumbai. PRIYANKA BORPUJARI tells their story — of a historic victory and a brush with urban callousness

ON 14 MARCH, about 20,000 Adivasi women and men from all over Maharashtra walked hundreds of kilometres, across the state, to Shivaji Park in Mumbai. The next day, they began their march to Azad Maidan. They had been walking for two weeks. And now, finally, they were in the capital: 20,000 tired but determined protestors of the Jungle Haq Sangharsh Yatra.

For urban spectators, the rally would have been remarkable for its size and spectacle; but mostly all they saw was jammed traffic and delayed transit. Few seemed to care what the march was really about. Even a prominent news daily saw it fit to report on the traffic jams and inconvenience to urban Mumbaikars without looking wider or deeper. The truth is, this massive rally of Adivasi people, far from being beaten into dispersal, as is often the case with protest marches, was escorted by non-aggressive police. And surprisingly, in the searing 38-degree heat, several MLAs in immaculate white accompanied the marathon walkers into Azad Maidan. Was this a rare moment of people’s power peacefully gaining a firm handle on a government ready to run for cover?

It was the Maharashtra government’s neglectful and callous attitude towards the implementation of the Forest Rights Act of 2006, which had seeded this strong and spectacular protest. The Act had promised to rectify decades of injustice, and validate the right of Adivasis over the land and forest that they have lived in for generations. However, negligible justice has been delivered since. Of the 2.88 lakh forest land claims that had reached the Sub-Divisional Level Committees, 1.7 lakh had been rejected. Further, the average area of approved claims (0.63 hectares) was not even 50 per cent of an economic holding. Many of the “approved” cases bear closer examination; an Adivasi may be in possession of 3 acres of land, have half an acre ‘approved’ and still face eviction from the remaining 2.5 acres.

Chief Minister Prithviraj Chavan had apparently earlier requested that the rally should not enter Mumbai. This may have pleased harassed urbanites complaining “protests must happen without inconveniencing the common man”; it seemed no matter that the protesting common man — the Adivasis, rooted to their land for generations — had been indefinitely deprived of their very right to life and livelihood.

However, the Chief Minister had offered to meet the protestors twice and subsequently the Yatra’s representatives were invited to a long meeting with the Chief Minister, Deputy CM, six other ministers and several senior bureaucrats. This high-level political engagement was finally recognition of the determination of the Adivasi protest. The Chief Minister and Chief Secretary agreed that there was injustice in the large-scale rejection of the Adivasi claims to their land and that a review process was required. The Chief Secretary pointed out that there was no procedure for reviewing rejected claims. The political contingent tried to persuade the rally to withdraw their protest, vowing action would be taken. But this proved too vague a promise. The rally would continue in its journey for justice. In Thane on 11 March, the Minister of State for Tribal Development Rajendra Gavit arrived to address the tribals — and also persuaded them to return home. But no one was ready to stop walking. Not until they had been heard. Ulka Mahajan of Sarvahara Jan Andolan, a participating group, said, “Tribals have been on these so-called forest lands for more than a century, long before the government came into existence. But still the lands are not in their name. Sixty years after independence, this is historical injustice. The Act was brought about to undo this injustice. However, it is not being implemented due to several interests involved. Now we hope that there will be the political will to right the wrongs.”

IT WAS in this mood of mountain-moving focus that the rally arrived in Mumbai to assert ‘Adivasi asmita’ or tribal identity in a gargantuan system that barely accounted for their existence. Although jaded and jolted by the city, the tribals persistently coloured Mumbai’s streets with their caps and flags. Led by women holding a banner, the Bhute dancers from Nandurbar and Mawchi tribesmen followed. In the spectacle of painted bodies, turbans with feathers, waists decorated with strings of dried gourd and ghungroos, a sea of banners from participating organisations surged across the urban landscape; slogans emanated from a loudspeaker on a truck. This procession was followed by about 10,000 women rallyists.

Disciplined, the walkers did not veer off their files. When people attempted to cross the road, the women chased them down. “We have been walking for 14 days to talk to the government. Why can’t you respect our wishes?” yelled Raju. However, the walkers did not disconnect from their innate integrity; they waited for a funeral procession to pass. “We are walking for our lives; they are walking for the dead. We cannot be disrespectful,” said Kalawati from Dahanu. Raju stopped the men he was leading to allow school children to cross the road. Many watched from their balconies — a tide of people, some barefoot, braving the burning asphalt of the JJ Flyover.

Sunni from Nandurbar, whose land claim had been rejected, asked with bemusement, “Why do they say you get everything in Mumbai?” Sunni’s sojourn in Mumbai convinced her that it was a place without clean water. The drinking water tanker in Shivaji Park had emanated a strong stench. With the crush for bathrooms, very few could bathe before heading out for the rally. “Walking from our villages, we passed small rivers where we bathed. Along the way villagers offered us water to drink and freshen ourselves. But there is no water facility in Mumbai,” said Anitabai, an old woman wearing thick spectacles.

But it was not just the lack of common resources or generosity in the city that struck the Adivasi protestors. It was the general lack of human engagement. Humabai Gavit, who had been leading the rally, wiped her face as photographers obstructed the walkers near CST station, at 2 pm. One journalist asked rather inanely, “Isn’t it tough to walk in this hot sun?” Humabai smiled, “We work in the sun everyday. We don’t enjoy it, but how will we survive otherwise?” She was too dignified to jeer at the journalist. Is that all they could question, the discomfort of the sun?

This massive yet peaceful assertion of people’s power had effectively pitched a marginalised issue into high-level political discourse; it had urged the police and security infrastructure to allow a large and sensitive protest like this march across a metropolis; an entire community valiantly fights an uneven battle… and the question is about the inconvenience of walking in the sun?

The rally being allowed to wend its way across Mumbai was in itself a rare concession. The Congress-NCP government still carries the acrid hangover of the 1994 Gowari stampede: 120 people from the Gowari tribe had lost their lives while walking towards the Nagpur Vidhan Bhavan, which led to the collapse of the Sharad Pawar-led Congress government. Yet, this rally was not only allowed, but dignified with political engagement. The Opposition moved an adjournment motion in the Budget Session of the Assembly on the morning of 15 March. At 3 pm, a delegation of 50 Adivasis were invited to meet the Chief Minister. After hectic negotiations, it was agreed the Tribal Welfare Ministry would draft exhaustive guidelines to ensure that the rejection of claims was not speedy, furtive or without due process. More importantly, through these guidelines, rejected claims can now be reviewed several times — a historic first, anywhere in India.

By the evening, the resolute journeyers — exhausted but victorious — began to make their way home, back into the green forests. Mumbai looked on from cars and balconies; untouched, but perhaps not unmoved.

Such A Good Husband

2011-03-30T00:43:00.000+05:30

you saved my skin from the harsh sun

behind my extravagant purdah

you helped fight pimples on my skin

with the steam from the stove

you made my arms and calves muscular

with the cleaning cooking scrubbing

you prevented my hair from greying

with the soot from the tiny kitchen

you maintained my hushed coy voice

with the coughs from burning the firewood

you surrounded my eyes with thick lotus petals

when i'd sew your buttons under the kerosene lamp

you let my baby fat be chubby and cute

with the marks from birthing five children

you let my feet remain curvaceous

from the long walks to fetch water

you let my toes blush pink and red

sore from the rust iron that would sneak in

you made me shudder, shiver, moan, cry

when you'd return drunk, with a thick vocabulary

you gave me round red chubby cheeks

with your palms slappity slap slap on my face

you are such a good husband

Touch And Go

2011-03-23T07:38:00.001+05:30

the sun wriggles out

of the blue-black-blue blanket

the crowd of clouds

begin to jump their own jumps

he opens his eyes

and his pillow turns crimson

he touches his blanket

and it warms up in saffron

he looks up at the wayward clouds

they blush pink in awe

united in solitude, they traverse

across the blanket -- sea-like

they will now run, jump, glide

the clouds will now not hide

for they have heard of his tales

of how he wriggled

out of a dark blanket

to bring to us this morning

burning, he smiles,

emulating his light, the clouds fly

Bhagat Singh

Didn't they garland you this morning?

My Hands Can Still Plough The Fields

2011-02-24T17:29:00.002+05:30

The non-existent loud voice of Haro Jamunda of Kalinganagar, Odisha.

He was a teacher, my younger boy

He taught me to write my name

Suddenly for days he lay on the bed

Malaria in the brain, they said

We waited for a miracle

To take him to the hospital

No bicycle, no bullock cart

The primary health clinic was 10 kms afar

It was getting eerily dark.

Soups of lentil and basil and yeast

And prayer by our native priest

But you know, he died: my little prince.

Was this a punishment for my sins?

My taller boy missed his little brother

But soon Aati matured into a robust farmer

Soon the rice field was his bed of dreams

Soon he dreamt of a season of rice in heaps

He laboured, we stocked

And thus ticked the sand clock.

Boom! Bam! Boom! The steel factories howled

"Steel factories over our land!" our Ho Munda kin bawled

"What about our crops?"

"All gone!"

"What about our livelihood?"

"All gone!"

"What about our ancestors' spirits?"

"All gone!"

Boom! We heard it again, but

Aati ran to see, for its sound was different

Gamcha on his shoulder, the gait of a deer

It was the boom of the guns that we could hear

Minutes, hours slipped through the barrel of the gun

Women, children, men wailed for those long gone

"Where is Aati, my young man?"

"They put his body into a van!"

First, there were no hospitals, no development

Then they said steel meant development

But I lost both my sons.

I am old, I am angry.

I cry. No answer to my unending 'why'.

My hands can still plough the fields.

[This poem was first published in Montreal Serai (Vol. 23 Issue 4) and was also recited at the XIII International Conference of the Indian Association for Women's Studies (IAWS) held in Wardha, Maharashtra, from January 21-24, 2011]

Some Activists Said

2011-02-23T17:23:00.003+05:30

On October 1, 2009, some men in fatigues walked into the village of Gompad in Dantewada district of Chhattisgarh, and fired at the people. Nine people died. Among the dead was Kanni Kartam, roughly about 20-year-old, of the Dorla tribe, whose body was allegedly found to be in pieces, with her clothes lying around her. Her year-and-half old son Suresh was found wailing over his mother's dead body, with three of his fingers chopped. Kanni's younger sister and parents were also killed. Her husband had gone to the jungle when the attack took place, and that's how he was saved. While a fact-finding team visited this village -- the only way one can get to Gompad is by walking or taking a bicycle from the nearest town which is 40 kms away -- the chronology of events and the facts of the incident were misleading. A petition was filed in the Supreme Court of India with 13 petitioners, but contrary to the Court's order to have the petitioners (including Kanni's husband/Suresh's father) protected, there is no information of their whereabouts. This poetry is an ode to Kanni Kartam, the victim of the Indian government's Operation Green Hunt.

Some activists said
my breasts were sliced
like ham
   slapped on a slice of bread.

Some activists said
my breasts were chopped
like potatoes
   to be tossed on a hot pan.

Some activists said
my clothes were strewn apart
   around my body, except for on my body
like strands of noodles lying scattered
   around the pan, except on the pan.

Some activists said
my chastity was infringed upon;
   that I was raped.
That the axe cut me leaving my muscles in shreds
after multiple male ego projections pierced through me.

Some activists said
I was the face of Operation Green Hunt
except that my body was decomposed.
But nobody remembers how I look.

Some activists said
Suresh wailed to see me wailing in pain.
That he was dropped on my dead chest.

Some activists said
His baby fingers were grounded
when he held my breast
   which nourished him.

Some activists said
They were at peace that I was dead
   what with my body dissected
   what with my womanhood dissected.

But all I ask is:
Will just one activist
trek to my abode amid Ram's Dandakaranya?

Will just one activist
stop asking questions and
find out what was done to me, my village, my family
on that October morning?

Will just one activist
stop asking
   stop negating
   stop dissenting
but instead start walking
   towards finding my bloodied grave?

[This poem was recited at the XIII International Conference of the Indian Association for Women's Studies (IAWS) held in Wardha, Maharashtra, from January 21-24, 2011]