Gale snaps five-decade love affair

picture courtesy: Sajal Mukherjee

Story by Subhro Niyogi

Kolkata: Decades ago, their love had blossomed under its tender shade. Over the years, the tree had flourished and so had their love. For 48 years, the couple has driven down King’s Way nearly every day but never failed to cast a nostalgic glance at the tree that stood majestically by its side.
Meet septuagenarians Shashi and Prem Luthra of Hastings. Nearly half a century ago, the duo fell in love with each other and the mahua tree without quite realising it. Their’s wasn’t a love-at-first-sight romance. It was an arranged marriage that brought with it the usual awkwardness. The couple would go on walks along the Maidan. That’s when they discovered the mahua tree, 50 metres south-west of the Hospital Road-King’s Way intersection.
“It was under the tree that we first encountered the moments of intimacy. I guess, we fell in love with the tree right then,” said the 71-year-old Shashi on Tuesday, lovingly caressing the weather-beaten bark of its massive trunk.
A home-maker and an Ikebana teacher, Shashi has done arrangements with many flowers. But never did she consider plucking the bright orange flowers from her favourite tree. “When the flowers bloomed, the tree looked so pretty,” she recalled.
Prem, all of 78 years and still active in business, never grew tired of looking at the tree on way to office and back. “It’s difficult to spell out its charm. As years went by, the tree became more grand. In many ways, we could see our reflection in the tree. It aged gracefully. I’d like to believe that so have we,” he said, pointing to his son Ashit, daughter-in-law Jyoti and grandchildren Tanuj and Disha.
The romance with the mahua tree also nurtured their love for nature. “We aren’t green activists or anything, just nature lovers. We discovered the beauty of nature and began photographing trees. It all started right here with the mahua tree,” he recalled. That’s what they did on Tuesday, taking the last shots of the tree they had so dearly loved. Monday’s cyclonic storm had split it wide open, disembowelling its hollow trunk. Even in death, its magic captivated the Luthras as they spent an hour with the tree before civic staff appeared to chop it down and clear the debris.
“As I left the house for office this morning, I saw there were trees lying uprooted all over. As soon as I had passed Race Course, I knew the tree had been knocked down. I stopped for a while and then headed back home to fetch Shashi. She would be very sad if the tree was removed by the time she arrived,” said Prem.
The duo returned to the spot and walked down to the tree that lay splayed over the tram tracks. Fighting back tears, Shashi held Prem’s hand and stared at the tree that had been a part of their lives for so long. The two then managed a smile as they posed for photographs. “Looking at the tree, we realise how frail we’ve become. Someday, we too will pass away. We just hope the end’s not violent,” mused Prem. “I was awe-struck when I saw the how hollow the tree’s trunk was. It looked so sturdy but wasn’t really,” mumbled Sashi, feeling every bit as hollow as the tree. Aila had killed more than just a mahua tree on Monday.

Siddis to the rescue of wilderness

story and pictures by Jayashree Nandi

copyright: The Times of India

Sidgaon: Depleting forests, species bordering on extinction and rapid clearances for development projects. The Western Ghats, a biodiversity hotspot that is home to some of the rarest animals and insects, is under threat with over 15 plant species on the verge of extinction. Primary among them are the spices and agarbhatti varieties that are feared to soon disappear completely from these rain forests that are a visual treat.

While different small and big movements have attempted to steer attention towards the Ghats, some indigenous tribes are now taking up conservation work to revive these dying species. A number of Siddi (tribal) families, migrants from the coastal town of Yellapur settled in the dense patch of Sidgaon, have taken up conservation.

The tribal women are setting up nurseries and planting wild species. They have planted thousands of saplings of five varieties, including Canarium Strictum (a rare variety of incense), Garcinia Indica or Kokum and some wildpickle mangoes. There are just 40 to 50 trees of Canarium Strictum left in the zone, says Prakruti project coordinator Mahabaleshwar Hegde. The endemic species are the most vulnerable. Not just trees, even grasses like Hittalande that grow in swamps are almost extinct due to impacts of climate change. Trees like Matti are flowering two months before the scheduled month, changing the entire cycle of flowering and fruiting.

“Tribes like Siddis live in close proximity to forests and their knowledge is more in-depth. We need to respect their traditional knowledge andhelp them get market access for the forest produce so that they can earn as well as sustainably harvest the forest produce,” said Appiko Movement leader Panduranga Hegde. According to him, the impact of climate change on the forests, especially forest patterns, are very drastic indeed.

“We walk 20 to 30 km everyday to find some of these trees and during rains it’s difficult because of leeches. But there are not manytakers for the forest produce. We sell it in different cities through NGOs and get some money. The untimely rains have affected the forests hugely,” said Venkataraman Siddi, a member of the community, who is actively involved in conservation work. Recently hydroxy citric acid, a fat reducing medicine, was found in Uppage, after which it has become popular in the international market. “Since it is an endemic variety and there is a huge hype about organic fat reducing methods, it is fetching a good price. We send it toEurope and America,” adds Mahabaleshwar.

The tribals, originally forest collectors from Africa, don’t remember anything of their culture today. They are being taught to harvest medicinal plants like Tinaspora, Aloe Vera, Asparagus and others. “India is our country now and these forests are our home. All we remember of Africa is our dance — Dhamani,” says Venkataraman. mailto:Venkataraman.toiblr.reporter@timesgroup.com

THE DYING SPECIES

● Cinnamon - over extraction and wrong harvesting

● Uppage (GarciniaGummigatta) - over extraction and lopping of branches insteadof removal of fruits

● Kokum (Garciniaindica) - very little regeneration as seeds are taken away forcommercial purposes.

● Canarium Strictum orDhoop - over-extraction.

Pictures courtesy: Debasis Sen

story by Prema Rajaram

Char Madhupursudanpur (Nadia): The name is as obscure as the setting. Char Madhupursudanpur, also commonly referred to as Charjatrasidi, didn't even exist till some decades ago. Tchar or silt-bed emerged from the river Hooghly just over 30 years ago. People spotted the fertile land and a small hamlet sprung up. And stayed that way.

It's not as though the 3,000-odd who inhabit Charjatrasidi were nomads. They were reisdents of Hooghly district but lost their land to erosion as the river changed course more than three decades ago. The land finally emerged in Nadia district jurisdiction and they scrambled to grab it. They did get the land but lost their identity as ration cards and voter ID cards became invalid. Though they did manage to get a new set of ration cards issued, red tape prevented them from voting.

For three decades, their travails have not found mention. But then, how many have heard of Charjatrasidi? In the vast expanse of the state of West Bengal, a hamlet of 3,000 in a mid-river existence is but an obscure dot.

They would, perhaps, have been consigned to oblivion for several years more had not state chief electoral officer (CEO) Debasis Sen heard the voices striving for identity. And he acted promptly, brusing aside red tape and getting the names of 1,260 eligible voters enrolled. Finally, after a wait that's been as long as the Left Front has been in power in the state, the people of Charjatrasidi will trek down to the polling booth and vote.

The electronic photo-identity card (EPIC) has not just returned to them dignity as citizens of India, it has also handed them the right to choose the representative in local elections and ensure that amenities like electricity, water, health and education are delivered. Those settled in towns and cities will, perhaps, never be able to realize the value that an EPIC holds for the common man. Indeed, some would dismiss the delight and gratitude that Charjatrasidi's residents displayed when Sen handed them the EPICs, as foolish. But is it so?

FLOATING LIVES

By Subhro Niyogi

Ghoramara (Sunderbans): Rajabala Maity stared in awe as a blank white screen turned into life with images and sound. The septuagenarian, a resident of Ghoramara island in the Sunderbans, had never seen a movie before.

Then, one-time fellow islander Sheikh Lalmohan, appeared on screen. He was on a boat, trying to locate the spot where he once lived. But all that could be seen was endless water. “We had a house and a farmland here. Today, we are penniless,” said Lalmohan, one of the 6,000-odd inhabitants of Ghoramara who have lost everything to erosion since 1996 and become refugees at Sagar island.

Maity dabbed the tears and slipped out of the makeshift tent 15 minutes into the show. She had battled with the existential crisis too long to be enamored by it anymore.

That’s the hard reality of life on Ghoramara islands, half of which has been washed away over the past 25 years. The 9 sq km island of the 1970s has been whittled down to less than 3.7 sq km. Two other islands in the vicinity — Lohachara and Bedford — have disappeared. Others islands like Shikarpur, Gobindapur, Bankimpur and Boatkhali have also been affected. That Ghoramara was chosen for the global premiere of Mean Sea Level, a film on the plight of the islanders, didn’t mean much to either Maity or the 5,000-odd islanders who remain. They live in anxiety, always aware that the river is continually gnawing away.

The movie by Delhi-based research and advocacy organization Centre for Science and Environment (CSE) may, however, trigger a change that global agreements have failed to achieve if it reaches the world stage. The 59-minute documentary is slated to be screened at the Bonn conference where negotiations on emission reduction are to take place ahead of the Copenhagen summit.


Governor Gopal Krishna Gandhi, who released the film on Wednesday to an audience that was its protagonist, drove home the point. “This movie is on Ghoramara that is not just any island. It is symbolic of a problem that transcends local, region and national boundaries. It is the face of global warming and climate change, the biggest problem facing earth. I have come to learn about how it is affecting your lives. You have the capability to tell the world about it,” Gandhi said.
“That is precisely what Mean Sea Level does,” said CSE director Sunita Narain. “It the complex web of disaster created by unwise interventions upstream and rising sea level in the simple narrative of the islanders. The voices of climate change victims and refugees must be heard,” she a

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.