JUST BE!

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.

++++

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?”

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]

Not One to Wage War

2011-01-23T08:33:00.001+05:30

(This article first appeared in OPEN Magazine Vol. 02 Issue 43, dated January 25-31, 2011)

On 24 December, Dr Binayak Sen was sentenced to a life term on charges of waging war against the State, sedition, and for colluding with Maoists. I saw a very different man on my last visit to his house

I had called him a day in advance to check if anyone from his family would be in Raipur the next day. I knew his younger daughter Aparajita would be in Mumbai till the Christmas college vacation. “We three are in Raipur. We would love to see you,” Dr Binayak Sen had said, with a certain higher-pitch emphasis on ‘love’. I arrived in Raipur the next morning at 7 am, and hesitated to go to the Sens’ residence at such an early hour while the sun was still struggling to make itself visible through the fog. But the cold winds had attacked my spine through the night on the bus from Jashpur, and I desperately needed some warmth. On my way to the Sens’ on a cycle rickshaw, watching the capital city of Chhattisgarh straining to usher in the new day, I found myself cutting back and forth to memories of my acquaintance with the Sen family. I had first met Dr Sen’s elder daughter Pranhita—a 25-year-old budding filmmaker—in May 2009 to interview her. The interview was published, and my relationship with the Sens had dropped root. It had strengthened in the past 18 months.

I rang the bell and waited. A minute later, there stood the man at the door, in his vest and pyjamas, looking confused. Soon realising it wasn’t the milkman, he hurried to unlock the bolts. He waited for me to drop the bag off my shoulders, and then wrapped his arms around me in a long embrace. After the cold night, I was home and warm.

Dr Sen’s wife Ilina walked into the room and the warmth was superfluous. I apologised for arriving at such an early hour. “I was up at 5.30 am, and made tea for Ilina,” Dr Sen said, while Ilina looked at him lovingly. “Tea or coffee?” Dr Sen asked. I said anything would do. “But give me some indication which of the anything you want,” he requested.

Sipping coffee, we began to talk of the government’s undue attention on the family—Ilina had been called an ISI agent in the Raipur sessions court the previous week, during the course of Dr Sen’s trial. The family had been through much in the past three years; controversies seemed to litter their path like glass marbles. I joked only Rajinikanth could intervene, given his unusual powers to sway opinion. “Isn’t he the Tamil actor?” asked Ilina. Dr Sen and I exchanged a look of disbelief and laughed aloud.

Pranhita was up by now and soon we got into a girly banter. She wanted to see how much my hair had grown. I loosened my bun, exclaiming, “Now, there I look like a woman!” Dr Sen, who was making breakfast next door, peeped in as I let my hair dance. Pranhita and I screeched like adolescent schoolgirls caught talking about boys.

Sometime later, I spoke to Ilina about getting my bus ticket to Nagpur. Dr Sen, meanwhile, was dressed in his jeans and kurta, ready to go to court. The good doctor’s relationship with the courts and cops began in 2007, when he was arrested on charges of being a Maoist sympathiser. Now, as he paced about the house, he looked confused: “Who will buy the ticket? How will Ashwin buy it if he has to be with me in court? But he can’t buy it later at noon; tickets might not be available then, and it is already 10.30.” Ilina interjected to allay his doubts. He turned to me, “Won’t it be cold on the bus?” I assured him I would be fine. It was finally decided that Ashwin, a law student who has been helping the family with minute details of the case, would buy the ticket on the way to court.

We had a lunch of Bengali fish curry and rice grown on their own farm on the outskirts of the city, while watching an animation film on TV. The discussion among us women (with their dogs Safia and Dottle playing earnest listeners) veered to reality shows on TV, and the palpable surge in India of a generation devoid of soul.

Dr Sen returned from the court and got into a discussion with Ilina and another guest about the case. Meanwhile, I poked around the many bookshelves that house everything from Victorian to Bengali literature, to medical journals, to all manner of human rights reports. I remembered what Pranhita had told me when we first met in 2009, a few days before her father would be released on bail: “The Chhattisgarh police took my sister’s algebra notebook; they suspected it might contain Maoist code!”

The sun had set and the dogs were trying to find a comfortable warm corner. I prepared tea for Dr Sen and Ilina, while they began to arrange the papers for the court the next day. “You are staying tonight, right?” Dr Sen asked me suddenly. I managed a smile and shook my head. Ilina was on the internet, looking for citations to be used from a decades-old case. Fifteen minutes and a few phone calls later, she’d found what was needed. Dr Sen left the TV remote—he was trying to fight sleep while watching news updates on the latest developments in the 2G scam—and ran to see what Ilina had found. As I stood over and watched, Dr Sen put his hand on Ilina’s shoulder and said with a proud beam on his face, “Among other nice things, my wife is also an internet expert.”

Dinner followed, and I began to gather my stuff to catch the night bus. Ilina noticed I was sticking my nose into a book whenever I could, and asked me to just take it with me. Mother and daughter decided to drop me to the bus stand. “Bye, Baba. Take care of yourself,” I said, and he embraced me in a ring of safety and love, for one long moment. “When do I see you next?” I shrugged my shoulders.

“Come back soon or I will fall asleep and won’t be able to open the door,” he shouted out to Ilina as she descended the staircase. I looked back to see him one last time, not knowing that ten days later, he would be made to walk into jail once again. “They will be back in just ten minutes. Please don’t fall asleep,” I said. “I was just joking,” he chuckled.I hugged Ilina Ma and Pranhita as I walked towards the bus. The gush of cold wind was unbearable.

Aruna's Keepers

2010-12-13T10:58:00.001+05:30

(This article first appeared in OPEN magazine: Vol 02, Issue 36, dated December 7-13, 2010)

Last Saturday, Aruna Shanbag, a former employee of KEM Hospital, Mumbai, completed 37 years as its ‘baby’. This is the story of the nurses and doctors at KEM who have taken care of one of their own ever since that fateful evening of 27 November 1973 when Aruna was raped and strangulated by a ward boy.

Jyoti Motilal Shrivastava was a young, 20-year-old, first-year nursing student at KEM Hospital in Mumbai, when she had her first introduction to the hospital’s ‘baby’. The woman on the bed had long black hair and smooth fair skin. A constant low-shrill whine emanated from her, but even then Jyoti couldn’t help thinking that she was indeed as beautiful as she had been told. Aruna Shanbag looked up at her with restless eyes. “I remember getting mad at God for having left her in that condition,” she says. Today, Jyoti is 58 years old and the matron of the hospital. Many nurses have come and gone during her tenure. Like her, every one of them is made to meet Aruna, who is introduced as the hospital’s ‘baby’.

On the evening of 27 November 1973, 25-year-old staff nurse Aruna had finished her duty hours. She had then gone to the basement of the Cardio-Vascular Thoracic Centre building of KEM Hospital to change her clothes. Several hours later, she was found unconscious inside the tiny room, bleeding from her vagina and anus. She had been raped by a ward boy, Sohanlal. A dog chain tied around her neck during the rape had asphyxiated her, cutting off blood supply to her brain. Aruna turned into a vegetable overnight, and continues in that state. She is 62 years old now, but has no knowledge of the time elapsed. Rare stretches of facial muscles reveal a possible smile, and a faint whimper is heard now and then in the narrow corridor of the ward on the hospital’s ground floor. The whimper is a sign for the nurses to check on her. The hospital authorities are protective of her; nobody other than doctors and nurses on duty are allowed into her room, which is locked from outside. The media has been kept at bay. Hospital dean Dr Sanjay Oak says, “We ought to give her the space she deserves.”

Despite her condition, Aruna is healthy. Says Shrivastava, “She has no ailment usually associated with someone in her sixties—no high blood pressure or diabetes, no loss of appetite or wrinkled skin. She doesn’t even have a single bed sore!” Aruna has a diet of chicken thrice a week. She also has an appetite for eggs. She says, “Dede, dede...” while being fed her daily quota of two eggs, Shrivastava says. It is only in recent years that her food is being ground to a thin paste—because all her teeth have been extracted. She turns her face away when she is fed any sweetmeat. She has a strange dislike for water, and spits it back at the nurse when goaded to sip some.

“The urinary tract of a patient can get infected if the catheter is used beyond a certain period. Also, it would be extremely uncomfortable for Aruna if she’s made to wear adult diapers. So she just wears the hospital’s patient uniform—shirt and pyjama. She cries when she has urinated or passed stools. We let her soil her clothes and bed linen, and then after a sponge with warm water, followed by a spray of some talcum powder, Aruna is made to wear a new set of clothes,” says Leny Cornelio, 55, who was sister-in-charge of the ward until two months ago. “Not a single nurse or even a grade IV employee of the hospital will ever complain about the amount of work s/he has to do to take care of Aruna.”

The hospital staff working the ward know exactly when Aruna is being bathed every morning. “She is extremely averse to bathing. Not a single day has passed in these many years when Aruna has not cried out loud while she is being sponged,” says Cornelio, who still visits Aruna after her day’s work.

Before she falls asleep for the night, a nurse runs her oil-dipped fingers through the tiny gray stubs that are Aruna’s hair. There has been not a single visitor from Aruna’s hometown in Karnataka for several years now. The resident doctor who was her fiancé waited for four years in the vain hope that Aruna would become normal again. He finally gave up, got married and has not returned to check on her. For doctors at KEM, memories of Aruna through the years run long. Dr Ravindra Bapat still remembers the weight on his arms as he carried Aruna’s limp body out of the basement on that evening of 1973.

On the day that she retired two months ago, Cornelio went to meet Aruna. “I told her ‘I will come to meet you on your birthday next year, on 1 June.’ She heard my words and began to cry. She may have so many things to tell us! I visit her daily, but honestly, I pray that she is blessed with natural death soon.”

'Maoists are not terrorists'

2010-08-30T15:44:00.002+05:30

(This article first appeared in Sunday Times of India, on August 29, 2010)

Once upon a time, there was a king who oppressed his subjects. A century and another king later, nothing changed. One young peasant decided to oppose the king's tyranny, but was killed by the king's men. The onlooking angry subjects began an armed revolt. Several decades of toil and oppression finally kicked off the throne. Democracy set in, and the people lived happily ever after. Almost.

This incomplete fairytale is that of Nepal, and portraying its colourful history since the time of Prithvi Narain Shah's rule in 1770, is Anand Swaroop Verma's documentary film Flames Of The Snow. The film depicts the chain of events and circumstances that led to the people's movement under the leadership of the Communist Party of Nepal (Maoist). What's interesting is that unlike the gory images of ideological violence in our country that pepper the news channels' prime time, this film details the ideological basis of the revolution. It also includes an interview of Maoist supremo Prachanda, describing the genesis of the armed movement in 1996. As Verma puts it, "The revolution was under threat as there was enough international funding to douse the fire. There was only a distorted image of the struggle. Being a journalist who had covered the revolution since its inception in the 90s, I knew that there was a different truth which had to be shown to the world." Until last year, Verma was writing for the Hindi daily Jansatta.

Verma's book Rongpa Se Dolpa Tak was one of the first voices of the movement — it documented the genesis of the movement in Rongpa, and how it evolved by the time it reached Dolpa. Understandably, his name was not new for Nepalese households and the crew got access to shoot in the thickest jungles infested by Maoists.

Wouldn't it have been simpler for a filmmaker rather than a journalist to make this film? Director and editor Ashish Shrivastava presents a contemporary analogy: "The media sporadically gives us statistics about the growing number of farmer suicides, but does not delve deeper into the reasons. Verma was clear in his head about the reasons why the Maoist revolution had such a strong support base among the working class in Nepal. In fact, when we went there to shoot, everyone from the waiter to the hotel's bellboy was a Maoist. The essence of the film is the ideology, and not the violence." Both Verma and Shrivastava are sure that they may not be able to make a similar film about the current Red revolution in India.

It was at Shrivastava's behest that Verma scripted the film. Not surprisingly, interviews with historians and activists dot the 125-minute movie. But as Shrivastava puts it, "Not a single scene is longer that four seconds at a stretch. I was sure about Verma's thorough groundwork. My only concern was the narrative. The film had to look interesting. After all, we were dealing with a very interesting subject. And certain events have been dramatised." A unique feature of the revolution, which has been captured in the film, is that women comprised 40 per cent of Maoist cadres.

Filmed over a period of three years, Flames Of The Snow was banned by the Indian Censor Board in June this year.

Their reason? "Any justification or romanticisation of the Maoist ideology of extremism or of violence, coercion, intimidation in achieving its objectives would not be in the public interest, particularly keeping in view the recent Maoist violence in some parts of the country." Eventually, the ban was lifted last month by a Revising Committee of the Censor Board, without any deletions, but with a disclaimer added that the substance of the film had been compiled from various media publications.

Ironically, a scene from the film showing the burning of Israeli and American flags by Palestinians was deleted during its screening in Nepal, as the Nepal government's foreign policy is to maintain good relations with all nations.

The big question: Will Flames Of The Snow impact the revolution in India? "The Nepalese had to fight the monarchy. Indian Maoists are fighting the illegal grabbing of natural resources by MNCs. But it is tough to talk about the influence of the Nepal experiment in India," says Verma, choosing his words carefully. He knows that the film will be watched in India widely —if not among the masses, then surely among the IB, which keeps a tab on every person who may utter the 'red' word. Till then, Verma is confident that he will be able to reply to any query from any audience which has been taught to believe that Maoists are terrorists.

Flames Of The Snow will be screened on Aug 30 at Prithvi

House at 6 pm and on Sept 1 at TISS (old campus) at 6.15 pm

God drives this Dantewada bus

2010-08-22T01:00:00.001+05:30

(This article first appeared in The Crest Edition - The Times of India, on August 21, 2010)

Ganesh Singh runs the only bus that traverses the dreaded Maoist route between Chintalnar and Dornapal in Dantewada. Bizarrely enough, this is the third time he has tried to make a living in a terror zone — in Assam during the Ulfa strife, in Punjab just after Op Blue Star, and now in Chhattisgarh

Around 7 am each day, the fragrance of incense sticks fills a white bus stationed in Chintalnar village in Dantewada district of Chhattisgarh. In the driver’s seat, Ganesh Singh, 60, softly chants a prayer and garlands a photograph of Hindu deities placed on a ledge below the windscreen.

"Each day, I just take God’s name and drive the bus out of Chintalnar. I never know if it will return in the evening," says Singh, the owner of the bus. For several years, he has been plying the only possible vehicle between Chintalnar and Dornapal town — a distance of 45 km. Even vehicles from the six CRPF camps which dot that stretch don’t dare hit the broken road. In Chintalnar, a savage death can come to anyone any moment.

The bus run by Singh and his three sons is the only mode of transport available to those going to Dornapal town. The distance isn’t much; it would perhaps take just an hour to traverse this even on a potholed Indian road. But this stretch takes four hours.

The road on which Singh makes a living is about five feet wide and has been dug up at several points, leaving huge boulders scattered around. Maoists often park fallen tree trunks on the stretch to obstruct passing vehicles. If a CRPF vehicle halts to remove the log, it gives the Maoists enough time to launch a full-scale attack. Worse, the road is layered with several hidden landmines that the Maoists can trigger at will. They have strategically positioned themselves in the deep jungles on either side of the road.

The bus leaves Chintalnar at 7 am and picks up passengers — mostly adivasis — along the way and reaches Dornapal by 11 am. It begins its journey back around 3 pm.

Interestingly, by some quirk of fate, this is the third time Singh has managed to land up in a troubled zone to earn a living. Originally from a village in Uttar Pradesh, he went to Assam as a young boy in search of a job in the tea gardens. What followed is a truly remarkable series of coincidences.

"A few years after I was in Assam, the Ulfa (United Liberation Front of Assam) launched its agitation against outsiders. There was no point going back home because repeated cycles of bad weather had made farming untenable for me. So I headed for Punjab. But then came Operation Blue Star. So I came to Chhattisgarh. I would buy vegetables from the adivasis living here and sell them in Dornapal. Now it seems to me that I’ll be thrown out of here too. But this time I guess the destination would be up there," Singh laughs, pointing to the sky as he sips mahua, the local alcoholic beverage.

The adivasis are not his only passengers. "Often, Maoists board our bus, dressed in fatigues. They introduce themselves in Hindi but don’t harm anyone. And we too don’t stop anyone from boarding the bus — why should we?" says Pavan, Singh's son.

The family has had to ferry other ‘passengers’ as well. On April 6, 2010, when 76 CRPF jawans were killed during a three-hour Maoist ambush, Singh was summoned to carry the bodies from the site, five km away from Chintalnar and the CRPF camp. The bodies were then taken away by choppers for identification and the last rites. There was no way any CRPF vehicle would venture out that day, especially after a bulletproof van on its way to the ambush site was blasted to bits by a landmine.

"We’d heard the gunshots around 6 am and I instantly knew that something was wrong," recalls Sajan, Singh’s second son. "A few hours later, we were asked by the CRPF to transport the bodies in our bus. While I was picking up one body I noticed a landmine next to my feet. I was very scared. The sight of all the bodies in our bus still haunts me."

A witness to the violence unleashed by both the Maoists as well as the CRPF, Singh is now tired of waiting for the day’s bad news. "Ever since Salwa Judum (the people’s militia) was launched five years ago by the state government, we have had no electricity here. The children haven't been to school since then either. The only school running here was occupied by the CRPF and it was then bombed by the Maoists. Moreover, only the elders in this village have voter ID cards; there is none for the youth. The elections are rigged. Where is democracy? We only have anger, and perhaps only the Maoists understand our anger," says Singh.

But his rage soon fades into the moonlight. In the morning, it metamorphoses into courage once again — the courage he needs to drive a white bus down a dangerous road.

Lest The Kalinga Of Today Be Forgotten...

2010-07-02T22:01:00.002+05:30

“I too need to buy a camera,” said that man of 40, when he saw me taking photographs around the village in Chandia. I told him that he would have to learn how to use it, and that i could teach him a thing or two. He insisted upon seeing the photographs I had taken. Satisfied with my meagre photography skills, he shocked me with his question, “How many pixels?” I replied, and asked him where did he learn about pixels. “On TV, when they show that they will give discounts if I order. A neighbour has Tata Sky at home. That is when I saw it,” he replied. Quite an irony that one of Tata's products has given this man a new view of the world, while he struggles daily against the same company's atrocious ways to grab their land in Kalinganagar.

“What will you do with the camera?” I ask.

“I need to take photographs of our villagers. With every protest in every corner of Kalinganagar, we are losing are kin. I need to take their photographs before they are all gone. But tell me, can we take a video from this camera? Suppose the goons attack us – will we be able to shoot everything and show it later to the others?”

I saw in him the desperation to keep intact the memories of his brethren. An hour later, he was satisfied with all that I taught him about the use of camera. I grabbed this chance to ask him in return about how the bow and arrow was made. He seemed to be more than pleased to teach me.

Both the bow and the arrow are made of cane, and the tribals go hunting into the jungle to pick up the best of the plants. The tip of the arrows are made of iron, and some families have specialised in the art of making these. They used to be available for Rs 5 a piece. But, just like the way a war is profitable for any government, the blacksmiths are also charging up to Rs 30 for every piece of arrow tip that is made. The other end of the arrow has feathers tied. This, I was told, gives the arrow a spin when it is let loose from the bow. The arrow continues to spin when it hits a target, thus making a perfect hole. Without the feathers, the arrow would just slide in the air and would cut through the target like a smooth knife. Ironically, the soft and light feather is what makes the arrow so effective.

Jungle warfare

Both the iron tip and the feathers are fastened onto the cane stick with the strands of tussar silk, directly from the silkworm. The worm's egg is slit in a particular way so that the strands emerged are flat and long. There is no doubt in the quality and strengths of silk, and no one knows it better than these warriors. They have stocked up their homes with dozens of arrows, yet they are waiting for their anger to brim to a level when they can use their ancient tools against the rubber bullets, the steel bullets and the INSAS rifles.

One family which wishes to have used their tools of ancient warfare is the Kalundia family from Gadhpur village, about 3 kms away from Chandia. I walk to their village across the Common Corridor, and find the men on their fields. They want to make the best of the days before it rains, and before their land is levelled. Nobody knows the essence of making the best of now better than this family.

Panjabi Kalundia (45) lives with his brother Debendra (40), along with their respective families. Both borhters share the same grief, which can be dated back to May 9, 2005. It is tough to ask a man of the death of his child; it is easier to ask a woman about strength and hope. Maharashtra Seamless was another steel company which had earmarked 1,500 acres of land for a steel plant. Among those resisting the land grab was this family. They were accustomed to the police coming every morning, surrounding the villages to terrorise the people, and leaving by noon time. That had become a routine for sometime and the villagers managed to do their daily work at home and on the fields accordingly.

But May 9, 2005, was different, for it was the day of the bhoomi pujan of Maharashtra Seamless. The cops surrounded the village of Gadhpur once again, while in another part of the Kalinganagar, some villagers were opposing the bhoomi pujan as their land too was to be lost.

“Around 9 am, I was at home with my elder son who was just able to walk then. He is seven years old today. My younger daughter Jima was just a baby and was asleep on the cot. My wife had gone to the village handpump to get water. Suddenly we heard that the cops had come, and that they were with guns this time. We ran towards the Mahagiri hills behind our village. I ran with my son,” said Panjabi. About 100 families reside in Gadhpur and that day, all of them were scattered in the hills.

“I thought that the cops would go back soon and so I too ran for my life into the hills. I remembered that Jima was at home, along with Rahul, my brother-in-law Debendra's son. Rahul was younger than my son but elder to Jima. But I knew that we would be back soon. But that 'soon' turned out to be two whole days,” Panjabi's wife Sumi (30) told me in broken Hindi and Oriya.

But the cops hadn't left the village, was what they had heard. Without food or water, the men and women of the village survived through the ordeal, without knowing where their family members were. Two days later, someone informed that the cops had finally left. Sumi was the first to have reached home. She saw Jima lying on the cot, and Rahul on the floor. Both were dead.

“It was the summer and the hunger must have been unbearable. We never thought that we would be away for so long. I reached after my wife to see her wailing. The two children died of hunger and thirst. Without bullets or any firing, Maharashtra Seamless killed our children,” said Panjabi, as we sat on the cairn near his fields. Panjabi has two more children today after the death of Jima, while his son Debendra – whom I could not meet – also has two children. Needless to say, Sumi was continuously caressing her toddler in her arms as we spoke.

Sumi clutches her toddler – not a single moment can the child be away from her sight

In all, fives lives were lost during the protest on May 9, 2005. the company faced much flak and left the area. The 1,500 acres land to be acquired by them has now gone into the hands of Tata. “We lost our children to Maharashtra Seamless. Now we have lost 13 acres of our land to Tata's project, leaving us with just two acres. We have not got a single penny. What more do these companies want to steal from us?” asked an angry Panjabi.

Before I left them, I asked if they had a photograph of the two children. “We don't even know how old they were! We have only given you the rough estimates of our own age. We are poor people. How would we have photographed them?” I realise I had asked an inane question.

The same stories, everywhere. Stories of loss of life, loss of land, loss of dignity – among those resisting the repression, as well as those living in the transit camps, who had given their land out and had accepted a rehab package.

The main transit camp was on a highway, and similar to the huge green signboard that welcomes every visitor to Kalinganagar, a huge board read out, 'Welcome to Gobarghati Transit Camps'. I was told to go there only on the last day of my stay in Kalinganagar, lest I was hauled and prevented from further moving around. I rode on the bike with journalist RR, and 500 metres into the camp lay a bright orange two-storey building onto the left. A signboard read out that it was a computer institute. Welcome to the land of lies. Another 500 metres into the area, and across the barren land around were those buildings.

The structures reminded me of the chawls in Mumbai – rooms stuck together, and the facade decorated with several clotheslines. But we didn't stop by – RR said that the young boys sitting at the entrance were not mere youths whiling off their time, but were posted there as security men. They were keeping a tab on every person entering and exiting the area. I could well estimate that the rooms alloted to the people were very tiny, with a small verandah to walk around. The structure was more like a village school – the classrooms were the tiny houses, the beams supporting the asbestos sheet as the roof marked the separation between the houses, the doors painted bright blue. In the small courtyard outside was a slide for children in the little open space, as well as monkey bars – akin to giving a Grade IV malnourished child a McDonald's burger instead of the basic food for survival.

We crossed the transit camp and as I looked back, I could not help but think of the confinement that these people were subject to. No land to farm, a tiny house and a meagre sum of compensation to live on – this was far from what a self-sufficient tribal would ever have a nightmare of. Yet, this was a reality for several families who were lured with the prospects of good jobs.

We rode into the camp meant for those displaced by Nilachal Ispat Nigam Ltd (NINL). We meet Dubi Munda (60), who was once a resident of Nuagaon village. NINL was the first company to have set up a steel plant in the villages of Nuagaon and Madhavpur, and it displaced 613 families. Munda's fate was determined by both NINL and MESCO – his house came under the land acquired by NINL, while his farm land of 18 goonth (25 goonths make an acre) was acquired by MESCO. He received a total of Rs 37,000 for his farm land, but wasn't expecting any amount for the loss of his house. The January 2, 2006, firing was an unexpected boon. He explained:

“In 1997, although we did not want to give up our house, it was razed down. Nilachal gave us Rs 11,000 and told us that a piece of land was waiting for us here in Gobarghati, while we would also get a job. We were brought here, which is just 2.5 goonth in area. We erected the house on our own, with hay for the roof and mud for the walls. But there was no land to farm, for a survival. I somehow pulled through by taking up contract labour jobs here and there,” said Dubi.

When the January 2006 firing took place, the family received Rs 1.5 lakh for the construction of their house. “We would ask them several times about the promised job, but they kept on dilly-dallying it. When the firing in January 2006 took place, we were told that we were entitled to receive Rs 2 lakh, but Rs 50,000 was deducted because for using this land. I was smart enough to have this place named after my second daughter Chando, so that she can get the job for a longer period,” Dubi said.

We calculated the price of the land – going by the price of Rs 50,000 for 2.5 goonth, the family should have received Rs 3,60,000 for their 18 goonth of land, instead of Rs 37,000 that they got. We told this to Dubi and he just laughed it off. There was little he could do anything about it now.

Of his three married daughters, Chando lives with husband and toddler, along with her parents. I ask her about the job, and the description is another practical joke. “Again, it was the firing that got me the job in 2007, for they feared that we too might protest. I got the job of a gardener for which I underwent training for two years. I was initially paid Rs 1,500, but now I get Rs 14,000. But it is no great sum – we do not have lands to farm and hence we have to buy everything from the market today. Earlier, all we had to buy was just cooking oil and salt. We have lost a lot,” Chando said. What kind of garden needs to be tended by a gardener with training for two years?!

A mud house, a concrete house, but none to be called 'home'

The family has now erected a concrete house within that small area, but it is far from completion. The Ra 1.5 lakh has long been exhausted. They family does get water and electricity at random. I asked Chando about any facilities that she gets, thanks to her job. “A family of six members are entitled to medical benefits in Bhubaneshwar, but if we do not claim the medical allowance of a total of Rs 4,000 within six months, we will lose it. And that means no medical benefit thereafter. So it is akin to no benefit at all,” she said with a smile, understanding the trap that she had fallen into.

We take leave and then Dubi says slowly, “We were initially excited about this new idea of development, thanks to the steel plants. We were told to dream about jobs, education for our children, medical facilities and electricity. But for 10 years until the January 2006 firing, I had to think daily about the next meal. Even now, if Chando doesn't go to work for about two days, we are all worried that she will lose the job. We have lost our land; we have lost our peace of mind.”

Peace in pieces. This is the story of every household in Kalinganagar. I leave the place from the highway, and on my way in Ambagadia – just like the tribals – I bow my head before the 15 edifices erected for the 15 people who lost their lives on January 2, 2006. While 12 of them died immediately, three others succumbed to their injuries later. Among the 15 martyrs were three brave women.

Mukuta Dei Bankira of Chandia village
Aati Jamunda of Chandia village
Ramchandra Jamunda of Champakoyla village
Diyugi Tiriya of Champakoyla village
Sudam Barla of Bellahori village
Bhagwan Soy of Gobarghati village
Landu Jarika of Bamiagoth village
Gobind Lagori of Bamiagoth village
Janga Jarika of Bamiagoth village
Ramlal Mundoya of Baligot village
Ramo Gagarai of Gadhpur village
Bona Badara of Gadhpur village
Shyamo Gagarai of Chandia village (succumbed to his injuries after a month)
Kisan Buriuli of Chandia village (succumbed to his injuries after six months)
Bir Singh Gop of Chandia village (succumbed to gangrene on both thighs after a year; he had lost both legs in the landmine blast)

The fountainhead of strength, courage and hope

I learnt from Rabi Jarika that people who die a natural death are buried in the premises of the house, and it is believed that the souls of the deceased will guide the rest of the family. So almost every courtyard in Kalinganagar had a tombstone. However, those who lose their lives in an unnatural way – like the 15 killed in the firing – are cremated, as it is believed that burying them will lead to rest of the generations also dying an unnatural death. The tombstones of the 15 at Ambagadia, nevertheless, have guided this revolution in Kalinganagar. It guides those who fight each day while being under the 'house arrest' in their own villages; it guides those who have been arrested on various false charges – ranging from arson to murder. Some of those arrested in the recent past, from villages around Chandia, include:

Chakradhar Haibru Junior from Ambagadia village
Nanika Jamunda from Ambagadia village
Suresh Haibru from Bellahori village
Jogendra Jamunda from Chandia village
Devendra Jarika from Chandia village
Birsa Tamsoi from Chandia village
Kunja Gagarai from Gadhpur village
Budhansingh Jamunda from Gadhpur village
Pakoi Gagarai from Gadhpur village
Paresh Gagarai from Gadhpur village
Babula Soren from Baidubori village
Babuli Deogam from Baidubori village
Madan Kalundia from Baligot village
Konai Purty from Masakhiya village
Majura Purty from Masakhiya village
Turan Purty from Masakhiya village
Biren Hembram from Masakhiya village
Pratap Chola from Masakhiya village

Would they just be a list of names to be forgotten? Would they just be names of dacoits as would be propagated by the corporates? Would they just be names of revolutionaries? Would they be just be one of us, fighting like any of us would have?

Seeking divine intervention

No Doctor, No Medicines: Only God Can Save In Kalinganagar

2010-07-02T21:37:00.000+05:30

The Hoo tribals in Kalinganagar are akin to David facing Goliath – as they resist the goons, the state machinery, the corporate giants, a local media hell-bent on branding them as Maoists, and a national shy of reporting their struggle. Yet, these men and women fight. However, there is one sceptre they are just unable to put up a resistance against – ill health, and the consequential death. A bored villager surveyed 15 villages and found out that in the last six years alone, 188 people had died due to various illnesses. This number excludes death due to aging and those killed in the ongoing repression; the 188 deaths are of people below the age of 45.

In the last six months alone, 14 people from just about three villages have died since there was no medical aid to reach them, neither were they allowed to leave the area. And the illnesses are not lifestyle diseases – malaria, jaundice, tuberculosis, fever have been the culprits. Or at other times, several other illnesses piled together. I headed to Baligot village to track two such deaths.

Ghanshyam Kalundia (35) died on April 16 this year. He was ill since three years – the illness began with joint and back pains. Sometime in 2009, he was taken to Cuttack for treatment by his younger brother Madan, where he was treated for 20 days. But fate had other plans for his wife Mecho, 30, who narrated her tale to me.

“We were a joint family – our family, as well as the families of my husband's two brothers. The wives of both his brothers abandoned the family, leaving behind three more children. My brother-in-law Madan was arrested on September 14, 2009, on charges of attempt to murder for the firing that had taken place on January 2, 2006. He was to be released on bail in March this year, but soon enough, charges of arson were slapped against him, for the same incident. By then, my husband's condition had deteriorated. I managed to contact some of my relatives in a distant village and then stealthily took my husband on the bike to Cuttack. That's when the doctor said that he wouldn't survive too long, as he was suffering from T.B., kidney failure and jaundice. We spent almost Rs 50,000 in the last three years to get him treated, but had made only two visits to Cuttack. I am the only person in the house now, taking care of five children. I cannot even go to the fields leaving them – that we have lost a considerable amount of our land to the steel plants is a another story,” Mecho sighed.

Mecho Kalundia sits at home with her two children, who no more go to school

Two days prior to his death, Ghanshyam had stopped eating and talking, and was only vomitting. Mecho saw that it wouldn't take too long for her to become a widow. Today, she whiles her time in her neighbour's houses.

Further down the road is where 40-year-old Bireng Kalundia now lives with her five children – two boys aged 22 and 20, and three girls aged 18, 15 and 12. Her husband Sikander (46) was ill for a month before he died on April 9 this year. Before the repression was further tightened following the March 30, 2010 – when the tribals opposed the construction of the Common Corridor project – two relatives managed to take Sikander on a bike to a certain point on the highway, from where they hired a car to Cuttack. “Those two relatives were employees at the Jindal Steel Plant and hence they could not stay back with my husband even when the doctor insisted that he should be admitted. My sons could not even go to Cuttack as the roads were blocked; the Common Corridor is very close to this village and my sons could have been easily nabbed if they had attempted to get out of here. There was no way that I could go and be with him. They hence brought back my husband,” explained Bireng to me, through her brother-in-law Dabar, who translated her slow, halted words to me.

Bireng added that if there was someone who could have stayed back in Cuttack with her husband, he could have been saved. Their house is huge, thanks to a larger family. Her daughters shy away upon seeing me. I ask Bireng about her sons. “One of my sons had a job at the steel plant of Rohit Ferro-Tech. But since we all were a part of the protest on March 30, he was fired from the job. Today, there is no earning member in the house. We have also lost an acre of our land to the Common Corridor. There has been no sign of any compensation for it. I only have some yield from the farm. Thanks to levelling, I don't understand what will happen to us,” sighed Bireng.

I take leave of her and utter a few words in Hoo language, to convey that she ought to be strong. She smiled back, and let out a litany of words, no more in the demure way that she talking. “This is our struggle and we will continue our fight, come what may.”

There is a whiff of strength behind the calm and sad exterior of Bireng Kalundia

As I left her house, I saw several young children lined out on the tiny patch of road, playing. Some were chasing a bicycle tyre, some were lifting worms with sticks from a pond formed thanks to the rains, some others up on the trees. I asked Dabar about the presence of a school in the village. His answer was not a short one.

“About 10 years ago, I had begun to teach some children in my own courtyard. Later, some youths from the village erected a mud house and taught the children. Two years had passed and we appealed to the authorities to send in a teacher. One was sent in, and later another. By 2007, we collected Rs 2.5 lakh from the 100 families in this village and erected a concrete structure for a school of 120 children. But the children never returned to school after the summer vacation in 2007. Neither did the teachers turn up. When our Sarpanch enquired, he was told that since all the families in this village had left the village after having accepted the rehab package by Tata for its steel plant on their land, there isn't anybody residing in the village anymore. So the teacher stopped coming. On April 29 this year, the school building we had erected was razed down by the police and the goons. We were a village of 100 families; now the figure is 80. The 20 families who have taken the rehab package from Tata are killing their own kin in various ways – they have razed down the school, they do not let the sick and ailing get treated, they are leveling our fields, and when we protest they do not shy away from using the gun which they have been forced and paid to carry,” explained Dabar.

The children leave behind their games with stones and sticks, and are delighted to see the camera

Here are the names of the 14 deceased in the last six months. This list is not comprehensive; it is only from few of the nine villages within Chandia panchayat. These nine villages are the ones affected directly by Tata. There are 18 villages in the panchayat, with a population of over 5,000 and 2,400 voters. Gobarghati is another panchayat. I got this data from Rabi Jarika, who noted these as and when he would get information about the deaths. This list is only indicative of the number of dead from all the villages across Kalinganagar.

Leena Soy (60) from Bamiagotha village – died of fever
Sudarshan Samad (32) from Chandia village – died of malaria
Buduni Jamunda (20) from Chandia village – died of malaria
Besi Jamunda (30) from Chandia village – died during delivery; the child died after birth
Sidiu Jarika (28) from Bellahori village – died of malaria and typhoid
Shmabari Jarika (40) from Kankrajhar village – died of malaria
A three-year-old girl from Baligot village – died of malaria
Bhandai Bankira (8) from Baligot village – died of malaria
Sikander Kalundia (46) from Baligot village – died of T.B., malaria, jaundice, etc.
Ghanshyam Kalundia (34) from Baligot village – died of T.B., malaria, jaundice, etc.
Nakoi Deogam (38) from Baligot village – died of jaundice
Ladu Kalundia (60) from Baligot village – cause of death is unknown
Jemma Honnaga (37) from Chandia village – several ailments together
Balema Goipai (57) from Gobarghati village – cause of death is unknown

But there surely had to be a medical centre. It was impossible that the government would not try to render a facade of governance. I am told that just 500 metres after the main gate of Kalinganagar was the Dhangadi Medical Centre. It had a huge concrete gate, painted white with some red carvings. I entered the huge complex; to the right was a space for the staff quarters. To the left was a medium-sized building. I entered and saw a torn bed, with an old woman lying on it. This was the supposed waiting area of the hospital. A younger man sat next to her; he said that she was suffering from diarrhoea. I walk near her bed – there was no bedsheet on the mattress, the lady slept with her legs crouched up to her chest, and tried to cover her whole body with her thin saree. A saline drip stood next to her bed. The syringe was left open: a fly sat on it while a Band-aid was stuck on it.

Stench, grime, bugs: this medical had it all

Paan stains had coloured the corridors. I noticed an old man; somebody told me that he had fractured his leg but had nowhere to go. He lived in the premises of the hospital. I walked further through the gloomy, stinky corridor to see the ward. The coir was falling off through the torn mattresses; saline drips stood next to these empty beds. One journalist – whose stories about the struggle of the people of Kalinganagar were no more accepted by his newspaper, and had hence opened a photocopy store near the medical centre – told me that the medical centre was empty as no patient would visit there. “There are no doctors here. Just one medical in-charge, who sits in the OPD till 12 noon and doesn't wait a minute more even if there are patients lined outside. He runs to his private clinic which he operates from his quarters. He just holds a post-graduate degree in Medicine, but he handles all sorts of cases because there is no other doctor here. He will check a patient coming in, and will promptly refer him to Cuttack.”

I saw the game myself. I was visiting the medical centre after lunch and while strolling through, one man was brought in. I couldn't believe my eyes – all I saw was a skeleton covered with a thin layer of skin. The man was accompanied by his parents who were too old to hold their 35-year-old son. I learnt that they had come from nearby Jakhpura village, along with a cousin who was dressed rather well. I had seen images of malnutritioned children from Africa, but never anything like this. I stood by, looking at him. His eyes, cheekbones and jaws were popping out. His nails were black. Every joint in his body stood out from the thin vest that hung on his body. I could count his ribs. He yelled out that he stomach was paining. His mother laid out a rug and held her son gently to lay him down on it. His feet were swollen, and so was his stomach. The cousin told me that he had stopped eating since five days, but was ill since 6 months.

Will he survive?

The doctor rushed in and cold metal of the stethoscope hurt the patient. He was screaming; the doctor hit the stomach several times to gauge what was wrong. The next moment shook me – the doctor pulled the patient from his thin arms like he would yank a log of wood towards him. This young man of 35 yelled. After he was done with checking his respiration on his back with the stethoscope, the doctor let loose the man. His shoulder hit the hard mattress.

The doctor ruffled the medical papers that the cousin handed to him. He summoned the cousin and said that the patient should be taken to Cuttack. I later bumped into the doctor. He said, “Severe anaemia. Hypoglycemia. Renal failure. Jaundice. T.B.” I asked the cousin what was to be done next. “Five days ago, we gave up. We knew that death was near anytime now. But his parents insisted on bringing him here since he suddenly was having diarhoea.”

“So you will take him to Cuttack now?” I asked.

“I don't know if that would help. The doctor could administer some fluids to hydrate him, but he didn't. His parents still believe that their only son will be fine,” he said. I remember how the man's mother smiled back at me innocently when I was standing next to her son.

I walked out with a heavy heart and headed to the administration office on the top floor. It was spartan clean. On the wall was a huge board mentioning the various 'health days'. There were about 30 dates; but none on malnutrition. I walked back down to the medical centre. I though I had seen enough, but more was to come.

A beautiful lie

I met Mena Mohanty who was an 'Asha Madam'. The Orissa state government had roped in midwives from villages to be Asha Madams who would be responsible for all the pregnant women in the village. She was responsible for bringing in the women in labour to medical centres. On doing so, she would receive Rs 250. “So you must be travelling to other villages too, to see if there are more pregnant women..” I ask Mena didi. She smiled widely to reveal her paan-stained teeth. “I am responsible only for the women in my village. In a year, there are just about 10 pregnancies. So I can earn only that much,” she replied. Mena didi said that she had been working as a midwife in her village since 30 years and was an expert in her work.

She was more than happy to show me the labour room. There were two steel tables for the women in labour to lie on. On one of its edge was a huge dirty bin, which I assumed was to let the blood flow out of the bleeding woman. Across the tables was a concrete slab and a basin. I walked up to it. On a kidney tray were several forceps and scissors. And a string, with a curved needle. I asked her what was it. “This is the needle and the string used to stitch up the vagina of the woman after the delivery.”

I was shocked that it lay in the open. “Aren't these instruments sterilised?” I asked.

Mena Mohanty shows me the labour room; the kidney tray is full of instruments which are far from clean, let alone sterilised

“Of course they are. Look at that machine for sterilising. When a woman comes in, and as she is prepared for labour, it is during that time that these instruments are sterilised. There is no point in sterilising them well in advance as there is no place to keep them clean.”

Just at that moment, a petite woman in labour walked in with two other women. I stepped out. She was somehow made to jump up onto the high table. She cried in pain. I stood in a corner with Mena didi. “That lady in the blue saree is the Asha Madam for that pregnant woman. This lady in red and white saree is the sweeper. She does most of the deliveries.” I looked at her in disbelief.

A nurse in a white saree walked in. She looked at me and I somehow managed to convince her to let me see the process of the birth of a child. Mena didi chipped in to say something in Oriya, after which the nurse relaxed a bit and they all laughed. Few minutes later, another tribal woman walked in with a packet full of small vials of liquids, gloves, sanitary napkins sold loose, syringes and IV administration sets. The entire pack costed Rs 500.

While the nurse injected some antibiotics into the saline, the sweeper inserted a pipe into the pregnant woman's vagina – she wore no gloves. Much liquid passed out. The nurse went away. Mena didi walked upto the patient – her name was Phula Mahakud was from Siyaria village, 1.5 km away – and showed her how to hold up her legs. Phula cried out. The other Asha Madam – who was much younger than Mena didi – just followed Mena didi's instructions. The sweeper called out to the woman accompanying the patient for some cloth. She passed on to her a moist rag stained with blood – I realised this was the cloth that must have been used during the menstrual cycle. The rag was slid under Phula behind, while she began to bleed slowly. Mena didi kept on urging her to pull her legs towards her chest. Phula cried on while she held the other Asha Madam's hand tight. Five minutes later, the head was visible. The nurse walked in languidly. She wore her gloves and an apron. Slowly she pulled out the child – it wasn't crying. The sweeper passed on a porcelain tray and the nurse kept the minute-old child on it with a thud. The child's eyes were shut but it was breathing. Phula's stomach had slumped down while she was breathing heavily.

A new life

Meanwhile, the sweeper began to cut the umbilical cord in the middle. Blood splashed out in all directions, and my feet was covered with that red which had nourished the child for 9 months. Mena didi called me next to her, near the basin where she was washing her hands. There was no soap nearby. Before I could protest, she took one of the sanitary napkins and wiped the blood from my feet. I saw the child on that tray, who was being pumped by the nurse. All was not well. The nurse yelled at me to get out of the room as the doctor would be coming in. I thanked Mena didi and ran out. It was a weird feeling – amid the poverty, amid the loss of hope in the most unhygienic conditions, amid the lack of basic facilities, God's creation in the highest form was born.

The doctor did not go into the labour room till a long time, but I later learnt that both the mother and child were doing fine and were sent home. I went Rabi's home that evening before sunset with a heavy heart. But the day was not to end so soon. I heard that a baby goat had died during the day. I went to see it inside the dark stable. Its face was very tiny but the stomach was huge. A small girl working at Rabi's house began to pull it. I stepped out immediately.

“Was it ill? How did it die?” I asked, trying to sound not too prying at such a time of grief.

But Rabi's sister-in-law only laughed. “Would you believe it – the goat ate hay all evening yesterday. By late night, it began to groan weirdly. We saw that its stomach was enlarged but how could we take it to the doctor? The night passed and late in the morning, it passed away.”

Sometime later, I saw that the goat was butchered and the meat ready for distribution, while a girl fanned off the insects that could crawl in with a branch of leaves. In a tub nearby lay the transparent bloated intestine. In the land of the poor and the hungry, a goat died of overeating. For a moment I felt we were in a 'developed' nation.

Glimpse of a developed country

Kalinganagar Mutiny = Milk On The Pan

2010-06-25T18:33:00.001+05:30

Pour some milk into the pan and switch on the flame. At first, there is stillness and vapour that can be missed. Next, the noise tells you that the milk is rumbling, followed by the cream rising up. By then it is too late – even if you lower the heat, the cream is beyond your control. It falls off the pan and leaves you with a sight and smell that are not pleasing. The rest of the milk simmers down by the time you extinguish the flame, but much milk has been lost. But if you choose to stay blind to the discontent of the boiling molecules of the milk and choose to let the heat roll on, not only will the cream spill, but the rest of the milk – relatively calmer – will spill too, until there isn’t any left in the pan. The pan is left black and with an odour hard to miss – it cannot be used anymore.

Seeing the milk boil on the mud hearth inside that tiny hut – no electricity, no toilet – the corollary of the boiling milk and the mutiny that shook Kalinganagar in 2006 is evident.

No wonder then most of the active members of the Bisthapi Birodhi Jan Manch (BBJM) haven’t visited the nearest town since over a year. This means they haven’t been able to go out shopping for bare necessities (a tribal family needs to purchase only oil, kerosene and salt from the market, for their survival); they haven’t been able to address any domestic emergency like ill health; they haven’t been able to watch any blockbuster movie to drown themselves into another distant world; they haven’t been able to ‘hang out’ with friends who live far away. This is the kind of ‘house arrest’ they are subject to, and daily, one has to calculate the routes around their villages from which one would not be ‘noticed’.

As I shared the angst of the ‘house arrest’ on my third day in Kalinganagar on June 23, I realized that every family had a story to tell about that winter day in 2006 – a story of boiling milk that overflowed and woke up the Orissa government. Stories of death, injury, loss, anger, grit. And hope. Through bits and pieces, I had learnt what had happened – 12 people were killed including three women, three others later succumbed to their injuries, scores of people were injured, several men continue to be arrested on false charges of murder. But I realized that there was an interesting history behind the mutiny.

By 2005, Rabi Jarika was a ‘wanted criminal’, for championing BBJM. In October 2005, he had gone to Bhubaneshwar – about 200 kms south – to attend a conference on grassroots resistance. By the end of the first day at the conference, he had received news that cops from Jajpur had arrived in Bhubaneshwar to arrest him. Just when he had decided to return home, he was picked by the cops.

The people's person: Rabi Jarika rushes to his farm every morning at 8 am

The tribals had heard that Tata would begin its work of leveling the fields from January 2, 2006. They were ready to face the bulldozers, but not the bullets. It was a Monday. Around 9 am, about 1,000 policemen and hundreds of those who had begun to support Tata, arrived near Champakoyla village, which is closer to the main road. Cops began to fire indiscriminately, leaving 12 dead on the spot and several injured. Rabi was released on January 26, 2006, owing to the tribals pressuring the authorities to release him. The authorities had to comply – they had faced flak for the incident and could in no way afford to scar itself anymore.

“You were still in jail when the firing took place. It must have killed you because you were in a relatively safer place while your people were butchered…” I asked Rabi, choosing my words carefully. Instead he laughed and said, “I was proud of my people.”

“Please explain.”

“You see, when I was arrested in October 2005, the people were very angry. They channelised their anger into active resistance – they managed to stop all the leveling work that was going on across villages, they began to patrol the villages, and they were defiant of the wicked ways of the goons. But Tata too had decided that enough was enough. So that’s when they used force to begin the leveling work. Imagine, if in my absence the people had managed to do so much, they can achieve a lot more with the seething anger of having their own people being killed.”

“Didn’t the villagers carry any bows and arrows at that time?”

“They did, but didn’t use it. Sometimes I feel they should have used them; but on second thoughts, it would mean that our people were attacking our own brothers – who had now become goons. Yes, they have defected for the lure and love of money, but we still have our conscience intact.”

The pride in the strength in his people can be seen dripping in Rabi’s smile. Later in the day, I roam around the village. It is easy to ask a young boy for a lift on his bike or cycle to avoid the 3 km walk to a neighbouring village. Unlike in the cities, it is easy to open the heart out to the adivasis. I go to meet Ranjit Bankira, a lanky 20-year-old youth from Chandia village, who lost his mother during the uprising. “When we heard that the police had come, we all rushed out. If we managed to stop the police at Champakoyla, we could prevent them from entering our village. My mother ran ahead, and in the same row, there were seven other people. We all had noticed a rope on the ground at the lake near Champakoyla, but never thought it to be suspicious. When they crossed it, there was a blast. It was a landmine. My mother died instantly, but they took her body away. They returned it few days later, after it was decomposed. But her palms were missing. The cops said that it was for identification. They returned a pair of palms several months later, but evidently, they were not hers,” Ranjit said, with the help of his maternal uncle Babli Jamunda, who could speak better Hindi.

Ranjit Bankira got the job of a peon, 'thanks' to his mother being killed by a landmine

The family received compensation from the state and central governments, while Ranjit got the job of a peon at a school. But there are valid reasons why he is still unhappy. “The school is 17 kms away, and I was lucky to already have a bike. But I have to reach there at 10 am; I get home at 5 pm. I have no time to tend to our fields. If any day they find that I am not good at my job, they will fire me. By then, the farm will be in a bad shape. Does the government calculate all this before offering some job to placate an angry man?” I then realize that it is 11 am, and he said that he had taken the day off as he wanted to tend to his farm. “It is also the day of the haat (weekly market), but it will be tough to go. The goons will disappear from the road only by late afternoon. By then, the market will draw to an end.” I get his point. Most of his friends are jobless and yet immobile, but they look forward to the day of the haat when they can all hang out together. But they cannot. Friends, family, countrymen – everyone here worth one’s trust has become a foe.

I ask Babli about his residence, he tells me it is right across the street (which is just about two feet wide and a red puddle), “next to the tomb of Laxman Jamunda”. Babli tells me that Laxman was his paternal uncle who was a 55-year-old bachelor and stayed with him. I had heard about Laxman’s death too – it was about a fortnight in the month of May this year when there were a strong of news of deaths from Kalinganagar, thanks to some like journalists RR and PDM, and a filmmaker who made small videos of the atrocities through the use of hidden cameras and put them up on Youtube for the world to see. “So tell me what happened on May 12 this year,” I prod Babli.

Laxman Jamunda: Rest-In-Piece

“Our villagers, who no more lived here as they had given their land to Tata and had accepted the rehab package, had come dressed as cops. They claimed that they wanted to take away all the things which they had left behind in their house. Now tell me, which house would still have anything useful, if you return to it after four years? Anyway, so we let them take the things and soon we saw that bulldozers razed down those houses. Sometime later, they began to raze down the houses of those who still lived here – after all, they were protesting the land grab. Some women were in the houses which were being attacked and they began to scream. We ran to see what was happening. The goons – or, those who earlier lived in our village – began to attack with the arrows they carried. We had no time to react but to run and escape. We didn’t know that the cops were also waiting in another corner. They too struck; one bullet hit my uncle Laxman. They took away his body instantly. It has been two months today, and yet we haven’t received his body.”

I pay my respects to the stone tomb, which is draped with a red cloth. Red, for the seething anger. Red, for the blood that been spilt. Red, for the reasons why a people decides to make the bow and arrow a part of their anatomy, wherever they go. I decide to meet Dabar Kalundia – the man wanted by the police for ‘crimes’, but who is being constantly wooed by people in the administration. It is raining and all around me, I see only green. I wonder why, for the love of another green, should drops of red need to discolour this natural green. I hear the rumble of a bike – but there are two women pillion riders already. It is a 3 km walk to Baliagot village.

Dabar is not at home; I meet 20-year-old Surendra Bandara ande explain that I am a journalist and Dabar’s friend. His look of suspicion fades and offers to show me something ‘interesting’. We walk for a while when he tells me why he is sitting at home jobless. “If I apply for a job, they will reject me during the medical test.”

“Why? You look fine to me!”

“I have a bullet wound below my groin.” He explains that on the day of the mutiny, he was shot. He called up his father – who was in the postal service in Cuttack – and within 30 minutes, he sped his bike to Cuttack (a 90-minute drive from Kalinganagar), through another long convoluted route, to avoid the cops. “I managed to somehow reach Cuttack before the cops blocked all exit routes. I was in the hospital for the next six months. My 12th class exams were held in March that same year, but I couldn’t appear for them. Now, there is no point in completing my studies as I will anyway not get any job. I might as well live in the village and work for the movement,” he explained.

His ordeal was not to end after he was released from the hospital. He was arrested in October 2009 on charges of murder, dating back to the bloody Monday on January 2, 2006. He was released this year in March. By now, we have reached the spot that he wanted to show me. It is the 4-lane Common Corridor project, which, the government claims will reduce the distance to Duburi Chack for the people living in the nearby villages. “There can be no shorter route other than through our village. And anyway, they say they want to make it a pukka road so that we can ply our ‘vehicles’ – which is nothing beyond a bike. But the majority walks. And who would want to walk on a road which doesn’t have a single tree under which one could take shelter on a hot day?” True to his words, the land is suddenly barren till a large extent.

“We were sent a letter by IDCO (Industrial Infrastructure Development Corporation) which stated that we would have to surrender 5 acres of our land for the project. IDCO is responsible for buying or grabbing the land from people, and giving it off to the highest bidder. We returned the letter, and told them that we were not ready to give our land. March 30 this year was the day to inaugurate the Common Corridor, which we call as ‘daman’ (repression) corridor. We protested but they beat up several of us. Ever since, they have tightened their grip around Kalinganagar, and today’s scenario of a ‘house arrest’ is a result of that incident,” Surendra states it all nonchalantly.

The Common Corridor runs through Surendra's farmland. 'That's where I get my food from. That's the land that has kept generations of our family alive. That's the land for which the government is ready to even kill us.'

We walk back to his house for some water. His house, like the most houses in rural India, are the most ‘eco-friendly’ – everything is taken from the Earth; every element used is ‘biodegradable’. He points out to a heap of hay behind. “That was part of our house. We went and stayed there on days when there would be too many visitors. On April 9 this year, the family who lived behind our house had come along with the cops and a bulldozer, to raze his old house. We were ill-prepared to face the huge contingent of police, and so, instead of facing them, we ran towards the hill. When we returned later in the evening – when we were sure that the cops had left – we saw that along with our neighbour’s house, this part of our house was also brought down.”

Later that night, it rained heavily and begins to thunder. Between the moments of the room being lit by lightning, and the drops of water occasionally dripping from the low roof, I fell asleep. A bad dream woke me up at 3 am – I dreamt that someone was chasing me on the fields with the words that the house will be razed. I saw that I was running through the fields, but I had reached my residence. I look around but cry aloud out of sheer frustration – what will I take along with me? Bank papers? Educational certificates? The laptop? The telephone diary? The meager jewellery bundled into a handkerchief, tucked behind the clothes in the wardrobe? The old tattered love letters? The book which prevented me from drowning myself into depression? The blackened photograph of smiling Gods who seem to promise the fruits of being hopeful? I shuddered till I fell asleep again; I woke up in the morning and it was still raining.

Tribal? No Job? Become SPO

2010-06-23T16:56:00.000+05:30

“There has to be a way out!” I had argued with Rabi the previous night. It was getting stifling that there was no way to get to Jajpur Road – just 15 kms away – during the day. Early on Tuesday (June 22) I managed to find the light to guide me out of the tunnel. Rabi’s nephew Sangit offered to take me through another route to the main road on a bike, from where I could take a bus to Jajpur Road. It was 8 am, and true to the corporate style work structure, the cops, goons and other men from Tata were bang on time to level the fields. But instead of walking 3 kms through the fields and past them to reach near Nilachal Ispat Nigam Ltd (NINL), Sangit takes me through more villages through a back route, to emerge on the main road, and then proceed to Duburi Chack, which is the town centre. It is a long route – 5.5 kms. “What if someone from our Chandia village had to go to the town, and did not have a bike?” I asked Sangit. “He would walk.” The road didn’t feel smooth anymore; the red dust in the air was blinding me.

When we emerged on the main road, Sangit discreetly pointed out towards a young boy by the roadside, who seemed to be trying to fix his bicycle. “He stands here till noon everyday. He is an informer for the cops. We shouldn’t take this route again tomorrow.” At first, I feel Sangit was being a chicken. But then again, he would know best – I would return to my safe haven in Mumbai and entertain friends with beer, descriptions of the greener pastures and the dramatic violence of Kalinganagar. But Sangit would have to live here, fight here, survive here or be a martyr here. Nobody is a chicken in Kalinganagar – not the tribals fighting for themselves; not the steel companies and the government which plays God to the tribals.

I notice two young boys, in their 20s, in khaki. Approaching Duburi Chack, I ask him if they were real cops, or people who had left the villages but were made to wear the khaki, or goons from another town camouflaged as men of law. “They are SPOs (special police officers).” I think I almost yelled aloud “WHAT?!” for Sangit almost applied the brakes. “How can SPOs be here? You don’t have militants like in Jammu & Kashmir; you don’t have separatists like in the North East of India; you don’t have Maoists like in Chhattisgarh. What are SPOs doing here?”

No job? Wear the khaki and eliminate your kin.

“The Orissa government says that there are no jobs for the youth. So they are offering them jobs of SPOs. They get paid Rs 4,000. This lucrative scheme was launched early this year and only youths from the Scheduled Tribes (STs) can apply for it. The minimum qualification needed is eighth class pass,” Sangit explained, adding that most youths from other villages outside Kalinganagar who had no idea or inclination about the politics of power and industrialization scampered to bag these jobs. “Evidently, the government is conveying, “You don’t have a job? They become a SPO, kill your own people or get killed.’ This is the government’s way of eliminating the mot backward tribals and grab all the land for industrialization.”

I get onto the bus, and it waits for a good 20 minutes before it can be packed. I manage to get a seat when a conductor pushes a man to ensure that the woman who seems to be from the city has a comfortable ride. The bus begins to move. Two halts later, old men with vegetable bags alight, while an old woman wearing a saree and no blouse, with a heavy cloth bag in her hand, boards the bus. Nobody can see her age. I decide to stand up and give her the seat. The conductor shouts in Oriya from behind, urging someone else to get up instead of me. A young man finally gets up and offers the old lady a seat. The bus moves ahead.

I was thankful to have a window seat, when the conductor shouted out that it was the ‘Nilachal’ bus stop. I look out and can see a string of grey vehicles – gone are the days of the Ambassador; our babus now travel in SUVs. I notice few men in white shirt and trousers, wearing the yellow safety helmet. There were no concrete or metal structures ‘above’ their head. Further ahead into the fields, I saw the reason why my wings were being clipped by the people in the village – huge trucks, bulldozers and tractors have dotted the landscape. I can black mounds and some a mass of white dots. I manage to take some photographs and then I see – those are men wearing the safely helmets, because they can anticipate people’s resistance and ‘offence’ any moment.

Let's watch a game called 'grab and kill'.

The rule of this game is to lie, lie and lie.

People in the bus are wondering what photographs am I taking. But I remember Rabi’s words, akin to that ad for Fritto Lays chips, when the girl would tempt the stranger into eating those wafers, and then step back – “Mom said I shouldn’t talk to strangers!” Here, the strangers I could perhaps befriend could be an informer. Further ahead on the road, we pass by a rail route. I remember what the local journalist RR had told me about this rail track: “This route was laid out after the string of MoUs was signed with the steel companies, post 1992. This route runs from another district called Keunjhar to our east, to Jhakpura, which is the railway station within Kalinganagar. There are iron and chromium mines in Keunjhar and the raw materials for the steel plants are brought to Kalinganagar by this route. It is only now that just one passenger train passes by this route.”

Once in Jajpur Road, life seems normal – children wearing crisp uniforms go to school, men ride on scooters to work, women shop for vegetables, jobless youth in bright shirts letch at young girls, saloons are busy doing business and grooming men. Not for once did I feel that I was so close to Kalinganagar, which can easily be India’s Bermuda Triangle. I finish my work and meet another local journalist PDM. He claims that RR and he are the only two journalists who have dared to enter the Bermuda Triangle when the cops had enforced a strict clampdown on the road. PDM said that there were several occasions when he and RR would ride up there, but their bags would be filled with basic medicines for those ailing in Kalinganagar, who couldn’t come to the medical centres.

We ride back to Kalinganagar. The sky is blue and not a single cloud to give the hope of rains. Around us, I see the steel plants in the distant. Not a single tree is visible. White fumes emanating from tall pillars make temporary clouds on the sky, leaving the nose pungent. “Villagers walking here will suffer sunstroke!” I exclaim. “Not sunstroke; they will suffer from moonstroke!” I am silent for a while and PDM understands that he owes me an explanation. “The sunstroke is evident, thanks to the heat and the naked field with no trees. But people here are being killed at night too by sudden police attacks. People will die here from breathing the poisonous fumes emanating from the factories. All of this will happen silently and not under the daylight when everyone can see everything. It will be a forced night – everyone in Orissa knows about Kalinganagar, yet they choose to pretend to be asleep. It is such a sleep that you cannot wake up a man from.”

Processing of iron ore before it cam be made into steel means the use of chromium hexavalent, to make the steel resistant to corrosion. Every person worth his love for Julia Roberts would have heard of this chemical, when the actor played the role of Erin Brockovich – an environmentalist who fought for the people of Hinkley in California, since their water bodies were contaminated with the chemical, which is highly carcinogenic. In Kalinganagar, the use of this chemical is crucial to the production of steel. And impotent men. “In the next 10 years, this place will be the land of hijras! Forget about the people working in those factories; ‘cancer’ will become an everyday word for these tribals living here,” PDM said in contempt.

"We are the champions...."

Few metres ahead, we see the infamous ‘goons’ of Kalinganagar – burly men on bikes, eyeing the fields where some trucks are unloading sand. The road into Chandia is now clear, and in about 7 minutes, we traverse the rickety 3 kms. Either of the sides is dotted with mounds of sand and packets of water. I return to find Sangit playing on his mobile phone. He is a third year student of History Honours in Bhubaneshwar. He is more than happy to explain the finer nuances of the politics at play here. “You see, when Tata manages to acquire the lands of, say, 50 families of a village, it will report to the government and to the media that it acquired the lands of 100 families. This they do by mentioning every son by a father as a separate family; never mind if the son is still a 10-year-old! Secondly, when it shows such great numbers, it sends out a message that 100 families – which means about 400 people – have been active in the resistance. Now this is seen as a huge number for a middle class, which thinks that the ‘savage’ tribals are posing a threat to development. For them, development means more factories. So, in accordance to silence the 400 bow-and-arrow carrying people, cops are sent in huge numbers. But the reality is that we are not such a huge number.”

I understand what he says, in a different context. The government claims that Maoists are the ‘single most, greatest internal security threat’. The middle class gets furious and types out mails to the news channels and newspapers between their coffee breaks that the Maoists should be eliminated so that development is possible. When the armed forces attack civilians – “We knew there were Maoists in the village!” – the same middle class says innocently, “Somebody has to pay a price for development, no?” Then there are those claims about Maoists having sophisticated guns, lent out with love from China (the middle class wouldn’t want to talk about China’s ‘love’ affair with Tibet). Yet the same middle class wouldn’t admit the truth that the mouse has to be smarter than the cat, to defend itself. The Maoists are better in their ‘strategy’; they capture the guns which lay next to a martyred soldier of the armed forces which was out in the jungle to kill the Maoists. The Maoists are a specter for the middle class – “There are so many of them!” “They are they single most, greatest internal security threat!” Scare the ignorant and the uninitiated, and he will forever live in fear.

It begins to thunder and we take shelter. The huge crowd of goats, cows and fowls gather together in the shed. Amid them is a dog, which runs towards us. He is fearless, unlike the fearful goats and hens towards which one can’t even benignly approach. He sits next to me. Sangit calls out, “Tata! Tata! Come here!” The dog responds and walks towards Sangit, and begins to lick his feet. I went mute and Sangit laughed aloud, telling me that the dog has been named Tata. “Go back Tata, let us live in peace.” Sangit says, but a moment later tells me, “But calling this dig Tata is akin to abusing this harmless dog, no?” I cannot agree with him more.

How Much Would You Sell Your Mother For?

2010-06-23T13:16:00.001+05:30

It is 6 am on a Monday (June 21) and she has just finished sweeping the floor. She offers me a cup of strong tea as we sit under the shade of a large tree, we talk about food. Soon, she will have to run to the fields – not to work, but to see the huge bulldozers coming and leveling her land. The previous day was rather a relaxed one for her and other villagers, as being a Sunday, there was no work on the farms by the authorities.

We were talking about food. Every McDonald’s outlet, at least in the Indian cities, has a four-foot tall bin, to throw the waste food. Despite having a refrigerator, almost every urban household throws food into the bin. I tell her this, and she is shocked, but a moment later explains this phenomenon to me. “I know why they do this – because people in the cities do not grow their own food. They just buy it. We farmers tend to every plant that we grow on our fields. It would be an exaggeration if I said that this is the reason why we relish our food. But yes, because we have slogged ourselves while growing the food, we can never throw it. But it seems like people in the cities eat steel and money,” she laughs.

"Aren't we fighting for our God, for our Mother?"

There are no words or arguments to defend what she accused the urban folk of. Before I could conjure up some more words, she touched the ground and added, “This land is my mother. She has given me food, water and clean air. When I die, she will take me back into her womb. Tell me, would you be willing to sell this mother? And if so, then at what price? We have asked this question each time an officer comes in a big car to convince us to give up our land. He has no reply. But we just help with an answer since he goes mute: ‘Let us know the price at which you will sell your mother. We will then think about the price you can quote, but no, we will not sell her.’ The government says that these steel plants are being made for our development. Forget jobs; not even a needle will come to us from these plants! Do they think humans can survive on iron and steel? Perhaps they can! After all aren’t the city folk always hungry for money?” I lower my head upon hearing the stark truth.

I try to change the topic and ask her about the movement. She says that earlier people would be scared upon seeing a policeman. “Ever since the crossfire on January 2, 2006, took place, we have never retreated. We now look at the cops as piece of dirt. God has given us that strength to fight back – after all aren’t we fighting for our God?”

Freedom?

I realize that I too need to find a place from where I could file reports of all that I see, hear, smell, feel. But when I propose this idea to Rabi, he is defiant. “The cops come to level the fields from 8 am to 12 noon. You just cannot go in front of them. The goons are drunk; the cops will catch you and label you a Maoist.” I argue with him that I need to see for myself what is happening, but he explains patiently. “See, you need to walk a minimum of 3 kms to the main road to take a bus to Jajpur Road, where you will find cyber cafes. But you cannot go there – it is unsafe. Some of our young boys have gone there, but they have returned – what do you do when there are 300 cops?” Around 12 noon, I begin to walk towards the main road. I revel in the cool breeze thanks to an early morning shower, while the green grass on either side of the rough patch of road makes me want to lie down and look up at the clouds. But the euphoria comes to a sudden halt when I see three men carrying bows and arrows, sitting under a tree.

“Johar,” I greet them. They eye me suspiciously, but I rush my words to tell them what I do and where I have been staying in their village. I sit next to them to strike up a conversation, simply because their tools fascinate me no end. They don’t tell me their names, but warn me against going ahead. “Madam, it will be best that you don’t go ahead today. There are too many goons who are mostly drunk.” I try to tell him that I want to see exactly what he doesn’t want me to face, but I understand his apprehensions – as an outsider who may get into trouble, it would be unnecessary burden on them to try and rescue me. For the first time, I begin to sense the nauseating feeling of not being able to move about freely in one’s own land. I know that I would get out sooner or later, but the men, women and children have since long been under such a house arrest.

"This is our parampara."

I am on the verge of breaking down, for, despite having traveled this far without any assurance that my words would be read and the voice of the voiceless would be heard, I was not allowed to see for myself what was happening. I sigh aloud and the men smile. I ask one of them about his bow and arrow. He tells me he is on ‘patrol duty’ till the time the cops continue with their leveling work. “I will be here till the time they are gone. I can see them from here.” I cannot see anything. The heart sees what the eyes cannot see. “Every night, every youth from every household is out with his bows and arrows. We make these at home. This is part of our ‘parampara’. We have to stand on guard for our own land because the cops come in the middle of the night along with goons, from other villages too. Besides, our villagers who have accepted the rehab packages by Tata live in their transit camps and are made to wear khaki. So from a distance, it would obviously seem like a huge police force,” he explains.

“But what about the promised jobs?” I ask, and by now, some women – axes in their hands – too return from the direction of the main road. I learn that they were near the site where the land was being leveled, as they wanted to see the way in which their own Mother was being rendered infertile. I ask them again if I could go, but they tell me to stay put. I try not to think about my itchy feet and turn to the thread of conversation. “They did promise jobs to some of the people who went with them. But the job contract is only for six years. We would get the job of a sweeper or watchman. What happens after six years? There is no mention about that! And by then, we would have lost our land and livelihood, emptied our pockets of the compensation amount, and then we would lose our sanity. They think they can buy us off. But we will fight,” he says, lifting his bow and arrow.

Divide, Kill and Rule

I walk back dejected but Rabi, who is back from his own fields and meeting other people in the villages, tells me that he would make me happy in the evening. We go to Champakoyla village which now has just 20 families. Ten families were ‘displaced’ by Tata, one by one. Earlier in the day, the fields of the people in this village were leveled, while three houses were bulldozed. When we reach the picturesque village, the men show no sign of dejection. They are busy playing a game of cards. Rabi waits for them to put a neat closure to the game. I whisper in jest, “They are doing something important. They would not want to be disturbed.” He smiled and replied, “They are extremely upset. They wouldn’t have been playing cards at 5pm – they would have been returning home from their fields.” The heart sees what the eyes cannot see.

Searching for the last straw of grass amid the black sand and slug.

I am introduced to Sonia Tiria, leader of Bisthapi Birodhi Jan Manch (BBJM) in that village. His wife Diyugi (32) was shot in her waist during the January 2, 2006, firing. He remarried a year later so that his two children – now aged 12 and 10 – could be taken care of by a mother. He tells me that post the firing, the 10 families marched along with Tata. One of the families is that of his own brother. “Tata and its money divided our family. It is rather sad to see my own brother Pradhan and his children taking up arms against us,” he says, as he points out to the broken house of his brother. Beyond the rubble lay the grave of his deceased wife.

The villagers offer to show me the bust of Ramchandra Jamunda, who was killed along with Diyugi on that fateful day. In all, two people became martyrs on that winter morning. They want me to see the spot where the firing took place, and we walk about 500 metres. I meet a 40-something lady, who, I ma told, is the midwife of the village. She tells me in Hoo language, which is translated to Hindi by the men, that several women have died during delivery due to complications. “The health centre is 10 kms away. There is no way, other than the bicycle, upon which a woman in her labour can be carried. Nobody in this village has a motorbike. Life here indeed is in accordance to the will of God,” one man translates her words for me.

Sonia shows me a house that stood erect the same morning, but was now in rubble. “What about those cows?” I ask. “These belonged to the owner of the house. Of course Tata doesn’t offer a shed for the animals of those who give up their land and accept their rehab package.”

Your God, My God

We arrives near a tiny lake, next to which is a stone pillar built in the memory of the 15 martyrs. There is a wave of tranquility – the Hoos believe that the souls of the deceased bless the living on their path. They tell me that more than 25 platoons of police had arrived on Jnaury 2, 2006, and they stood near the lake and fired. Bullets from INSAS rifles, as well as rubber bullets, hit people even 3 kms away.

As we walk back after having paid our obeisance to the pillar, I ask the people, “Aren’t you fighting a losing battle?” One of elder men walks rushes ahead to tell me his amalogy. “The five Pandavas fought with 100 Kauravas. But the Pandavas had the Gods with them. But it doesn’t seem like God is on our side, at this moment.” Defying his pessimistic view, another said, “But we have faith in the law. Someday, it will hear us out. We have to die anyway. But we will die fighting for our land. We don’t want to use our bows and arrows either to fight – we use them to hunt animals, not people. We hope we don’t have to use them on people. We reach a patch of land – about 100 sq. metres – which is akin to a forest. One man points out, “You know Madam, this tiny forest provides us with everything we need. But the government says that Maoists inhabit this forest! Even a tiger would find this space tiny! But while the government makes such tall claims, Tata officers often go around this forest!”

“That is some company’s tower and its God. This is the people’s tower and our God.”

It is moonlit night and hence we don’t miss the electricity. Rabi continues the meeting with all the people from the village, while I am introduced to three teenage cousins – Padmini, Janki and Sushmita Jamunda. Each of the three girls lives in a hostel in Jajpur Road and is in their 12th grade, studying Science. Each of them wants to become a doctor. Janki, the extrovert among the three, tells me after some time, “If we become doctors, we would be the first doctors in this village and for the villages adjoining ours,” she says with a certain pride, and I shower my words of encouragement. She then goes on, with inputs from her sisters: “We do have a medical centre in Dhangadi, which is 10 kms away. But ever since the clampdown by Tata’s goons, it has been really difficult to get there for treatment. Some of our villagers have had to state that they come from some different village, whose land is not in the process of being acquired by Tata. That’s how they have managed to save themselves.”

We talk about festivals and food, but they want to know how big is Mumbai. I don’t do a good job of it: “Do go there once and make some money, but do not forget to return to your roots. Because if you continue to live there, your heart will turn into a stone. Your village needs you,” they understand my point. Janki replies, “Yes, we know what you are saying Didi. Look that side – the entire sky has become orange because of the light from the steel plants. That is hardly 2 kms away from here. Yet, we don’t have electricity in this village. We used to have a clear stream, but the water is now polluted because effluents from the steel plants have been released into it.” She takes a deep breath before saying aloud, “Where there is the adivasi, there is the jungle, the water, the clean air. We take only little from the nature, and companies grab even that!”

Rabi and I ride back around 8 pm. The moon above lights up the rickety road for us. At one point, we see about thirty people under a huge tree. “They are people from Bamiagonth village. They have been sleeping outside ever since May 28 this year, to stay on alert if we are attacked. Only the very old stay indoors. But toddlers and their mothers too stay awake through the night in shifts. This is the way we patrol and protect ourselves,” Rabi says with pride.

The Bermuda Triangle In India

2010-06-22T13:26:00.002+05:30

The Wikipedia states that Kalinga was an early kingdom in central-eastern India, which was a rich and fertile land, and was the scene of the bloody Kalinga War fought by the Maurya Emperor Ashoka the Great of Magadha circa 265 BCE. Several centuries, in a northern part of Orissa in the district of Jajpur, the original description of Kalinga stands true. Here is a vast land demarcated as Kalinganagar, which is fertile enough, and now, is equally blood-stained. There is a certain Fascist regime here, and through discreet means, the red earth here is further rendered a darker shade.

Getting to Kalinganagar is no easy feat. When I decided to go to Kalinganagar - the reasons which I will enumerate later - I was forewarned that it is not the place to go. 'Another Dantewada', I could hear my own voice. Yet, I knew I had to go there. There were random news of people being killed, roads being blocked and farmers laying down their lives for the love of land. There was news that development was being offered to the tribals living there, yet they were not ready to accept it. There was news that they were being offered 'white-collared' jobs and yet they were not ready for them. Every bit of news was scattered, and perhaps that's the reason why it got me intrigued.

Thanks to a local journalist RR who has managed to stay untouched by the authorities, I found myself as his pillion rider into Kalinganagar, from Jajpur Road. “You cannot go there alone right now. Since May 28, 2010, 25 platoons of police accompanied the goons who came with tractors and bulldozers to level people’s farmlands. These farmlands belong to those people who have been resisting the forceful acquisition of land by Tata to set up its plant there,” I am told on my way, as hot winds slap my face and not a tree is to be seen. Thick grey fumes are flushed into the blue sky, making the green hills in the distant a mirage. Tata had acquired 3,500 acres of land, but thanks to the deal of another steel company gone wrong, another 1,500 acres of land are now in the hands of Tata.

A New Bermuda ‘Square’

It hasn’t been an easy ride for RR either – there are just about two journalists who want to talk about the tribals, and not merely talk of development, as etched out by the government. The majority of the media would go into the villages, talk to the people and hear them ‘rant’ about their loss of land and livelihood, but would back to their plush air-conditioned offices and write about the ‘savagery’ of the tribals, and the philanthropy of companies like Tata which wants to ‘develop’ them. RR thus didn’t have to explain why going with him was essential – the wrath of the villagers was palpable. I didn’t have to explain to him why I decided to step in there – the ‘truth’ as told by the mainstream media and its journalists on a comfortable payroll was palpable.

The steel plants in the distant are a contrast to the foliage amid which the adivasis thrive

Most of rural India is similar in its landscape. The huge canopy of trees, clean air, green and blue houses with thatched roofs, women bathing in groups near a hand-pump, children with skinny limbs but huge bellies playing the game of chasing a bicycle tyre, men sitting under a tree and engaged in animated conversations or listening to the transistor, cows mooing, dogs befriending the cats, cocks and hens scampering through the tiny lanes – this is rural India. The similarity goes beyond this in Central India – here the people are trying hard to protect their lands from the corporate zealots who romance with the state governments, and the khaki-wearing job is all about terrorizing the villagers to surrender their lives and lands for the ‘development’ of the nation. Only, the definition and realm of ‘development’ is undefined, and its real meaning is conspicuously chosen to be unaddressed. At the same time, during each of my sojourns, I am witness to a beautiful sight of childhood innocence – any vehicle which has a motor is chased down the road with squealing delight by the sudden appearance of several children. However, as our bike made way through the villages in Kalinganagar, this was replaced by something else which initiated my understanding of the politics in place here – three children, upon seeing our bike, ran into their courtyards and hid themselves behind a tree. A fourth one, who wasn’t quick enough to run past, tried to squeeze herself amid the latticework of the bamboo boundary. Her eyes were filled with unfathomable terror. Later I learnt that the entire village would sleep in the open fields even in the winter to ward off the goons and cops who would attack them in the dark hour of the night.

I am taken around the villages before I settle in Chandia village of Dhangadi block, at the residence of Rabi Jarika – a short man in his thirties with a calm demeanour, yet a voice strong enough to stir even an octogenarian to proclaim that it is worth fighting against the might of the corporates. Rabi had completed his Masters in Sociology, but the doom spelled down upon his village brought him back to unite the people. He is instrumental is giving a voice to the resistance, in the name of Bisthapan Birodhi Jan Manch (BBJM), which primarily is fighting against the land acquisition by the self-proclaimed lord of Kalinganagar, Tata. Despite his busy schedule in getting people to stay motivated to fight this battle, while their land was being leveled with sand and metal scraps, he begins to narrate the history and other nuances of Kalinganagar.

Games corporates and governments play

I begin by asking Rabi to draw me a rough map of Kalinganagar for my convenience. But he laughs:

“I cannot draw a map because the area is forever a changing space. In 1992, the Biju Patnaik government sanctioned Sukhinda and Dhangadi blocks of Jajpur, as an industrial complex. As of today, Sukhinda comprises 24 Panchayats, while the number is 21 in Dhangadi. Yet, the area seems to be expanding. Every month, there is a new signboard in the far corners, which says, 'Welcome to Kalinganagar'. This means that more and more villages will fall under this complex; more land has been marked to be grabbed, and more people will be robbed of their livelihood. There are 11 steel plants in all, and three more including Tata, will be coming up soon.

Just about 15 per cent of the people residing in Kalinganagar have accepted to part with their land. And this has been possible through a variety of ways – some of them were coerced; some were lured into consuming expensive foreign liquor, while some others were promised jobs. It has been the lure of instant cash. However, those who have parted ways with the village are sadly our enemies today. Tata has successfully employed the ‘divide and rule’ policy of the British. The government is an ally to the corporates in throwing us out from here, and they don’t want the resistance to spread. That’s also why they are preventing the intellectuals in the cities from coming here.

The other pressure tactic used is restricting people from moving about freely. This is done to break their morale. For instance, if you want to go out for Kalinganagar from here, the nearest main road is 3kms away. From our house, that would be where the state’s government’s own Nilachal steel plant is set up. But right now as we talk, you just cannot go there. There are cops and goons employed by Tata. These goons are of two types – they are the ones who gave their land to Tata, accepted their ‘rehabilitation; package but are living in the shoddy transit camps. They are now given Rs 500 each day to terrorise their own erstwhile neighbours and making them bow down to Tata. The other set of goons are villagers from outside Kalinganagar. It need not be elaborated that these men are drunk and misbehave with anyone. And the cops would pick you if you manage to come under their scanner on the road – you will be charged on flimsy grounds, right from waging war against the state, to murder. (Rabi’s elder brother was similarly arrested in February 2010.)

One of the reasons why the government is able to terrorise the people is because they are uneducated. But most importantly, it is also because they have no land pattas. This land was ruled by Sukhinda Raja and he had handed out land pattas in 1922, and these were called ‘Raja pattas’. However, the process was no complete, and it was understood that post-Independence, those who hadn’t received the pattas would get it. But that never happened, and this is why the government claims that our land is their land. Now, the official numbers state that Kalinganagar area constitutes 45 per cent tribals. But then this is also reserved area; so going by the latter ‘fact’, the number of tribals here should be at least 60 per cent.

Strangely, majority of Kalinganagar are very fertile, as against the rest of Orissa which is quite arid. And some tribals here can be defined as ‘developed’. So they are very much content with what they have – which is an average of five acres of land by every family. Tata initially offered Rs 25,000 per acre but later went on adding more, such that today their offer stands at Rs 60,000 per acre. However, according to our own calculations which is done is accordance to a measure called ‘goonth’, one goonth is valued at a minimum of Rs 1.5 lakh. And guess what does that mean to be the price of every acre? Twenty-five goonths make one acre! Now do your math!

Since May 28 this year, the farmlands in the villages of Ambogadia, Bellahori, Kanklajhor, Champakoyla, Bamiagotha, Gobarghati, Kolamatia, Bandhargadia, Gadhpur, Baidugudi, Orasahi, Kharigatia, Baligot, Chandia, and parts of Dhurpathar and Bargadia have been leveled. Initially, people went running to protest, but the fear of bullets cannot be negated. Other than rubber bullets, they are also using steel bullets, which we called ‘charra’. These are meant to be just a tool to terrorise, but their use can prove fatal too. They come with bulldozers, level the land, pile up black sand, and scatter generous amounts of metal scrap. And we have nobody to go to, to seek redressal. There couldn’t have been a better Fascist regime than what we are subject to. The government watches on and enjoys this cock fight as our own brothers are bribed to fight against us.”

The brown land in the foreground in that which was leveled on June 20. In the background the field is still green - it is yet to be leveled. When the goons and cops come in for their work, they leave behind empty plastic packets of water.

I soak in all the information from this man of the Hoo tribe, which regards trees, land, water, air as their God. It is a unique struggle to safeguard their God, but often, they seem to feel deprived of the blessings of The One. “Why are we adivasis seen as the enemy? Don’t we breathe the same air? The government makes no qualms about initiating dialogues with the warring Pakistan or China, yet, when it comes to its own people, it doesn’t think twice before running us down,” Rabi adds with a harried smile. I try to change the topic and ask him about three buildings near his house, which resemble schools, thanks to the painted pictures of Mahatma Gandhi, Bhagat Singh and Atal Bihari Vajpayee. “Even nature doesn’t support us! It was a good school as teachers were visiting regularly but one fine day a strong gust of wind blew off its roof. Now even animals don’t use it as shed.” We laugh.

The tables now turn and Rabi asks me why I was there alone, and whether I represented any mainstream media organization. He was hoping for a positive reply, assuming that my words would help take their voice out into India Shining. My negative reply explains the functioning of the fourth estate of a democracy, which loves its ad revenue more than the ‘truth’.

Tears and hope

After a lunch of coarse rice and dal, we go around the village. I am accompanied by Dabar Kalundia, a man ‘most-wanted’ according to the local media, but someone who is contacted by the development officers to get him to convince his village folk to sell their land. We walk past a patch of land which is the sight for two houses – one intact, with an old lady working in the courtyard; the other in rubble. I ask Dabar why the stark dichotomy? “The one whose house is intact doesn’t want to move away from here. The one whose house is in rubble had accepted the rehab package by Tata four years ago. It is only recently that the cops came with the owners of the house – who posed themselves as goons to terrorise us – and bulldozed the house right before their eyes. They are doing this with almost all houses of those who had joined the other side,” he explained.

We then enter the house of late Aati Jamunda, who lost his life in a firing that took place on January 2, 2006. That day, around 10 am, the police began firing from several kilometers away, and 12 people lost their lives instantly. Three others later succumbed to their injuries. I meet Aati’s father Upin, and mother Haro. It is early evening and Haro is sifting the rice, while Aati’s daughter sits by her. Aati was 35 and didn’t have a job – he worked all day on the field. In 2005, he lost his younger brother, who was a teacher, to brain malaria. “He was ill for three days. Before we could figure out about which health clinic we should go to – since the nearest one is 10 kms away and there are no facilities at all, he died. A year later, we lost Aati,” said Upin, after a contemptuous look towards me. Dabar later explained that they spoke in Hoo in my presence – “So many journalists have come and gone. They ask the same questions, but they go back and write that my son was a goon, who would have been reformed by Tata’s developmental plans. I lost my son, but I am still angry.”

Upin and Haro Jamunda

I request the senior Jamunda if I could take a look at a photograph of Aati. He searches all around in their tiny hut but couldn’t find it. Meanwhile, I try to strike a conversation with Aati’s petite mother in Hindi, and Dabar does the job of the translator. “In a bid to protect my land and parampara (culture), I have lost my son. I don’t have the skills or energy to work in a factory, but I can still work on my field, because I would do it with love. I still have the power within myself to fight one. I am ready to give my life, as well as take life,” said the 55-year-old woman.

Slowly, Upin narrated the chain of events on that fateful day. “Aati was on the field when he heard that the cops had come in. He rushed out to see what had happened. We next learnt that he was shot on his chest. They took his body away instantly.” Dabar added, “We wrote a letter to the CM demanding that the five bodies which were taken away be returned. Three days later, we were handed Aati’s decomposed body but his palms were missing. We don’t even know if any post mortem was done. When we asked why the hands were chopped, the authorities said that it was for identification. We buried his body according to the traditional rites. They returned ‘his’ hands six months later, but how would we know if those were his hands?”

With a heavy heart and a head bowed, we walked ahead. We were stopped by a middle-aged lady who called out to Dabar. Observing her colourful house, I said to Dabar, “They must be rich.” He laughed and whispered, “Wait until you hear their story.”

We enter their large courtyard and about 10 children surround me, upon seeing me wielding the camera. They were children who were unsure of their future, yet were oblivious to the gloom that enveloped the household. I learnt that the lady who beckoned was the mother of Jogendra Jamunda, who was arrested on August 27, 2009. He was an active leader of BBJM in the village. Jogendra’s young wife Pini comes to greet us, with a toddler in her arm, who was born just three months ago. Her two children look on as we talk. “He had gone to play football in another village. Later all the men who were playing returned, except for my husband and two others. We learnt that they had been arrested. The other two men were let out on bail the next day, but my husband has not been so fortunate,” Pini says in broken Hindi.

Pini Jamunda, along with her three children, show me the photograph of Jogendra

Her mother-in-law added, “Much before he was arrested, he was once taking me to the haat (weekly market) in Duburi on his bike. We were just 100 metres away from the Kalinganagar police station when he was shot on his back by goons. It was a crowded area, and so we managed to take care of him, but he still has the bullet lodged in his back.” I ask them about the charges on which he is under arrest. “Oh there are so many!” his mother says, adding, “Everything from dacoity, murder, waging war against the state to being a Maoist – my son seems to have done everything!” A dry laughter follows. She holds my hand as we leave and says, “There is nothing much to say, you know. We just keep on hoping that we will win and save our land. And that Jogendra will be released. We can only hope that God will hear us.”

RED signals in the FOREST

2010-05-03T16:35:00.002+05:30

(This article first appeared in Sunday Times of India, on May 2, 2010)

Maoists in the jungles of Dantewada routinely try to reach out to CRPF jawans posted there to fight them

They don't have a fax machine.They dont send bulk mails either. Yet,the public relations of the Maoists in Chhattisgarh can give any PR agency a run for its money. Not only have they managed to make themselves heard across a section of the country, they've even managed to get the CRPF jawans posted in those thick jungles to think about their purpose in this civil war.

The latest reports about the police-CRPF ring that sold arms to Maoists may have nothing to do with the bulk of jawans but what they do corroborate tangentially is that there could be some sort of communication.

Indeed, jawans, dumped in subhuman conditions in the jungles to fight the enemy, are being reached out to by the Maoists, as this correspondent discovered in her foray into the jungles of Dantewada a few weeks ago. The Maoists have a lot of anger in them about the way this region has been neglected, said one of the jawans in the camp in Chintalnar. They leave leaflets for us, in which they say that we jawans are like their brothers who have been caught in this unnecessary battle because we are all poor.

The jawans at Chintalnar are weary of their dire living conditions. Yet they cannot voice their anguish before their seniors. A single query from this correspondent was enough to let flow the bottled resentment against the government. And the communique sent in by the Maoists specifically targeting the jawans and not the seniors further prods them to repeatedly wonder why they are posted in Chhattisgarh.

But it is essential here to understand what is so special about Chintalnar. Why did it become so infamous after all The answer lies in its geographical location.Forty-five kilometre from Chintalnar is Dornapal, a town where villagers in Chintalnar and the CRPF jawan posted at the camps next door have to go for something as trivial as a matchbox. Chintalnar is in the middle of the jungle, and further ahead are other villages, where only the Red eagles dare. No eagles from the government machinery, including the CRPF, have ever ventured beyond Chintalnar. A bus runs the three-hour distance between Chintalnar and Dornapal once a day.

"When we are walking down the road to Dornapal, if we are lucky not to have been blown apart by the IEDs, we see leaflets with text in red ink nailed to trees. They are addressed to us, telling us that we are their brothers and that this war is unjust. The letters would hit us hard because the Maoists know that we too are here to stave off our poverty," a jawan said, almost in whispers, lest his seniors hear him spill it all out.

Asked whether the letters don't help determine the locus of the Maoists, the jawan said: "They only generate a lot of discussions among us. What the Maoists are saying is valid. With much difficulty, my father paid for my fees so that I could get a BSc degree. But then there were no jobs. I saw the ad in the newspaper, and it was a matter of pride to fight for the nation. But here we are, rotting. We cannot drop out of CRPF. Where will we go? It is here that we understand why a young man or woman becomes a Maoist."

After a night spent at a villagers house, this correspondent saw the next morning what the jawans had been talking about. The Maoists had dropped some leaflets in the night just 300 metres away from where the correspondent had been sleeping in the open courtyard. They were poster papers, with Hindi words red-inked on them, and spoke of demands for development for the masses and removal of troops from the region.

"They keep an eye on every vehicle from Dornapal to here. A CRPF vehicle would have been blown off," said the villager. "But not the car you came in. You are alive, and this is their message to you."