Soot smothered tribals want sponge iron units booted out

Picture courtesy: Kamalendu Bhadra

Story by Subhro Niyogi

(copyright: The Times of India)
It’s spring, a time when tender leaves sprout and flowers blossom. But trees in Gajashimul, Jitushal and Mohanpur in Jhargram seem to have forgotten it. They are in various shades of gray. The sky isn’t blue either. It is dull gray. Even the red soil has turned dark gray. It’s as though God, in a fit of rage, has wiped colours off these tribal villages and condemned its people to a world of ceaseless gray.
Located 170 km south-west of Kolkata along National Highway 6, life at the three villages and 47 others in West Midnapore’s Jhargram took a surreal turn after three sponge iron factories were set up some years ago. The units, categorized red by pollution control board (PCB) for the extreme threat they post to environment, spewed black smoke and sprayed the villages with a layer of soot.
When the first sponge iron unit, a small one, was set up in Gajashimul a decade ago, no one asked the locals whether they wanted a factory in the forest or explained its hazards. Many villagers thought a factory would better their life. Then a larger factory sprung up in Jitushal, followed by another in Mohanpur.
The three units — Reshmi Cement, Reshmi Ispat and Aryabhatta Sponge — have a combined capacity of 800 tonne per day. Consuming 1,200 tonne of coal and 40 lakh kilo-litre of water daily, they have inexorably changed the landscape and turned the air foul, the water filthy.
Seated in the porch of his soot-layered thatched house under a bare sonajhuri tree, Dulal Mudi of Bagmari village points to the dark smoke spewing ominously from the factory at a distance. "The factory has cast an evil spell in the area. Even crops have begun to falter," said Dulal, his fingers trembling in anger.
His wife Sabitri shows the blackened Lal Swarna variety of paddy originally named after its red hue. "The rice mills reject the paddy and call it Kalo Swarna mockingly," she said.

A quarter kilometer away and closer to the sponge iron factory at Jitushal, trees at Ghritakham village present a darker shade of gray. Here, pollution has affected the livestock. In the past two months, eight cows and five goats have prematurely delivered dead calf. Only two calves have been born this year.
"The veterinarian said the deaths could be due to grazing on soot-layered grass and leaves. Carbon that gets injected into their system may have caused the harm," said villager Anjana Mahato, livid with rage.
If pollution is affecting livestock, threat to humans is imminent. At the primary health centre in Gajashimul, Dr Gauri Shankar Adak is worried. He has detected signs of lung disease in some children. "If the factories continue to pollute, children will develop chronic lung problems from breathing in large dozes of carbon particles," he feared.
Though the windows at his quarter are always shut, he invariably wakes up to soot-layered mornings. "There’s a layer of gray dust everywhere. Usually, the village atmosphere is clean. But here, it’s worse than cities," he rued.
Yet, Gajashimul was known for its unspoilt nature. Since the Raj days, it has been a destination for ‘change’, a place to recuperate and rejuvinate. The rich built bungalows. Others patronized hotels. Now, that is history. The bungalows lie abandoned. Most hotels have closed down because people don’t come here anymore.
"We are surviving because others have shut. Who would want to come from the city and land in a spot that is more polluted?" said hotel Kaushalya Heritage manager Bapi Goldar.
The sponge iron units have not only throttled tourism, they have pushed the saal leaf business that forms the backbone of the rural economy here to the brink. There are few takers for the soot-layered, perforated leaves that rain down from the saal trees. Till some years ago, the luxuriant leaves were spotless and much in demand.
"I used to transport two trucks (20 lakh saal leaf plates) to New Market in Kolkata each week. Now, I can manage only one truck in a fortnight. The price they fetch is also poor due to inferior quality leaves," said Baikunta Mahato.
The saal leaves business at Lodhashuli has plummeted from 20-25 trucks daily to 2-3 trucks in as many days. The bamboo trade has died. Earlier, 8-10 trucks (4,800-6,000 bamboo sticks) carted bamboo to Durgapur, Asansol and Bokaro daily.
Today, there are none as bamboo thickets have withered. Production of cashew grown in the 250-odd gardens is down 70%. Mango orchards planted by the British bearing varieties like Himshagar and Begumfuli have not borne fruit this year.
Scraggy-haired, soot-covered children scamper in the barren orchards. They haven’t had a bath in days. With the searing dry heat touching 40 °C, that should be killing. But in this parched land, a bath is a sinful luxury when drinking water is scarce.
"All except one well in our village have run dry this year. The water level has dipped alarmingly," said Pushpa Midhya of Ghritakham. With sponge iron factories sinking deep tube wells, the water table is shrinking fast.
Cornered in their own land with the forest that has severed generations under threat, the tribals are beginning to resist. Paribesh Dushan Pratirodh Committee (PDPC), the local pollution resistance force set up in January, held a protest march against the proposed expansion of the factory at Jitushal on March 27. The factory owners promptly filed cases against 12 PDPC leaders, alleging production loss and damage to property worth Rs 25.54 lakh. That further enraged the locals.
"It’s the case of culprits harassing victims. Enough is enough. We have moved the local administration and PCB without response. If the government does not act, we will combat the situation," warned PDPC head Utangshu Mohato.
Days to go for the election, faith in the political system is dwindling. There are even murmurs of a boycott, similar to one in 2004. Contempt for parties that campaign on all issues except pollution, is evident. Though BJP candidate Nabendu Maheli claimed pollution is his poll plank, Pulin Behari Baske of CPM, Amrit Hazra of Congress and Aditya Kisku of Jharkhand Aditya are silent.
"What can you expect from these low-rung leaders who have no say in policy matters? Why blame them when politicians in Kolkata leaders don’t care less about the issue? Everytime the debate on industrialization in West Bengal crops up, the Opposition screams about large swathes of land in Purulia, Bankura and Midnapore. Did they care to find out how a polluting industry thrust on the people is destroying their lives and playing havoc with virgin areas," Utangshu questioned.
With patience running thin and the belt sitting on a powder keg, a spark is all that is required to ignite an explosion. Chatradhar Mahato’s public rally at Kalaboni on April 19 may provide just that. Kalaboni is 5 km from Lodhashuli and Lalgarh, Chatradhar’s battleground, only 30 km away.
"You’ll see how villages empty out that day as people trek down to listen to Chatradhar. His resistance against the administration’s apathy to police atrocities is an inspiration. We have been mute victims but not for long," said Subhas Mahato, a former saal leaf trader who lost his business to pollution and has joined the resistance force.
The lava of anger bubbling beneath is precariously close to eruption. Question is, will the administration act or will it allow the situation to spiral out of hand?

SPONGE IRON STATS
No. of Units in West Bengal: 62
Burdwan: 34
Purulia: 13
Bankura: 10
W. Midnapore: 4
S. 24-Parganas: 1


PCB DIRECTIVE THAT ARE FLOUTED
1. Do not store dust, coal char, coal fines in open space
2. Dust collection system in electro-static precipitator (ESP) should have pneumatic control system along with silo and pug mill.
3. Provide ‘Dry Fog Dust Suppression System’ for controlling fugitive emission
4. Provide concrete/paved road with premises
5. At least two tankers must continuously spray water within and outside premises
6. Develop green buffer zone along inner periphery, covering 40% factory area

A Tale of Two Devadasis

Picture courtesy: Manjunath Kiran

By Deepa Bhasthi

Mudhol, Bagalkot district: When a cup of tea cost a princely ten paise, the man she fell in love with bought her a cotton saree priced Rs 4. For Rannavva, a devadasi, it was equivalent to a lavish drape of Rs 10,000. The graceful woman, chirpy and ever enthusiastic till now, breaks out into giggles. She must be about 50, it is hard to tell people's ages, weathered that their faces are by the vagaries of having a life lived. They cannot be expected to know their ages either; they have better things in life to bother about.

Rannavva is one of the old timers from a little village in Jamakhandi taluk. Her love story is quite contrary to the conventions of her community. Dedicated when she was just a little girl, her "hiriyavaru" (the elder one), the permanent partner, was poorer than her family. But she fell in love, stood by him when he ran a tiny tea stall, encouraged him to seek a job that his teachers' training merited. Her wrist watch became his when he had to move away for a teacher's post. Every weekend he visited her. Ten years of bliss and he married another woman, with her consent of course. It was a happily ever after, with the two women tolerant of each other, with their three children each sharing a happy sibling relationship.

Rannavva breaks out into a 'chowdike pada', traditional verses and poems that devadasis are taught to sing at temples and at functions. She forgets the lyrics once in a while and is embarrassed because she hasn't been practicing off late but the elegantly beautiful Yamunavva, one the most respected devadasis in the area, reminds her of the next line. Both sing in rich baritones, slightly off key, but melodious nevertheless. Both are peaceful, enjoying their lives too. But talk of passing on their traditions to the next generation and they vehemently dismiss all such intentions. Passing on the songs, the beliefs and the faith in Yellamma devi is all fine, but not the dedication of women that denies them all their lives, the titles of a wife.

Yamunavva's partner is a rich man, the jewellery that compliments her graceful beauty, the 'boar-mala' (a chain of hollow peanut shaped gold beads), a gold and black bead mangalsutra, a large pearl nose-pin testify that. Her 'hiriyavaru' saw her when she was helping her mother in laying roads. A short stint in Mumbai and she was back in her village of Chimmadu. Her partner has taken a wife but has never denied her any comfort. Money for the son's wedding, new sarees, trips to the village fair and to his home, everything, except the institution of marriage. She has no reason to complain, her life has been good, her beauty still visible, her partner still loyal.

The system of devadasis, though banned by the government, is still prevalent in several parts of the northern districts of Karnataka. Belgaum, Bagalkot, Bijapur, neighbouring districts practice the system in considerable numbers. There are no new recruits into the centuries old tradition but the older women continue to perform some rituals, the prayers to Yellamma continue. Voluntarily they have now stopped breaking bangles and practicing widowhood for a month during December-January. Begging for the 'joga' is also not practiced. Yamunavva and Rannavva are both peer educators today with a women's organization in Mudhol, about 50 kms from Bagalkot. They are happy with their partners but dead against young kids being dedicated now. Any inkling of a family planning on dedicating a girl child and they rush to educate the family against it. In extreme cases, the police is discreetly informed too.

The age old system survives in pockets today. Awareness of their rights, exposure and social acceptance has made life better. But then, never have the devadasis been shy of who they are. Yamunavva is greatly respected in her village, her status high. Her large red bindi, green bangles, all her symbols of eternal 'sumangali' reflects her pride, her quiet acceptance of her life. At that age, must be around 65 years, she is still shy when she talks of her partner. Rannavva is more exuberant in her joy. Her joie de vive visible in every flick of her hand, in every verse of the songs she sings. The devadasis, despite all that the city talks of them, are not too unhappy. They are a rather content lot today.

An age old practise:

* Devadasis are girls who are dedicated to Goddess Yellamma at a young age. They can take on a permanent partner and bear children. Nothing stops them from taking on other customers. They do not marry and children do not have claim over the partner's property.

* Devadasis are called the eternal brides. Dedication process includes an elaborate ceremony where they are dressed as a bride. Five rules are whispered into their ear to follow all their lives, to feed the hungry, to not lie, to keep secrets, to give water and to give shelter.

* Earlier begged with a bamboo bowl at two houses on Tuesdays, at three houses on Fridays. Shared the gruel made from the grains with five other 'jogathis'. Seen as representatives of Goddess Yellamma, women often confessed and sought advice from them.

* Continue to fiercely guard and practice their traditional music and dance called Chowdike.

* Women who have had a miscarriage beg Re 1 from jogathis on a new moon day and with that money, pierce the nose of the child that is subsequently born. After a trip to the Yellammana Gudda, they are invited into homes, treated to a feast and people of the household prostrate to pray before her.

The Devadasi system is still quite prevalent, though off late, very wrongly, they have begun to be identified as prostitutes. They also fall under the high-risk category of AIDS. Though the system is highly repressive, it is unfortunate that their rich song and dance culture is on the decline too.

This post first appeared on this blog.

A LIVING PYRE

Picture courtesy: Peter Caton

Copyright: Greenpeace International

Story by Jayashree Nandi

August 08, Jharia, Crumbling under fire and subsidence, Jharia is a place of smouldering land and noxious fumes that make breathing difficult. Yet thousands of inhabitants cling to this collapsing town, eking out a living.

Many of them are illegal coal collectors, who spend their days frantically picking up pieces of coal from the mine dump to sell at the local market for 50 Rupees (US$1.20) a basket.
To make matters worse, the threat of displacement hovers over their heads on a daily basis as the fires continue to spread.
Before coal was unearthed in this area, Jharia was a belt of dense forests inhabited by tribes. Agriculture and cattle rearing were the basic forms of livelihood. Lore has it that King Raja Shiv Prasad Singh, who reigned over Jharia and surrounding areas, first leased 200 acres of land to a Gujarati merchant for just Rs 200 (US$5) to start mining. The mine grew, and soon the fires started – smouldering coal seams and waste heaps set alight by neglect and poor mining techniques. Since the first fire was seen in Jharia in 1916 (in a colliery called Bohra), unscientific mining has been the prime reason behind the spread of fire and subsidence. One particularly bad period was just after 1971, when the mines were nationalised and a public sector company called Bharat Coking Coal Limited (BCCL) took over Jharia. These new owners started to dig huge opencast mines to get to seams of coal near the surface – a cheaper way of mining. Once used, these enormous coal pits were then abandoned, leaving the coal seams exposed to the atmosphere. This caused the seams to ignite. Once alight, these fires are virtually impossible to put out. According to BCCL, there are 67 active fire zones in Jharia today. Thousands of poor, mostly unskilled, migrants from neighbouring states have settled in Jharia over the years. Most of them collect coal illegally to pay for their two meals a day. This has put huge pressure on the existing infrastructure.

Gayatri Devi, a 50-year-old illegal coal collector, lives in a one-room house in one of the active fire zones called Bokapahadi. The floor of her house has a huge crack running through it, and fumes from underneath fill the house. She told us: “I have lived here for 40 years. Last year, the floor cracked and since then my house is on fire. When we walk barefoot, our feet burn. At night, my children feel suffocated due to the pungent fumes. Eight of us sleep in this room. We have no where to go, neither do we have the money to make another house. Probably we will die here.”

Ill health adds to the sense of despair in the town. Pollution invades everything – air, water and land. Smoke from the fires contains poisonous gases including carbon monoxide, carbon dioxide, sulphur dioxide and nitrogen oxide. These fumes, along with fine coal dust from the fires, cause several lung and skin diseases. The problem is made worse by the fact that most mine workers, including shovel drivers, do not wear masks, boots or overalls. It’s no surprise that the most common diseases in this area are pneumoconiosis, tuberculosis, asthma and other chronic lung disorders. Dr Rajiv Agarwal, a local doctor in Jharia, told us that, “Most patients who are mine workers suffer from pneumoconiosis. Once it is detected, there is not much one can do. A film of coal soot covers the lungs. Anaemia and malnutrition are also very common, a fall out of abject poverty and extreme labour in mining areas.” Miners bear the brunt of it, but everyone is affected. Shanti lives in Lodhna, also a fire zone. She told us, “I have continuing headaches due to the noxious gases around. It lasts for days. My children are also down with headache most of the time. At times, there is no one to go to work because my husband has TB. He coughs blood and is very sick. I hope we get over these troubled times soon.”

Despite the obvious evidence to the contrary, when asked about safety provisions, Mr Subrata Chowdhury, ex-chairman and managing director of BCCL, completely denied the fact that workers suffer from respiratory disorders. In spite of all these issues, what people worry about most is displacement. Technical director of BCCL, T.K.Lahiry, recently announced:“Loss of good quality coking coal is a national loss. It is in a way degradation of environment. BCCL is losing its profitability and people are living in extremely unsafe conditions. The only solution is to rehabilitate people inhabiting such hazardous areas.” This rehabilitation comes in the form of the Jharia Action Plan – a Rs 60 billion (US$1.5 billion) initiative to re-house inhabitants and get the coal fires under control. In response to the plan, India’s Ministry of Coal has also released Rs 600 million (US$15 million) for a pilot project to build housing for the residents of Bokapahari, one of the worst affected areas. These plans are good in principle but they don’t address the complexity of the problem. In fact, in Bokapahari there is widespread and strong resistance to the forthcoming displacement. According to the residents, huge families of eight to ten people are being given one-room structures. Belagaria (where the new housing is being built) is far away from the city, and has hardly any employment opportunities. Given the gloomy choice of living in fire zones or losing their livelihood, most people have no choice but to try to stay put. Ashok Agarwal, president of Jharia Bachao Sangharsh samiti – a local resistance body currently fighting BCCL’s plans in the Supreme Court – sums up the no-win situation as follows: “The company started opencast and slaughter mining because it is cheaper and can be easily done. Once the fire spread, almost nothing was done to extinguish it. Sand stowing is avoided because it is expensive. Fire zones are left open. Now they want to remove all the people and extract more coal. However, their compensation is useless compared to the damage done. What will people do where there are no jobs?” As Jharia burns, people continue to put up with the horrendous conditions, the disease, pollution and threat of displacement. Why? Because they have no other choice.

LOST IN NOWHERE LAND

Picture courtesy: Kamalendu Bhadra

Story by Subhro Niyogi

Khatiakhana char, Hamidpur (Malda): Kulesh Chandra Mondal has always been a keen voter. At the last General elections, he crossed two rivers and walked five kilometres to vote legitimately for a stranger in an alien state.
Born in Khatiakhana village of Hamidpur gram panchayat (Kaliachak III block) in Malda, he migrated when the hungry tides of river Ganga gobbled his village three decades ago. Since then, Mondal has taken refuge in various chars or new patches of land that emerged midstream as the river changed course.
Around nine years ago, he was enrolled in an electoral photo identity card (EPIC) drive. Three years on, when a char emerged at the very spot where Khatiakhana once stood 30 years ago, Mondal reclaimed it and settled down. Other fellow villagers trickled in and they christened it Khatiakhana. A few months later, the EPIC arrived that left Mondal shell-shocked. The ID card stated that he belonged to Jharkhand, not West Bengal. An incensed Mondal complained but his marooned voice went unheeded. Though furious over the state switch, the conscientious voter made the arduous journey to cast his ballot.
Mondal is but one of 1.5 lakh people (1,09,811 persons recorded in Census 2001) who have lost their homes to the vagaries of a mighty river and now survive on eight chars. They share the bizarre predicament of being disowned by their own state for their political allegiance and claimed by the neighbouring one keen to corner the vulnerable vote bank.
Despite the odds, several of these men and women will journey across water and land to vote. But some of them will not. Among them are 8,000-odd inhabitants of Khatiakhana and Subhanitola. For a geographical perspective, these chars are 50-100 metre midstream off mainland Bengal and nearly 14 km adrift of Jharkhand shore.
The Bengal government has steadfastly refused to acknowledge them despite documentary evidence (nearly everyone above 30 has either ration card or land documents from the state) that they lived in Manikchak, Kaliachak II and Kaliachak III before the surging Ganga claimed their hearth. Some have been enrolled on the voter list of Rajmahal in Jharkhand. But the latter administration has also refused to commit more as the chars are not revenue villages yet.
The only time political parties of either state remember the castaways is just ahead of polls. Then, Congress and CPM leaders from Malda cross the river to campaign for their respective party candidates in Jharkhand.
"Politicians from Malda come because they know people will connect with them rather than politicians from an alien land. They dole out promises and then disappear for the next five years," said char resident Zakir Sheikh who has neither a ration card, nor an EPIC because he was born to an erosion-uprooted family. Hundreds suffer a similar existential crisis on these chars with no documentary evidence of birth. Or death.
"We realize we are just votes at elections. The Left Front government has washed its hands off because a majority of the homeless are Muslims who have traditionally voted for the Congress in Malda. The Jharkhand government has allowed voting right but shirks away from providing basic amenities like drinking water, electricity, schools, health centre and roads," fumed Sohail Sheikh.
With neither government willing to accept the existence of Khatiakhana and Subhanitola, the erosion victims have no clue which administration they belong to and cannot avail of poverty alleviation programmes like national rural employment guarantee scheme that provides 100 days work.
"If we knew where we belonged, we could figure our rights and make demands. But we remain in a limbo and that is the crux of the problem," Sabitri Mondal pointed out.
Five months ago, her husband Bikash was arrested by West Bengal Police and lodged in Malda jail when he had an acrimonious fight with his char neighbour. When she cited the police action as proof of being a Bengal citizen, the spouse was released.
Last year, the char residents tried another trick to establish legitimacy. They cultivated opium seeds that is barred without permit. When word got around, police from both states arrived, inspected the site and left.
"Either of them refused to act as that would amount to acknowledging that we were part of one or the other," rued Rajen Nath Mondal, who teaches at one of the two primary schools operated by Child Relief & You. He is also a member of the Ganga Bhangan Pratirodh Action Nagarik Committee, a non-political outfit set up in 1998 to combat erosion and fend for victims’ rights.
Tariqul Islam, a founder member, acknowledged that the task remained an uphill one a decade later. "We have highlighted the plight of erosion victims before state and national leaders of all political hue to no avail. We have two primary demands. First, interstate boundary must be fixed according to mouja measurements and not river that shifts course. Second, erosion must be acknowledged as a natural disaster so that victims get compensation," said Islam.
An erosion victim himself, Islam’s house was in one of the 19 hamlets of Kakri Budha Jhaobona panchayat that was completely swept away by the river in 1998. In 2003, the West Bengal government abolished the panchayat. Islam, grandson of Taheruddin Ahmed, a zamindar who lived in a six bedroom house on a 650 bigha estate, has had to make a fresh beginning.
Manjoor Alam didn’t want to live like a refugee. Ravaged by the moody river that changed its course frequently, he has shifted home five times since 1979 but still holds dearly to land records that proclaim him owner of 60 bigha in Kaliachak III that were engulfed by the river years ago.
Alam reclaimed six bigha on Khatiakhana char. Last year, he sold two bigha to a fellow villager. Curiously, the transaction took place in the office of Kaliachak sub-registrar. While Bengal disowns the chars, land deeds continue to be transferred and registered in the state.
So incensed are inhabitants of Khatiakhana and Subhanitola that they plan to turn away political leaders if they arrive to campaign. A poll boycott is also on the agenda. An official from Jharkhand, who came to Khatiakhana to revise the electoral list a couple of weeks ago, was chased away by the angry villagers. "First give us basic amenities and then seek our vote," growled Razia Biwi. She has not voted since 1980.
Back to Kulesh Chandra Mondal, who at 60, made that gruelling journey to cast his vote five years ago. Despite his advancing years and failing eyesight, his enthusiasm in participating in the electoral process remains undiminished.
"One has to just look across the border to see how they are struggling to uphold democracy. I have always believed that every vote counts," he said with conviction.
This year though, he is still undecided. "With my very state disenfranchising me, I am angry and want to protest. But I don’t know if abstaining from elections will be the proper way," said Mondal, clearly battling a dilemma within.
In an electoral collage as huge as that of India, Mondal’s vote may appear insignificant. But if this committed voter and resolute believer in democracy abstains from this year’s elections, it will leave our enigmatic and grandiose elections a wee bit impoverished.

GANGA EROSION IN MALDA
· Since 1980, 4,816 hectare eroded
· Over 40,000 families turned refugees
· Since 1995, 26 villages washed away
· 5,000 languishing along river bank
· 100 primary schools/madrasas, 15 high schools hit
· 64 moujas of Manikchak, English Bazar and Kaliachak II blocks eroded
· KB Jhoubona panchayat under Kaliachak II wiped away
Jharkhand claimed 13 moujas of Manikchak and 29 of Kaliachak that surfaced as chars on right bank
MANJOOR ALAM’S FLOATING HOMES

· Manjoor Alam, 52, lives in Khatiakhana char, Hamidpur, a no-man’s land off Malda in mid-Ganga
· HE grew up in a house at Katlamari in Hamidpur mouja, around three kilometre to the east of where he now resides
· IN 1979, he set up a house in this very spot after erosion claimed his home and adjoining tracts of land
· IN 1982, had to move 10 km to a char in the west after land was lost to erosion again. This char was close to Jharkhand (then Bihar) than West Bengal
· IN 1988, moved further three kilometre westward after the river changed course and submerged the thatched house
· IN 1998, had to shift two kilometre to the west due to erosion
· IN 2003, learnt that a char had surfaced in Hamidpur and traveled 15 km to the east to land at the very spot where he had lived in 1979

PARADISE LOST...AND REGAINED

Picture courtesy: Kamalendu Bhadra

Story by Subhro Niyogi
Bijoynagar, Bali Island (Sunderbans): Lush green fields, neat mud houses, abundance of cattle and livestock, a narrow but clean brick-paved road — Bijoynagar village in Bali Island of the Sunderbans presents an unusually pretty picture. The phrase that leaps to the mind is sonar Bangla, a cliché that is often used to describe rural Bengal that is rarely visible in its pristine beauty anymore.
Tucked beyond rivers and a series of islands, it’s not easy to reach Bijoynagar. Many may feel that is what helped preserve its unsullied character. Yet, there’s more to it than meets the eye. For, herein lies the story of a paradise lost; and regained.
The picture was very different till two years ago when idyllic pastures had turned barren, yielding lesser crop each year. Rampant use of chemical fertilizers, pesticides and hybrid seeds over a decade had shorn the land of its fertility.
It all began around 12 years ago when a farmer in Hingalgunge in another quarter of the Sunderbans used hybrid seeds to reap a bumper harvest of 15 bags a bigha (each of 60 kg rice). Till then, local farmers only produced indigenous rice variety that yielded 10 bags a bigha. Word of the wonder seed spread like wildfire. In less than two years, everyone had dumped traditional farming and joined the green revolution. "Indigenous varieties of rice like Golgeti, Hogla, Khejur Chari, Durga Bhog, Dudheswar and Kalo Mota were lost in the frenzy," recalled Niranjan Mistry.
Keen to get more from fields, farmers pumped fertilizer into the soil. To rid the field of pests that were turning more resistant, they sprayed insecticides in larger dozes that didn’t just kill harmful insects but also destroyed friendly ones like caterpillars that add to soil fertility."
By the seventh year of moving to hybrid seeds like Swarna 56-56, CR 1518, CR 1009, CR 1017 and CR 1010, expense on fertilizer and pesticide were becoming a strain. I had run up a huge loan but there was no turning back," recalled Radhapada Mondal.
Three years later, he was on the verge of losing his farmland to mortgage as the crop declined drastically to five bags of paddy a bigha. The same land had yielded 10 bags 10 years ago. Some farmers were worse off as incursion of saline water left their fields barren. Hybrid varieties refused to grow in them.
"Not just paddy, crops like pulses also declined. Even hay from hybrid seeds was coarse and inferior. As fodder, it did not have the nutritional value that organic variety did. It showed on the health of cattle that grew thin. The hay was also not durable. Used as roof shade, they now lasted only a year against five years earlier," Prasanta Biswas pointed out.
With farming the only source of livelihood and every family facing the crunch, the slightest argument snowballed into major squabble. One thing led to another. Politics that had remained peripheral, took centre-stage. During the 2006 state elections, the hitherto united people of Bijoynagar became sharply divided. The atmosphere was fast getting vitiated in village after village, across the Sunderbans.
It was pretty hopeless when a coincidence turned things around. An environment scientist and an ecologist who were trying to evolve a project on sustaining man and nature in ecologically fragile Sunderbans spotted the declining productivity in farmlands and relized it was threatening food security. They studied the phenomenon and designed a grassroots-level intervention programme to reverse the farming habits from chemicals to organic so that agriculture could become sustainable. This project was among 20 of 2,500 proposals that received the World Bank award for grassroots innovation in 2007.
"Over 4.2 million people inhabit the 50 islands in the Sunderbans. For many, agriculture is the only source of livelihood. We could have selected any island but zeroed in on Bali because it had a credible local NGO and its people were receptive to change," said Asish Ghosh of Society for Environment & Development (Endev). The other team member was Debal Deb.
The ground work done, the duo held a series of workshops to overcome skepticism, reason that soil had been degraded by use of chemicals and finally convince Mistry, Mondal and Biswas to return to the earlier farming practices.
Productivity at the farms that tried organic improved. They each did 10 bags of rice per bigha. WWF, an external partner, tested the grains from these fields and found them free of pesticide residue. The success gave others confidence to make the switch. Last year, 19 farmers went organic
"The results of the first year impressed the farmers of not only Bali but far off Sandeshkhali block II and Hingalgunge in North 24-Parganas. Area under cultivation with indigenous rice varieties increased 10-folds," said Ghosh. Three seed banks (beejtala) have come up and are managed by local NGOs — Bali Nature & Wildlife Society at Bali, Joygopalpur Youth Development Centre at Dhamakhali and Paschim Sridharkati Janakalyan Samity at Hingalgunge. Collectively, they can now offer more than 50 indigenous rice varieties including salt-tolerant varieties.
"The shift to organic farming has evolved into a movement. This sowing season, we expect a large number of farmers to go the organic way," said Subhas Mondal, representative of the local NGO who acted as the Endev project coordinator. The winds of change have forced the panchayat to go organic as well. This year, it is distributing organic fertilizer
There’s new-found confidence among villagers and a general sense of optimism has rubbed off on the atmosphere. A month to go for the elections, Bijoynagar presents a bonhomie unseen in Bengal’s politically volatile villages. Though this year’s face-off between RSP and SUCI in the Joynagar constituency will be the toughest yet, there’s no wariness in the locality.
"We’ll all vote according to our political leanings. But there’s no tension in the village because the difference in political beliefs do not create a divide. We’ve seen how fellow villagers have stood by in tough times. We’ve also realized that politics is divisive. The politicians were nowhere to be seen when we were on the brink of disaster. They’ll behave like politicians. Let us remain humans," said Biswas.
Ghosh finds it ironic that Indian politics that hinges on the pro-farmer stance is so far removed from the soil. "Politicians will promise loan waivers and free electricity but never talk of environment or sustainable agriculture and water supply," he said, adding that there is still opportunity for state-level support to turn the micro-level model in Bali into Bengal’s macro picture.

RETREAT TO THE ROOTS

By Jayashree Nandi
Bangalore: Even in the midst of flyovers, zooming cars, skyscrapers and all the development that that the urban community is aspiring for, these handful have retreated to the roots. For them, organic agriculture is a way of life. While a group of these farmers have quit jobs and urban life completely to work on the farm, some continue with their lives but practice farming on weekends. A passion for nature and sustainable living has urged them to work on the soil and get closer to the basics of life.
Members of the organic farmers association in Bangalore say that the trend started in the mid 80's when the philosophy of going back to the soil was very strong. Later books like 'One-straw revolution' by Masanobu Fukoaka and literature by Kuppali Puttappa Poornachandra Tejaswi inspired many to take up organic and natural farming. In the 90's many started experimenting on small plots that they bought on the outskirts of the city. After 2000, the boom in the IT and other industries intensified the search for an alternative lifestyle. Kanakpura main road, Ramanagara, Neelamangala, Channapatna, Anekal are some of the places where most of these farms are located. The border town between Karnataka and Tamil Nadu, Thally, also called 'little England' is a favorite among these farmers because of the fertile soil and salubrious climate.
M A Shrikanth, a software engineer with Intel, started organic farming in 2005 after he returned from the US. Shrikanth and his wife Prithi Y R who now have two farms on Kanakpura main road say, "It started out more because of our love for bird life. We wanted to see more biodiversity around us. Then gradually it turned in to a passion for farm based living. We practise both organic and natural farming at our farms named 'ankura' and 'vanashree'," says Shrikanth. They work on the farm every weekend and work in the city on the weekdays. They also have a couple as helping hands at the farm. Shrikanth's farm not only grow organic crops and vegetables, they have cattle, poultry, a small fishery and a water harvesting system on the eight-acre plot.
N R Shetty, another organic farmer who has a small farm in Neelamagala started out as an experimental way of farming because he did not use any water and power for it. A telecom engineer by profession, he was inspired to have a farm of his own after he joined Sahaja Samruddha, a group working on sustainable agriculture. "There is nothing like a chemical, pesticides free bountiful land. Initially, just after retirement I was practicing at Sulatanpaly where I used to stay. Then after reading up and discussing with experts I tried an experimental way of farming in Neelamangala where I bought a small patch of land. I did not use water or power. The only water that was used was rain water. We drink harvested rain water when we are working on the farm," says Shetty. He and his wife work on their own at the farm. There is a small hut powered by solar panels where they live. They don't buy anything as they grow almost all crops including groundnuts, chillies, Ragi, Mango, Jackfruit, Soyabean, green gram etc. All these years he has ploghed the land only once, he says that his farming has almost reached the perfection of natural farming.
Sadashiva never knew about the bounties of organic farming until he met the organic farmers group a few years ago. He was in Bangalore studying and doing his apprenticeship at electronic city. "When I was working at electronic city, suddenly I realised that it was not what I wanted to do in life. I wanted to live close to the nature, living out of agriculture. I went back to Ramanagara and started farming with my family. But the life became all the more interesting when I learnt how to do organic farming," he says. It was a challenge for Sadashiva to convert the already contaminated land to a land suitable for organic farming. Now he makes his own manure, mostly with vermi compost. His cousin who is studying engineering also helps him on the farm during weekends.

* There are around 200 organic farmers in Karnataka, 60 of them are based in and around Bangalore.
* M A Shrikanth hosts field visits for school children at his farm. He is eager to train people interested in organic farming. contact: 9845068860
* Around 22 software professionals have farms and are doing organic farming around the city.
* Books for starters: 'Farming for the future', 'Organic farming source book', '10 steps towards organic farming', 'One-straw revolution'
* Hike in real estate prices is a major hurdle that aspiring farmers are facing.

BORDERING ON OBLIVION

Picture courtesy: Kamalendu Bhadra

By Subhro Niyogi

Guests at Rakiba Khatoon’s wedding reception had an unusual request to comply with. For security reasons, they had to carry, not the invitation but the electoral photo identity card (EPIC).

Aynul Haque has a small grocery store in the village barely 15 minutes from his home. It opens at 8 am and shuts at 8 pm. But he returns home once a week, spending the other nights at the store.

Class IX student Konika Mandal has several friends at school. Many often invite her to their home. But she cannot ever ask them over to tea.

Dui Sata Bigha/Hadinagar/Mohabbatpur (Indo-Bangla border), Malda: Rakiba Khatoon, Aynul Haque and Konika Mandal are ordinary people leading unusual lives. Khatoon’s in-laws aren’t VIPs. Haque is no eccentric who loves business more than family. Mandal’s parents don’t disapprove of the friends. The reason for this unusual behaviour is a couple of formidable iron gates that regulate their lives. They either imprison them in their villages or shut them out of their homes. They can’t enter or exit the gates without producing a pass. The gates open thrice a day with clockwork precision — 6-8 am; 10-11 am; 2.30-5.30 pm. "To return home, I have to shut shop around 5 pm. That is rather difficult. So I stay back at the store, returning home once a week," explained Haque. Mandal cannot call her classmates because entry and exit through the gate is restricted. And while Khatoon’s in-laws sought special permission for the reception, those who could not furnish EPICs were turned away by Border Security Force personnel patrolling the gates.

These three and nearly 4,000 others of Dui Sata Bigha, Hadinagar and Mohabbatpur along the Indo-Bangla in Malda are Indian citizens living on India soil, yet outside the purview of democracy that the rest of the country enjoys. Sure, they vote. But it’s for a very different reason than why the rest of India does. They vote to stamp their nationality, to demonstrate once more that they are Indians. For, they live a condemned life under the glare of suspicion, constantly providing proof of their identity and yet suspected of being Bangladeshi operatives. Simply because their villages lie in that narrow 150-metre stretch of Indian territory between the border fence and the pillars that demarcate the international border with Bangladesh.

"It’s a life of zillat (humiliation). People raise a finger at us, view with scorn and treat with contempt. We have to suffer it all without a whimper. With literally no rights that other Indian citizens enjoy, polls are meaningless to us. Which party comes to power doesn’t make any difference. They will all ignore our plight. Yet, every eligible voter from the village will cast their ballot. It is one right that we can still exercise and don’t want to lose. For, if we don’t, it will be viewed as lack of Indianness. We vote to prove our patriotism," said Manjur Sheikh of Mohabbatpur.

Their lack of faith in politicians stems from years of hollow promises. During poll campaigns, political leaders from Malda cross the fence and campaign for candidates in the restricted villages, promising rehabilitation and freedom. "Barkatda (late MP Ghani Khan Choudhury) made such promises for years. Now, his brother (present MP A H Khan Choudhury) tries to woo us with the same promise. Even CPM MLA Biswanath Ghosh has the same goodie to offer," recalled a sarcastic Krishno Mandal.

Needless to say, the promises echoed during campaigns promptly evaporate after elections. These men, women and children of a lesser nation continue to face the daily ordeal of scrutiny and search by gun-toting BSF jawans before being let in or out."Be it going to school or work, an everyday chore, a visit to a relative’s place or simply to shop for daily provisions, one has to seek the BSF’s permission. Aren’t we Indian citizens? Don’t we live in Indian territory? Then why are we treated like third-class citizens," questioned an anguished Monoj Mandal, a 36-year-old from Hadinagar.

This vulnerable lot is easy prey to the rotten few in the BSF ranks. Girls have to take their teasing in the stride. "Some jawans have their eyes beyond the border. We have to tackle them," said 15-year-old Seema Mandal. Others have to adroitly sidestep demands for ‘favours’ and be deaf to explitives. But what’s worse is the lack of compassion among a section of the paramilitary force. Cradling her two-year-old baby in her lap, Sakotara Biwi recalled the horror of spending a hapless night with the ailing baby, unable to do anything till the gate opened next morning. "My boy was writhing in pain and ran a high temperature. I knew he needed urgent medical attention and pleaded with the jawans to open the gate. But they just looked the other way. It is God’s grace that he survived. But what if it had taken a turn for the worse?

These ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ that haunt mothers, don’t bother the border patrollers. They have a bigger task at hand: to protect the motherland. "We cannot afford to slacken the vigil. There are constant infiltration attempts by Bangladeshi jihadis. Then there is the fake currency racket where girls and women are used as couriers. Recently, we have confiscated fake currency worth Rs 50 lakh," said a BSF officer of battalion no. 108.

Acknowledging the villagers’ problems, the officer said it would be to everyone’s interest if they were rehabilitated. "True, there is lack of political will to find a solution to the problem. But there is also reluctance among a section of villagers who hobnob with Bangladeshis," he added.

But for most, it’s neither love for one country, nor hatred for the other that have them rooted to the spot. Living below poverty line, they just manage to survive with the little homestead and farmland they have at the border. To let go of the livelihood is to commit suicide. "Most of the people living inside the fence manage to barely eek out a living. What will they live on once shifted out?" said Kasimuddin Mia, former member of the local panchayat.

Sandwiched between suspicions on either side, the villagers don’t even get help from the Indian jawans when Bangladeshi marauders take away their crops. "Though the BSF is at our doorstep, we don’t get any protection when under enemy attack," said Aynul Haque, wondering if the likes of him will ever feel the pride of being an Indian.