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From the window of her home, as far as the eye can see, there is water – this year’s floods have not receded. Rupali Pegu lives just a kilometre from the Subansiri river – an important tributary of the Brahmaputra that annually floods vast tracts of land in Assam.Water may be all around, but ironically, finding potable water is a challenge, she says. In her village, Bordubi Maluwal in Assam’s Lakhimpur district, drinking water is contaminated. “Most hand pumps in our village and the neighbouring ones are submerged,” Rupali explains. To fetch water from the hand pump near the road, she relies on a canoe. Armed with three large steel water containers, Rupali rows towards the road, also partially submerged.  She uses a long bamboo stick to carefully navigate through the flooded village. “Moni, come along!” she calls out to her neighbour, who often joins her on these trips. The friends help each other fill the containers.

At the handpump, after a few minutes of pumping, clean water finally starts flowing. “It hasn&#39;t rained for three days, so we managed to get water,” Rupali says with a faint smile of relief. Fetching water is seen to be women’s labour, and as the river rises, it is women who bear the added burden.When the hand pump disappoints, “we boil and drink this,” says 36-year-old Rupali, pointing to the stagnant, muddy waters swirling around her house. Rupali’s bamboo house, like many others in this region, is specially designed to withstand the floods. Locally known as chang ghar – these houses are elevated on bamboo stilts to avoid flooding. Rupali’s ducks have made her porch their home, and their quacking fills the silence.  The canoe is also Rupali’s carrier when she needs to relieve herself. Her home once had a washroom, but it is now submerged. “We have to go far, towards the river,” she says. Rupali makes that journey in the dark.

Not just daily lives, but livelihoods of the largely Mising community who live here, are also impacted. “We had 12 bighas of land where we cultivated rice. But this year, all our crops are submerged and we’ve lost everything,” says Rupali. A part of her land has already been swallowed by the river. “We will only know after the flood how much land the river has taken this year,” she says.Agriculture is the traditional occupation of Mising people (listed as Scheduled Tribe in the state). Unable to farm, many are forced to migrate in search of livelihoods. According to this <a href="https://sita.assam.gov.in/sites/default/files/swf_utility_folder/departments/sita_medhassu_in_oid_4/portlet/level_1/files/study_report_on_floods_and_impacts_on_livelihood_in_rural_assam.pdf">study</a> in 2020, the out-migration in Lakhimpur is 29 per cent, more than three times the national average. Rupali’s husband Manus has gone to Hyderabad to work as a watchman, leaving Rupali in-charge of the home and their two children – a son and a daughter. Manus earns Rs. 15,000 a month and sends home Rs.8,000-10,000. Rupali says that for six months in the year when their homes are on flooded ground, finding work is tough. “Last year we received some help from the government – polythene sheets, ration. But nothing this year. If we had money, we would have left,” she adds, with a note of sadness.

Surviving a flood of problems in Assam

సమస్యల వరదను తట్టుకొని...

असम: मुश्किलों की बाढ़ में नाउम्मीदी की पतवार

ಅಸ್ಸಾಮ್: ಸಮಸ್ಯೆಗಳ ಪ್ರವಾಹದಲ್ಲಿ ಬದುಕು

அஸ்ஸாமில் நேரும் வெள்ளத்தில் பிழைத்திருத்தல்!

ଆସାମରେ ବନ୍ୟା ସମସ୍ୟା ସହ ଜୀବନ ଜୀଇଁବା

जिनगी के नइया फंसल मझधार

ਅਸਾਮ: ਹੜ੍ਹਾਂ ਨਾਲ਼ ਜਿਊਂਦਿਆਂ

آسام: مشکلوں کے سیلاب کا سامنا

അസമിൽ, പ്രശ്നങ്ങളുടെ മലവെള്ളപ്പാച്ചിൽ

पुर मं बूड़े जिनगी

এসোপা সমস্যাৰ ধল ফালি ৰূপালী আগবাঢ়ি যায়

হাজার সমস্যায় বানভাসি অসমবাসী

આસામમાં સમસ્યાઓના પૂરમાંથી બચવું શી રીતે?

Azad Maidan

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“Ea beti tani ek khoda chinha le le. Marto jito me sath hoyela… Jaisan aayel hai taisan akele na ja… [Hey girl, take a mark for yourself... In life or death, it stays with you. You won’t go alone like you came…]”

Rajpati Devi is singing the above as she walks from door to door across the villages of Mandar block. A plastic sack is slung over her shoulder and she carries a few utensils and a box of needles. Rajpathi is a godna (tattoo) artist, and can ink flowers, moon, scorpions and dots for a fee. The 45-year-old is among the last few women artists who still go from village to village, practising this ancient art.“Mayi sange jat rahi ta dekhat rahi uhan godat rahan, ta hamahu dekh-dekh sikhat rahi. Karte karte hamahu sikh gayili, [I used to accompany my mother and watch her making godna. Eventually, I learned it too],” says Rajpati, a fifth generation tattoo artist. Godna is a centuries-old folk art passed down through generations in the Malar community (listed as Other Backward Classes in the state) to which Rajpati belongs. Designs are inked on various parts of the body, symbols and meanings varying across regions and communities. More women choose godna than men.

It’s three in the afternoon and Rajpati has been on the move for six hours, walking through villages in Jharkhand’s Ranchi district, she returns to her two-roomed kutcha house in Kharge Basti, a small settlement of the Malar community, on the outskirts of Mandar village. Some days she covers up to 30 kilometres, both selling utensils they make at home and urging people to get a godna.The utensils are made by her husband, 50-year-old Shivnath using a traditional metalworking technique called dokra. It is mainly the men of the household – her sons and husband – who craft the aluminium and brass items, although everyone in the household pitches in in some way. The women, Rajpati, her daughter and daughters-in-law make the moulds and dry them in the sun among other tasks. The items they make are everyday essentials – kerosene lamps, utensils used in puja, cattle bells and measuring containers among other things. “This small one sells for 150 rupees,” says Rajpati, holding up what they call paila in their Nagpuri language. “It is for measuring rice; if you fill rice into it, it will weigh exactly a quarter kilo,” she adds. The paila is considered auspicious in this region, she says, believed to prevent food scarcity at home.

Showing us a small yellow box, the tattoo artist says, “this one has needles and this one has jarjari kajar [kohl].” Pulling out a sheet of paper from a plastic bag, Rajpati points out the designs they make. “Isko pothi kehte hain, aur isko danka phool [this is called pothi, and this one is called danka phool]” Rajpati says, pointing to a design that resembles a flower blooming in a pot, which she has on her arm. “Isko hasuli kehte hain, ye gale mein banta hai [This is called hasuli, it&#39;s made around the neck],” Rajpati adds, showing a crescent-shaped design. Rajpati usually tattoos on five parts of the body: hands, feet, ankles, neck, and forehead. And there is a special design for each. The hand typically features flowers, birds and fish, while the neck has a circular pattern with curved lines and dots. The forehead tattoo is unique to each tribe. “Different tribal groups have different tattoo traditions. Oraons get mahadev jatt [local flower] and other flowers; Kharias get three straight lines and Mundas get dot godna,” Rajpati explains and adds that in the past, it was common to identify people by the tattoos on their foreheads.

Sunita Devi has a tattoo of a supali (bamboo winnowing basket) on her leg. A resident of Checheriya village in Palamu district, the 49-year-old says her tattoo symbolises purity. “Earlier, if you didn’t have this, you couldn’t work in the fields. We were considered impure, but after getting tattoos, we became pure,” says this tenant farmer from the Dalit community.“The origin of godna art can be traced back to cave paintings from the Neolithic period. From caves, it moved to homes and bodies,” explains Ansu Tirkey, a research scholar at the Department of Ancient Indian History, Culture &amp; Archaeology at Pt. Ravishankar Shukla University, Raipur. Many, like Gohamani Devi believe that godna also has healing powers. The 65-year-old is a resident of Chhipadohar village in Jharkhand’s Latehar district. She has been practising godna for over five decades and is renowned for her jahar godna (poison tattoo), said to cure ailments.“I have cured goitre for thousands of people through godna,” she proudly says, pointing to her own goitre healed by her mother&#39;s tattooing. People from other states such as Chhattisgarh, Bihar and Bengal come seeking her cure.Apart from goitre, Gohamani treated knee pain, migraines, and other chronic aches. However, she fears that this art will disappear soon. “Now, no one gets tattooed as much; when we go to the villages, there’s no earning [...] After us, no one will do this anymore,” Gohamani says.

To make a tattoo, a godna artist needs lalkori ke dudh (lactating mother’s milk), kajal (kohl), turmeric and mustard oil. The godnas are made using brass needles called petarmuhi sui which have a brass tip that resists rust and reduces the risk of infection. “We used to make our own kajal, but now we buy it,” says Rajpati.Depending on the design of the tattoo, it may require as few as two needles or as many as eleven. First, the godna artist makes a paste with the milk and kajal, adding in a bit of mustard oil. Then an outline of the design is made with either a pen or a pencil. The needles are chosen based on the design – two or three needles for a fine pattern and five or seven needles for a thicker border. “Our godna doesn’t hurt much,” Rajpati says teasingly. Based on the size of the tattoo, it takes, “a few minutes for the smaller one, larger will even take hours,” says Rajpati. After making the tattoo, it is washed, first with cow dung and then with turmeric. The cow dung is believed to ward off evil, and then turmeric and mustard oil are applied to prevent infection. “In the past, women would sing while getting godna, but now no one sings,” says Rajpati, who has even gone to Chhattisgarh and Odisha for godna.

“This three-dot tattoo costs 150 rupees and this flower pattern is 500,” Rajpati points to a godna on her wrist. “Sometimes we get money, sometimes people give rice, oil and vegetables or saree in return,” she says.The modern tattoo machines have significantly impacted the earnings of traditional godna artists. “Very few people ask for godna now, Rajpati says and adds, “girls now prefer machine-made tattoos. They show designs on their phones and ask for those,” she adds. People no longer get godna on their entire body like they used to, adds Rajpati, “now, they might get a small flower or a scorpion.” The earnings from this art is not enough to sustain the family and they depend mostly on the sale of utensils. A large portion of this income comes from what they can sell at an annual fair in Ranchi. “When we earn around 40-50 thousand [rupees] at the fair, it feels like a good earning. Otherwise, it&#39;s just 100-200 rupees a day,” says Rajpati. “Tattoos are auspicious” she continues, “they are the only thing that stays with the body after death. Everything else is left behind.” This story is supported by a fellowship from Mrinalini Mukherjee Foundation (MMF).

Godna art: stories in ink

ഗോഡ്‌ന കല: മഷിയിലെഴുതിയ കഥകൾ

கோட்னா கலை: பச்சை குத்தும் கதைகள்

ગોદના કલા: શાહીમાં લખેલી વાર્તાઓ

ಗೊದ್ನಾ ಕಲೆ: ಚರ್ಮದ ಮೇಲೆ ಕತೆಗಳ ಚಿತ್ತಾರ

సిరాతో కథలు చెప్పే గోద్నా కళ

ਗੋਦਨਾ ਕਲਾ: ਸਿਆਹੀ ਦੀ ਕਹਾਣੀ

ଗୋଦନା କଳା: କାଳି ମାଧ୍ୟମରେ କାହାଣୀ

गोदना कला: सियाही कहय कहिनी

गोदने में गुदी कहानियां

চিয়াহীৰে লিখা কাহিনী: গোদনা শিল্প

গোদনা শিল্প: সুঁই-কালির কথকতা

‘अब त गोदना के गुदाने वाला कमे लोग बचल बा’

Majuli

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Zakir Hussain and Mahesh Kumar Chaudhary are childhood friends. Now in their forties, they are still close. Zakir lives in<a href="http://dh_2011_2008_part_b_dchb_pakur.pdf"> </a>Ajna<a href="http://dh_2011_2008_part_b_dchb_pakur.pdf"> </a>village and works as a construction contractor in Pakur where Mahesh also runs a small restaurant in the town.“Pakur [district] is a very peaceful place; there’s harmony among people here,” says Mahesh. “It’s the people coming from outside, like Himanta Biswa Sarma, [Chief Minister of Assam] who are inciting people with their speeches,” adds Zakir, sitting next to his friend. A part of the Santhal Pargana region, Pakur lies in the eastern corner of Jharkhand which goes to the state assembly polls on November 20, 2024. A total of 81 seats are up for grabs. In the last polls in 2019, the Jharkhand Mukti Morcha (JMM)-led alliance had ousted the BJP. In a bid to wrest power back, the BJP has sent the CM of Assam among others to woo voters. BJP leaders have whipped up anger against the Muslim communities, labelling them ‘infiltrators from Bangladesh’. “Hindus live next door to me; they come to my house, and I go to theirs,” Zakir continues, “it is only during elections that the Hindu-Muslim issue always comes up. How else will they [BJP] win?” At a rally in Jamshedpur in September, 2024, Prime Minister Narendra Modi lent his political weight to <a href="https://x.com/BJP4India/status/1835228354057797990">the issues</a> of infiltration. “In Santhal Pargana [region], the Adivasi population is rapidly decreasing. Lands are being seized. Infiltrators are occupying positions in panchayats,” he said to the crowd. Defence Minister Rajnath Singh and Home Minister Amit Shah have also spoken similarly in their public speeches. The BJP’s election <a href="https://www.bjp.org/pressreleases/jharkhand-election-manifesto-2024">manifesto</a> says, “we will take concrete steps to prevent illegal Bangladeshi infiltration in Jharkhand and protect the rights of tribal communities.”

Social activist Ashok Verma calls out the BJP for using this issue for political gain. “A false narrative is being presented. There is no issue of Bangladeshi infiltration in Santhal Pargana,” he says. He points out that the Chota Nagpur and the Santhal Pargana Tenancy <a href="https://jajharkhand.in/wp/wp-content/uploads/2019/08/06_handbook_on_land_law.pdf">Acts</a> restrict the sale of Adivasi land, and any instances of land sales have involved locals, not Bangladeshis.The BJP’s politicians are citing a recent report of the National Commission for Scheduled Tribes (NCST) which says that Bangladeshi infiltration is altering the ‘demographics’ of Jharkhand’s Santhal Pargana region. The NCST submitted the report to the Ministry of Home Affairs, which was then submitted before the Jharkhand High Court. It has not been made public. Ashok Verma was part of an independent fact-finding team investigating the NCST and calls these findings baseless. He maintains that Adivasis are leaving because of poverty, malnutrition, low birth rates and high mortality rates. It doesn’t help that media is focussing on the issue of polarisation. “Just turn it [TV] off, and harmony will come back. Newspapers are read mostly by educated people, but everyone watches TV,” Zakir adds. According to Zakir, “the main issue in this election should be inflation. Aata [wheat flour], chawal [rice], dal [lentils], tel [oil]…everything has become so expensive.” A member of the Jharkhand Janadhikar Mahasabha, Ashok adds, “in Santhal Pargana, Muslims and Adivasis share similar cultures, food habits, and even celebrate each other’s festivals. If you visit the local Adivasi haat [markets], you&#39;ll see both communities present.”

On June 17, 2024, the day of the Muslim festival of Bakrid, communal tensions were high in Gopinathpur over animals being sacrificed for the celebrations. Like Ajana, this village is also located in Pakur district, and has a mix of both Hindu and Muslim communities. Neighbouring West Bengal lies across a narrow irrigation canal. Most residents here are marginal workers, involved in agriculture and agricultural labour.

The police were called in to Ward No. 11 in Gandhaipur panchayat. Things settled down, only to erupt again the next day. “The crowd was throwing stones,” adds local resident Sudheer who watched 100-200 police personnel arrive on the scene. “There was smoke everywhere,” he recalls, “they even set fire to motorcycles and a police vehicle.”Nomita Mandal was at home with her daughter when they heard an explosion. “Suddenly, stones were raining down on our house. We ran inside,” she says, her tone still fearful. By then, a group of men had already broken the lock and forced their way in. They started beating up the mother and daughter. “They hit me here…and here,” says the 16-year-old, pointing to her waist and shoulders, “the pain is still there.” The men also burnt down the kitchen, a room separate from the main house, Nomita says, showing PARI the spot.  Sanjay Kumar Jha, the station-in-charge of police station in Muffasil brushes the incident off saying, “The damage isn’t extensive. A hut was burnt down and there was some minor vandalism. No one has died.” Nomita, 32, lives with her family in Gopinathpur in Jharkhand’s Pakur district. They are among the many families who have been living in the area for generations. “This is our home, our land,” she says firmly.

Part of the Gandhaipur panchayat in Pakur district, Gopinathpur is a Hindu-majority area, says Pinky Mandal, a member of the District Council. Nomita’s husband Dipachand’s family have lived here for five generations. “There was no Hindu-Muslim tension before, but since that Bakrid incident, things have worsened,” says 34-year-old Dipachand who was away with their two other children when the attack took place.“Someone called the police, or who knows what might have happened to us,” says Nomita. The following week, she borrowed Rs. 50,000 from her in-laws to install grills on the windows and doors of their house. “We wouldn’t feel safe here without it,” says Dipachand, who works as a daily wage labourer. “I wish I hadn’t gone to work that day,” he adds.Hema Mandal is rolling beedis with tendu leaves on her verandah. “There was no Hindu-Muslim tension before, but now there’s a constant fear.” She adds that when the water level in the canal dries up, “there’ll be fights again.” And people from Bengal yell threats from across the border. “After six p.m., this entire road falls silent,” she adds. The canal, which became central to the conflict, runs parallel to the road that leads to Hema’s house. Even in the afternoon, the area is deserted, and in the evening, with no street lights, it is submerged in darkness. Referring to the canal, 27-year-old Rihan Sheikh says, “The people involved in the incident were all from the other side, from [West] Bengal. The Muslims here stood with the Hindus.” Rihan is a tenant farmer and cultivates paddy, wheat, mustard and maize. He is the sole earning member in his family of seven.  Dismissing the BJP rhetoric he asks this reporter, “we have lived here for many generations. Are we Bangladeshis?”

Whipping up communal tensions in Jharkhand

ఝార్ఖండ్‌లో ఉద్రిక్తతలను రెచ్చగొడుతున్న మతతత్వ శక్తులు

ಕೋಮು ಸಂಘರ್ಷದ ದಳ್ಳುರಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಬೇಯುತ್ತಿರುವ ಜಾರ್ಖಂಡ್‌

ঝাৰখণ্ডত সাম্প্ৰদায়িক উত্তেজনা বৃদ্ধিৰ চেষ্টা

झारखंड: सिरिफ चुवानेच बखत हिंदू-मुस्लिम के बखेड़ा

ঝাড়খণ্ডের ভোটে সাম্প্রদায়িক উস্কানি

झारखंडच्या प्रचारास धार्मिक तणावाची फोडणी

ஜார்கண்டில் பற்றி எரியும் வகுப்புவாத பதட்டம்

ਝਾਰਖੰਡ ਵਿੱਚ ਪਣਪਦੇ ਫਿਰਕੂ ਤਣਾਅ

ജാർഖണ്ഡിൽ വർഗ്ഗീയ സംഘർഷത്തിന് തിരി കൊളുത്തുന്നു

ଝାଡ଼ଖଣ୍ଡରେ ବଢୁଛି ସାମ୍ପ୍ରଦାୟିକ ଉତ୍ତେଜନା

ઝારખંડમાં કોમી એકતા પર તોળાતો ખતરો

झारखंड: चुनाव जीते खातिर बिगाड़ल जा रहल बा माहौल

झारखंड: चुनाव जीतने के लिए लगाई गई हिंदू-मुस्लिम की आग

جھارکھنڈ: انتخاب جیتنے کے لیے لگائی گئی ہندو مسلم کی آگ

Samba

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“I tried calling 108 [ambulance service] multiple times. The line was either busy or unreachable.” His wife was suffering from a uterine infection and had become seriously ill despite medications. Night had fallen by now and her pains increased. Ganesh Pahariya was desperate to get her medical help.“Finally I reached out to the local minister’s assistant, hoping for help. “He had promised us support during his [election] campaign,” Ganesh recalls. The assistant declined saying he was not around. “He just avoided helping us.” A distraught Ganesh adds, “if an ambulance had been available, I could have taken her to a good government hospital in [big cities] Bokaro or Ranchi.” Instead, he had to take his wife to a nearby private facility, incurring a debt of Rs. 60,000, borrowed from a relative. “During election time, they say all sorts of things – this will happen, that will happen...Just help us win. But later, even if you go to meet them, they don’t have time for you,” says the 42-year-old village headman. He says basic facilities for members of his Pahariya community (also spelt Paharia), are ignored by the state. Dhanghara is a small hamlet in Hiranpur block of Pakur district. It has 50 families of the Pahariya tribe, a Particularly Vulnerable Tribal Group (PVTG). To reach the village, it’s an eight kilometre journey on a poorly maintained road to reach the isolated settlement on the side of a hill in the Rajmahal range. “Our government school is in poor condition. We asked for a new one, but where is it?” Ganesh asks. Most children from the community are not enrolled and so cannot get the midday meal scheme mandated by the state.

The community has also asked for a road between their village and the next village. “See the road for yourself,” Ganesh says pointing at the kuccha path full of small stones. He also points out that there is only one hand pump for the village and it falls upon the women to wait in line for their turn. “We were promised at the time that our demands would be met. After the vote, everyone forgets!&quot; says Ganesh.The 42-year-old is the pradhan, village head of Dhanghara in Hiranpur block. He says in the recent General Elections 2024, netas had campaigned here in Pakur district in the Santhal Pargana region of Jharkhand, but nothing has moved for the community. Elections for Jharkhand&#39;s Legislative Assembly with 81 seats will take place in two phases – first phase on November 13; second phase when Pakur votes is on November 20. The electoral fight is between the ruling Jharkhand Mukti Morcha-led INDIA bloc and the Bharatiya Janata Party-led NDA. This village is part of the Littipara constituency, In 2019, Jharkhand Mukti Morcha’s Dinesh William Marandi won with 66,675 votes, followed by BJP’s Daniel Kisku with 52,772 votes. This time, the JMM candidate is Hemlal Murmu, while the BJP has fielded Babudhan Murmu. The promises in the past have been many. “In the village council meeting in 2022, candidates promised that for a wedding in the village he’d provide the utensils for cooking,” says Meena Pahadin, a resident. Since then it has happened, but only once.  She says for the Lok Sabha elections, “they just give us a thousand rupees and disappear. Hemant came [JMM party worker], gave 1,000 rupees to each woman and man, won the election, and now he’s enjoying himself in office.”

This Santhal Pargana region of Jharkhand is home to 32 tribes. Like the Pahariya, there are other PVTG tribes as well – Asur, Birhor, Birjia, Korwa, Mal Paharia, Parhaiya, Sauria Paharia and Savar. According to this  2013 <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/library/resource/statistical-profile-of-scheduled-tribes-in-india-2013/">report</a>, the total PVTG population in Jharkhand is over four lakh, with Pahariyas accounting for roughly five per cent of that.Their small numbers and isolated villages are matched by low literacy, economic challenges and reliance on pre-agricultural technology. Not much has changed in the last few decades. Read: <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/the-hills-of-hardship/">The hills of hardship</a>,  an extract from P. Sainath&#39;s Everybody loves a good drought. &quot;Gaon me jyadatar log majdoori hi karta hai, service me toi nahi hai koi. aur yahan dhan ka khet bhi nahi hai. khali pahad pahad hai. [Most people in the village work as labourers; no one here is in a service [state jobs]. And we don’t even have paddy fields here, just hills everywhere,” Ganesh tells PARI. Women go to the forest to gather wood and chirota [Swertia], which they sell in the market. The Pahariya tribe (also spelt Paharias), are among the earliest inhabitants of Santhal Pargana region of Jharkhand. They are divided into three branches: Sauriya Pahariya, Mal Pahariya, and Kumarbhag Pahariya, and all three have lived in the Rajmahal hills for centuries. Historical records suggest they belong to the Malli tribe mentioned by Megasthenes, the Greek diplomat and historian who travelled to India during the reign of Chandragupta Maurya, 302 BCE, says this <a href="https://www.cinnamaracollege.org/Publication/pdf/The%20Mirror,%20Vol-II,%202015(PDF).PDF#page=107">journal.</a> Their history is marked by struggles, including conflicts with the Santhals and British colonial rule, which forcibly displaced them from their ancestral plains and pushed them into the hills. They were labelled bandits and cattle thieves. “The Pahariyas as a community have gone into a shell. They lost heavily in the past in their struggle with the Santhals and the British and have not recovered from the shock,” writes Dr. Kumar Rakesh, a Professor at the  Sido-Kano University, Dumka, Jharkhand in this <a href="https://www.cinnamaracollege.org/Publication/pdf/The%20Mirror,%20Vol-II,%202015(PDF).PDF#page=107">report</a>.

In the mild winter sun, the sounds of children playing, goats bleating, and the occasional crowing of roosters can be heard here in Dhanghara village.Meena Pahadin is outside her home speaking with other women in their native Malto language.  “We are Jugbasis. Do you know what that means?” she asks this reporter. “It means that this mountain and forest are our home,” she explains. Everyday, along with other women she heads to the forest by 8 or 9 a.m., returning by noon. “There’s chirota in the forest; we spend all day collecting it, then dry it and take it to sell,” she says pointing to branches drying on the roof of her mud house. “Sometimes we get two kilos in a day, sometimes three, maybe even five kilos if we’re lucky. It’s hard work,” she adds. Chirota sells for 20 rupees a kilogram. Chirota has many medicinal properties, and people drink its decoction. “Everyone can drink it—children, elders—it’s good for the stomach,” Meena. Besides chirota, Meena also collects firewood from the forest, traversing a journey of 10-12 kilometres everyday. “The bundles are heavy and each one sells for just 100 rupees,” she says. The bundles of dry wood weigh around 15-20 kilograms, but if the wood is wet, it can go up to 25-30 kilograms. Meena agrees with Ganesh that the government makes promises but never fulfils them. “Earlier, no one even came to us, but now for the last couple of years, people have started coming around,” she added. “Several chief ministers and prime ministers have changed, but our situation remains the same. All we got is electricity and rations,” she adds. “Dispossession and displacement have continued to be major issues facing Adivasis in Jharkhand. Mainstream development programmes have failed to recognize the socio-cultural distinctiveness of this group and have followed the ‘one shoe fits all’ approach,” says this 2021 <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/library/resource/2021-status-of-adivasi-livelihoods-report---jharkhand-and-odisha/">report</a> on Adivasi livelihoods in the state.

“There’s no work! No work at all. So we have to go outside,” says Meena speaking for the 250-300 people who migrate out. “Going outside is difficult; it takes three to four days to reach. If there were jobs here, we could return quickly in case of an emergency.”The Pahariya community is entitled to receive 35 kilograms of ration per family at their doorstep through the <a href="https://www.jharkhandsfc.in/docs/trng/nfsa_ppt.pdf">‘Dakiya yojana’</a>. However, Meena shared that it isn’t enough for her family of 12 members. “A small family might manage, but for us, it doesn’t even last 10 days,” she adds. Reflecting on the condition of her village, she said no one cares about the plight of the poor. “We don’t even have an anganwadi here,” Meena pointed out. According to the <a href="https://www.jharkhandsfc.in/docs/trng/nfsa_ppt.pdf">National Food Security Act,</a> children aged six months to six years and pregnant mothers are entitled to receive supplementary nutrition from anganwadi. Raising her hand waist-high to demonstrate Meena says, “In other villages, children of this height get nutritious food—sattu, chickpeas, rice, lentils… but we don’t get any of that.” “Only polio drops,” she added. “There’s an anganwadi shared by two villages, but they don’t give us anything.” Meanwhile his wife’s medical fees remain – Ganesh has a Rs. 60,000 loan and additional interest to pay back. “Ka kahe kaise, denge, ab kisi se liye hai to denge hai… Thoda thoda kar ke chukayenge, kisi tarah [ I don&#39;t know, how I will pay. I have borrowed from someone, so I have to repay them somehow,”] he tells this reporter. This election Meena has decided firmly, “we won’t take anything from anyone. We won’t vote for who we usually did; we’ll vote for someone who will actually benefit us.”

In Pakur, Pahariya voters are asking questions

झारखंडच्या पाकूरमध्ये पहाडिया मतदारांचे सवाल

पहड़िया मतदाताओं के सवालों के जवाब कौन देगा?

হকের প্রশ্নে সরব পাকুড়ের পাহাড়িয়া ভোটাররা

ਸਵਾਲ ਕਰਨ ਦੀ ਰੋਂਅ ਵਿੱਚ ਪਹਾੜੀਆ ਭਾਈਚਾਰਾ

கேள்வி கேட்கும் பஹாரியா வாக்காளர்கள்

పాకుర్‌లో ప్రశ్నిస్తోన్న పహారియా వోటర్లు

પાકુડમાં પહાડિયા મતદારો પ્રશ્નો પૂછી રહ્યા છે

ପାକୁରର ପାହାଡ଼ିୟା ମତଦାତାମାନେ ପଚାରୁଛନ୍ତି ପ୍ରଶ୍ନ!

ಪಾಕೂರ್: ನಾಯಕರನ್ನು ಪ್ರಶ್ನಿಸುತ್ತಿರುವ ಪಹಾಡಿಯಾ ಮತದಾರರು

পাকুৰত পাহাৰীয়া ভোটদাতাই প্ৰশ্ন কৰিছে

‘नेता लोग बात गछ लेवेला, बाकिर पूरा ना करे’

پہاڑیا ووٹروں کے سوالوں کے جواب کون دے گا؟

'हमन वोला वोट देबो जेन ह असल मं हमर भला करही'

പകുറിൽ, പഹാഡിയ വോട്ടർമാർ ചോദ്യങ്ങൾ ചോദിക്കുന്നു

01-9885B581EBA3-AS-In_Palamu-Who_cares_about_the_farmer.jpg

“Paper was
accurate. With the machine you never know which button is being pressed, and
who is getting the vote!” 



So Kalmudin
Ansari says he definitely prefers paper ballots over EVMs (electronic voting
machines). A resident of Kumni village in Palamu, the 52-year-old is at the
local maweshi (cattle) market, a white gamcha wrapped around his
head as protection from the blistering April sun here in Jharkhand. The gamcha is a thin, coarse cotton cloth, traditionally used as a towel, a scarf, or even a turban; It&#39;s also a sartorial garment with adaptive qualities. Kalmudin has
walked 13 kilometres to this weekly cattle market at Pathar to sell his ox. “We
need money,” he says.



Last year
(2023), his paddy crop was completely ruined. He sowed mustard in the rabi season, but a third was lost to
pests. “We harvested about 2.5 quintals. All of that went into paying off
debts,” Kalmudin says.



A farmer,
Kalmudin cultivates four bigha
(almost three acres), and is reeling under multiple debts to local
moneylenders. “Bahut paisa le lewa le [They
have taken a lot of money],” he says and also adds that the five rupees monthly
interest for every hundred borrowed, is crippling, “I borrowed 16,000 rupees,
now it&#39;s become 20,000, but I have only paid 5,000 of it.” 



His only option now is to sell his ox. “Isiliye kisan churmura jata hai. Kheti kiye
ki bail becha gaya [This is why the farmer faces hardships. I practise
agriculture and end up selling my ox], says Kalmudin who had hoped for rain in
2023.

In
Jharkhand, <a href="https://finance.jharkhand.gov.in/pdf/Budget_2024_25/Jharkhand_Economic_Survey_2023_24.pdf">70 per </a>cent of farmers own
less than a hectare of land. Almost all (<a href="https://www.jharkhand.gov.in/agriculture">92
per cent) </a>of the cultivated
land depends on rainfall, wells only accounting for a third (<a href="https://finance.jharkhand.gov.in/pdf/Budget_2024_25/Jharkhand_Economic_Survey_2023_24.pdf">33 per cent) </a>of  irrigation needs. Small farmers like Kalmudin
are not taking any chances with their harvest, and borrow money for seeds and
fertilisers. 



So, in the
coming General Elections 2024, he says that whoever arranges for irrigation in
his village will get his vote. Living 1,000 kilometres from New Delhi, with
neither a television nor a smartphone, he says he is unaware of the national
news on electoral bonds. 



At the market,
after nearly three hours of negotiating with different customers, Kalmudin
finally sold his ox for Rs. 5,000; he had been hoping to get Rs. 7,000. After selling his ox, Kalmudin has two cows and
a calf, and he is hoping to hang on to them while still providing for his
family of seven. “We will vote for those who will do something for the
farmers,” he says firmly. The state
has been badly hit by successive droughts: in 2022, almost the entire state – <a href="https://msry.jharkhand.gov.in">226
blocks</a> - was declared
drought-affected. The next year (2023), <a href="https://x.com/JharkhandCMO/status/1745094598278492162?s=20">158 blocks</a> faced
drought.

Here in
Palamu district, all 20 blocks had a rain deficit last year and so this year,
the relief money pledged by the state – Rs.3,500 per farmer family – is a
talking point for General Elections, as many are yet to receive it. “I gave
money to fill out the drought relief form. I gave 300 rupees one year [2022]
and 500 rupees the next [2023]. But I haven’t received anything yet,” says Sona
Devi. 



It&#39;s around
noon and the temperature is a scorching 37 degrees Celsius here in Baranw
village of Jharkhand. The 50-year-old Sona Devi is splitting wood with a chisel
and a hammer. The wood is for cooking. After her husband, Kamesh Bhuiya
suffered a paralytic stroke last year, Sona Devi has taken up this chore. The
couple belong to the  <a href="https://censusindia.gov.in/nada/index.php/catalog/558">Bhuiya Dalit</a> community
and depend on agriculture for their livelihood. 
 
Kamesh says he campaigned for the sitting MLA Alok Chaurasiya in 2014,
collecting over Rs. 6,000 rupees for his election campaign, but the lawmaker
“hasn&#39;t visited our area even once in the last 10 years.”



Their
two-room mud house looks out upon the 15 katha
(roughly half an acre) of land they own. “For two years, there hasn&#39;t been
any farming. Last year [2022], there was no water at all. This year [2023]
there was a little rain, but the paddy nursery didn&#39;t grow well,” says Sona. When this
reporter posed a question on the General Elections to her, she shot back at
him: “Who is asking us? Only during the time of voting, do they [politicians]
come calling us ‘didi [sister], bhaiya [brother] and chacha [paternal uncle]. After winning,
they won&#39;t even recognise us.” Sona Devi is reeling under a Rs. 30,000
debt after two consecutive droughts and expenses for her husband&#39;s stroke. “We
will vote for the party that will help us.”Looking at this reporter she adds, “if you go
[to meet the politicians], they will make you sit on a chair. To us, they will
tell us to wait outside.”

Malti Devi,
45, is Sona’s neighbour and also a farmer. She cultivates a bigha (less than an acre) and also works
as a farm labourer. “We used to get at least 15 quintals of rice only through bataiya [tenant farming] of other land,
separate from ours [one bigha]. This
year we cultivated potatoes, but we didn’t get enough to sell in the market,”
she adds.



A happy
recipient of a house under the Pradhan Mantri Awas Yojana, she says the
allotment has made her switch to voting for Modi from panja chap, the election symbol of the Congress party. “We discuss
the issues among other women in the village and then decide [collectively] who
to vote for. Some of us need a hand pump, some need a well, some need a colony.
Whoever fulfils these, we will vote for them,” she adds.

“Pulses,
wheat, rice, everything is expensive,” says Asha Devi, a resident of Palamu’s
Chianki village. The couple are in their thirties and have six children;
husband Sanjay Singh, 35, works as a labourer. The family belong to the <a href="https://censusindia.gov.in/nada/index.php/catalog/558">Chero tribe – </a>one
of the 32 scheduled tribes in Jharkhand. “In a good agriculture season, we
would have enough food for two years. Now, same thing we are buying,” she adds.




However,
when asked if she would vote on issues such as inflation and drought, Asha Devi
responds saying, “log kahata hai ki badi
mahangayi hai kuch nahi kar rahe hai Modi ji. General humlog to usi ko abhi bhi
chun rahe hai. [People say there&#39;s a lot of inflation, Modi ji isn&#39;t doing
anything. But we&#39;re still choosing him],” she firmly told this reporter. She
also said that they can only manage to send one child to private school, paying
a fee of Rs. 1,600. 



In the 2019
General Elections, Bhartiya Janta Party&#39;s Vishnu Dayal Ram secured victory with
62 per cent of the total votes. He won against Rashtriya Janata Dal&#39;s Ghuran
Ram. This year, Vishnu Dayal Ram is once again the BJP candidate, while
Rastriya Janata Dal is yet to announce their candidate. The constituency has
over 18 lakh voters. 



Besides inflation, drought is a real concern.
“People here have to think about water even for drinking. Many wells in the
villages are dry. The hand pump releases water very late,” says Asha Devi and,
“since the canal was built, there has never been water in it.”

Her
neighbour and fellow tribesman, Amrika Singh incurred a loss of Rs. three lakhs
in the last two years. He says, “earlier, even if nothing else, we could still
grow vegetables. But this year, my well has dried up.” 
Like other
farmers across Palamu, Amrika also highlighted the water scarcity in the
region. “Without water, there is no meaning to agriculture. How much farming
can we do with water from the well.”



The Mandal
Dam on the North Koel river was supposed to help. “Leaders just make empty
promises. Modi said in <a href="https://www.landconflictwatch.org/conflicts/mandal-dam-displaced-people-angry-over-re-construction-plan#:~:text=In%202015%2C%20the%20Ministry%20of,work%20is%20yet%20to%20restart.">2019</a> that a gate would
be installed in the Mandal Dam. If it was installed, there would have been a
water supply,” says Amrika Singh. “Who cares about the farmer? Look at how much
the farmers have protested, demanding fair prices, yet nothing has changed. The
government favours Adani and Ambani, waiving their loans. But what about the
farmer?”   
 
“Look, right now it&#39;s the BJP government. Whatever little we&#39;re receiving, it&#39;s
because of them. Suppose they haven&#39;t done anything, then the other party
hasn&#39;t done anything either,” says farmer Surender. He brushes off issues of
electoral bonds and unemployment saying, “those are issues for the big people.
We aren&#39;t that educated… The biggest problem in Palamu district is irrigation.
Farmers here are desperate for water.” 



Surender owns five bigha (3.5 acres) of land in Palamu’s Baranw village and depends on
the rain to cultivate. “People sit and gamble. We gamble in farming.”

In Palamu: ‘Who cares about the farmer?’

پلامو میں کسانوں کی فکر کرنے والا کوئی نہیں

'விவசாயியை பற்றி யார் கவலைப்படுகிறார்?'

'ਕਿਸਾਨਾਂ ਦੀ ਪਰਵਾਹ ਹੀ ਕਿਹਨੂੰ ਹੈ?'

ପାଲାମୁରେ: ‘ଚାଷୀଙ୍କ କଥା କିଏ ପଚାରେ ?’

पलामूमध्ये 'शेतकऱ्याची फिकीर कुणाला?'

പലാമുവിൽ: ‘കർഷകനെ ശ്രദ്ധിക്കാൻ ആരുണ്ട്?’

ಪಲಾಮು: 'ರೈತರ ಕುರಿತು ಯಾರು ತಲೆ ಕೆಡಿಸಿಕೊಳ್ಳುತ್ತಾರೆ?'

પલામુમાં: ‘ખેડૂતની કોને પડી છે?’

'किसान के चिंता कऊन ला हवय?'

পালামৌ: ‘চাষির কথা আবার কে ভাবে?’

পালামুত ‘খেতিয়কৰ কথা কোনে ভাবে?’

‘किसानों की परवाह किसको है?’

‘किसान के गुदाने वाला के बा?’

Palamu

01-7B7796DF-0210-4753-9E06-156A09AEE062-AKS-This_is_hard_work_and_the_mone.jpg

“Wherever
we go, we go together,” says Geeta Devi, looking fondly at her friend Sakuni,
standing right next to her.  

 The
duo collects sal (Shorea robusta) leaves in the nearby
jungle with which they make donas (bowls)
and pattals (plates) to sell in the town
of Daltonganj, district headquarters of Palamau. 




Geeta
and Sakuni Devi have been neighbours for 30 years in Naditola, a small hamlet
in Kope village. Like many villagers across the state of Jharkhand, Geeta and
Sakuni are also dependent on the forest for their livelihood. 



They
spend seven to eight hours in the forest, heading back when they see the cattle
going home after grazing. It takes them up to two days to gather enough leaves.
The hours pass swiftly, they take short breaks, chat about their family and
share local news.



Every
morning, Geeta waits to hear her neighbour’s voice calling out, “nikalihey…”  A few moments later they are both off, each
carrying a bag made of old cement sacks with a plastic bottle of water, a small
axe and a piece of old cloth. They head towards Hehegara, a jungle in the
buffer zone of the Palamau Tiger Reserve in Jharkhand. 



The two friends come from different communities
– Geeta is a Bhuiya Dalit and Sakuni is from the
Oraon tribal community. As we walk, Geeta also has a word of warning: “Don’t
come alone here,” she says, “sometimes wild animals also show up. We have seen tenduas [leopards]!” The threat of
snakes and scorpions also looms large and, Sakuni adds, “many times we have
encountered elephants.” The Palamau Tiger Reserve has 73 leopards and 267 elephants
(<a href="https://forest.jharkhand.gov.in/en/wildlife-census-0">2021 Wildlife Census</a>).

On
this foggy winter morning, Geeta and Sakuni, both in their fifties, are wearing
only a light shawl. They first cross the Auranga river close to their home in
the Manika block of Latehar district. The river is easier to cross on foot
during winter when the water runs low, but in the monsoons the women often have
to navigate neck-deep water to reach the shore. 



Once
on the other side, it is another 40 minutes of walking – the silence of the
forest only broken by the rhythmic taq-taq-taq noise made by their flip-flops
on the forest floor. They are heading towards a large mahua tree (Madhuca
longifolia) which is the landmark for an area densely populated by sal trees. 



“The
jungle is not what it used to be. It was much denser before…we did not have to
come this far,” Sakuni says. Global Forest Watch <a href="https://www.globalforestwatch.org/dashboards/country/IND/15/?widget=treeLoss">data</a> shows that Jharkhand lost 5.62 kilo
hectare of tree cover between 2001 and 2022. 




Recalling
her trips into the forest a few decades ago Sakuni says, “at any given time,
30-40 people would be in the jungle. Now it’s mostly cattle and goat herders,
and people collecting firewood.” 



Geeta
says even four years ago there were many women involved in the craft, but the
poor income from this has deterred them from continuing. The friends are among
the last women in their village still engaged in this craft. 



Women have also dropped out as collection of
firewood for sale is now <a href="http://prdjharkhand.in/iprd/press_release_details.php?prid=26489">prohibited</a>. “It stopped in 2020 during the lockdown,”
Sakuni says. The Jharkhand government initially imposed a fee on the collection
of firewood and although later retracted, villagers say they still have to pay
a fee if they want to sell the dry wood.

The
friends&#39; walk in the jungle is to support themselves and their families. Sakuni
started this work in her twenties. “I got married when I was very young,” she
says. And when her alcoholic husband left her, Sakuni had to find a way to
support herself and her three sons. “There was very little work [available],”
she says, “by selling leaves and datwan,
I took care of my children.”  



Sakuni
now lives in a two-room kutcha house
with her youngest son, 17-year-old Akendar Oraon. Her two elder sons are
married and live in separate houses in the same village, Kope. 



A
few doors down, Geeta lives in a mud house with her large family of seven – a
daughter, three sons, a daughter-in-law and two grandchildren. Her husband
passed away five years ago. Geeta’s youngest daughter, 28-year-old Urmila Devi,
also sells dona, but she wants a
different future for the girl. “I had married off my elder daughter to a poor
family. I won’t do that with my younger daughter. I will pay a dowry if I have
to,” Geeta says. 



Working from a young age, Geeta, the youngest of
seven siblings, never went to school. “If I went to school, who would do the
household work?” she asks. Even now, her day begins early, around 4 a.m. when she gets
busy with household chores such as cooking and cleaning and sending the cattle
(one cow and two bulls) off to graze before heading to the jungle. Her friend
has a similar routine, but unlike Geeta, whose daughter-in-law lends a hand around the house,
Sakuni has no one to help her.

Having
reached the buffer zone, the two women set their bags down. Even on this cold morning,
the walk has made them break into a sweat and they wipe their forehead and neck
using the end of their sarees. 



Before they start, they tie the corners of the
old piece of cloth into a makeshift bag where they will keep the leaves.
Tucking the ends of their sarees into their waist and the bag slung over their
shoulders, they are now ready.

They hold the branch with their left hand while tearing the
large, elliptical leaves with their right. “This tree has mattas [red ants], be careful,” Sakuni warns her companion. 



“We
look for good leaves, those with fewer holes,” says Geeta, putting some leaves
in her bag. They pluck from low branches, but also have to climb the tree and
use the axe when the leaves are out of reach. 



Sal trees usually grow slowly, reaching
up to 164 feet. However, in this jungle, the sal trees are younger, about 30-40 feet tall. 



Sakuni
is getting ready to climb up one of the trees, a height of around 15 feet. She
hitches up her saree and tucks it between her knees. Geeta hands her the axe.
“Cut that one,” she says, pointing to a branch. The branches will be cut to
uniform length and used as datwan – a
stick to clean teeth, which they also sell.



“It
should be just the right thickness,” says Geeta, clearing bushes in her path
with her axe as she moves from one tree to another. “Sal twigs are very good because they don&#39;t dry quickly. You can
even keep it for 15 days,” she adds. 



Collecting the leaves and twigs is no easy work.
“Winter is the most difficult month; our hands go numb,” says Geeta, and adds,
“my hands start to ache after gripping the axe tightly.”

Their
work pauses between the months of February and March when the sal tree sheds its leaves, before new
leaves appear in April-May. During this time, Sakuni collects mahua fruit. Earlier this year (2023),
she collected 100 kilos of mahua from
the jungle and dried and sold the fruit to a local trader at Rs. 30 per kilo.
The green blossom is used to make liquor and edible oil is extracted from the seed of its fruit. Geeta, however, does not earn during this time
and the income of her three sons, who work as migrant labourers, sustains the
family. The mahua tree they have at
home fulfils their household needs.

After
three days of labour in the forest, Geeta and Sakuni have enough and they
collect the sacks to take to Daltonganj. Lifting the sacks weighing roughly 30
kilos, they make their way to the Hehegara railway station, a 30-minute walk.
“I am taking more datwan this time,”
Geeta laughs and says. An addition to the bags on their back is a warm blanket.
 



At
Hehegara station, the women find a spot under a tree and wait for the 12 noon
local that will take them to Daltonganj. 



“People
selling patta-datwan don’t need
tickets,” Sakuni tells this reporter as she sets down her belongings on a seat
next to the door of the train. The slow passenger train will take three hours
to cover the distance of 44 kilometres. “A whole day wasted on the journey
alone,” Sakuni says, sighing.



The
train starts moving and Geeta starts talking about her 2.5 acres of land where
she cultivates paddy and maize during the monsoons and wheat, barley and
chickpeas during winter. “This year, paddy didn&#39;t do well, but we sold 250
kilos of maize for 5,000 rupees,” she says. 

 Sakuni
Devi owns around one acre of land, where she farms in both kharif and rabi seasons.
“This time, I didn&#39;t cultivate; I had sown paddy, but it didn&#39;t grow,” she
says.

While
they chat, their hands get busy fashioning donas
– arranging four to six leaves one upon the other and sewing them together with
strips of bamboo. The smooth leaves don’t break when folded multiple times,
making them perfect as plates. “If the leaf is large, two leaves can make one dona. Otherwise, it takes four to six
leaves for a single dona,” explains
Sakuni.



They
fold the edges to create a circular shape so that when food is served it won’t
fall out .  “Even if we put curry in it,
they won&#39;t leak,” says Geeta Devi. 



A
bundle of 12 donas sells for four
rupees and each bundle has around 60 leaves. Their earnings after plucking,
crafting, transporting around 1500 leaves is 100 rupees.

The
women also sell datwan and pola (sal leaves) in bundles of 10, priced at five and 10 rupees
respectively.  “People don’t even want to
pay five rupees for the datwan. They
bargain,” says Sakuni. 



At 5 p.m., the train pulls into Daltonganj.
Outside the station, by the side of the road Geeta spreads a blue polythene
sheet on the ground and the two resume the task of crafting donas. The women also take orders for pattals or plates. Crafting a single
plate requires 12-14 leaves and they sell it at one to one and a half rupees a
plate. They will be used for occasions such as griha pravesh (housewarming ceremony) or navaratra or for food distribution in temples. For a large order of
100 pattals or more, many workers
come together.

Geeta
and Sakuni Devi will be here until all their wares are sold off. Sometimes that
can take more than a day, up to eight, says Sakuni, “if other dona-sellers also show up.” On such
occasions, the blue sheet becomes their make-shift bed for the night, and the
blankets they have been carrying come in handy. If they have to stay for a few
days, they eat sattu (channa
porridge) twice a day, spending Rs. 50 each on buying it every day. 



Their ‘shop’ is open 24x7 and passengers from
the night train buy datwan from them.
In the evening, Geeta and Sakuni move into the station. Daltonganj is a small
town and the station is a safer refuge.

Three
days later, Geeta has made Rs. 420, selling 30 bundles of dona and 80 bundles of datwan
while Sakuni has sold 25 bundles of dona
and 50 bundles of datwan and made Rs.
300. Armed with their earnings, the duo board the Palamu Express which leaves
late at night and will get them to Barwadih next morning. From there, they have
to change to a local train to get to Hehegara. 



Sakuni
is not happy with her earnings. “This is hard work and the money is not
enough,” she says, while packing her sack. 



But they will have to be back in a couple of
days. “This is my livelihood,” Geeta says, “I will do this as long as my hands
and feet are working.” This story is supported by a fellowship from Mrinalini Mukherjee Foundation (MMF).

'This is hard work; the money is not enough'

دونا - پتّل بنانا ایک مشکل کام ہے، اور کمائی بہت کم

‘శ్రమ ఎక్కువ, ఆదాయం తక్కువ’

'கடின உழைப்பிற்கு ஏற்ற பணம் கிடைப்பதில்லை’

'ਮਿਹਨਤ ਬਹੁਤ ਜ਼ਿਆਦਾ ਤੇ ਕਮਾਈ ਬੇਹੱਦ ਘੱਟ'

‘କଷ୍ଟ କାମ; ଯଥେଷ୍ଟ ରୋଜଗାର ନାହିଁ’

‘കഠിനമായ ജോലിയാണ്; പ്രതിഫലം തുച്ഛവും’

ʼಇದು ಬಹಳ ಶ್ರಮದ ಕೆಲಸ, ಆದರೆ ಹಣ ಯಾವುದಕ್ಕೂ ಸಾಲುವುದಿಲ್ಲʼ

‘આમાં મહેનત તનતોડ છે પણ વળતર કંઈ નથી’

‘देहतोड़ मिहनत अऊ कमई एक धेला’

‘বড্ড খাটনির কাজ; টাকায় পোষায় না’

‘খাটনি বহুত, পইচা তেনেই কম’

'कमरतोड़ मिहनत के बादो कमाई मुट्ठिए भर बा'

‘काम है मुश्किल; आय है कम’

Manika, Latehar District, Jharkhand, 822126, India

01-DSCF6467-UP__AKS.jpg

Teera and Anita Bhuiya are desperately counting on a good yield during this kharif season. They have planted paddy and some maize, and the time to harvest the crops is coming up.A good yield this time is even more critical for them because the work they do at a brick kiln for half the year was cut short due to the lockdown that started in March.&quot;Even last year I had tried farming, but the crops were damaged due to insufficient rain and pests,” Teera says. “We farm for nearly six months, but it does not give us any money in hand,” Anita adds.Teera, 45, and Anita, 40, live in Bhuiya Tadhi, a cluster of houses of the Bhuiya community – a Scheduled Caste – in the southernmost part of Mahugawan.In this village in Chainpur block of Jharkhand’s Palamu district, since 2018, the family has been leasing land on a batiya arrangement – a local term for tenant farming – every kharif season. Through this verbal contract, tenants and landowners each invest half of the cost of production, and they each receive half of the harvest. The tenant farmers usually keep most of their share for their own consumption, and at times try to sell some in the market.

Until around five years ago, the family worked as farm labourers – earning Rs. 250-300 as daily wages for around 30 days of work in each of the two sowing seasons, or receiving grains as payment. The rest of the time, they would seek work at vegetable plots, or as daily wage labourers in nearby villages and in Daltonganj town, roughly 10 kilometres from Mahugawan.But with available field labour days falling every year, in 2018 they decided to try their luck at farming – and entered into a batiya agreement with a landowner. &quot;Before this,” says Teera, “I would do harwahi for landlords” – ploughing land using oxen, and other farm labour. “But then everything started happening using tractors – ploughing, harvesting – everything. Only one ox remains in the village.”To further try and supplement their batiya cultivation, Teera and Anita started working at a brick kiln from 2018, where others from their village go from late November-early December to mid-May-early June. “We got our daughter married last year,” Anita says. They have two daughters; the younger one, unmarried, lives with them. Three days after the wedding on December 5, 2019, the family started working at the kiln. “Once we pay off the debt [taken for the wedding expenses], we will resume working in farms through the year,” she adds.Before the lockdown that began towards the end of March, Teera and Anita – along with their sons Sitendar, 24, and Upendar, 22, and others from Bhuiya Tadhi – would board a tractor every morning and travel eight kilometres to Burhibir village. There, they would work from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. in the winter months till February, and from 3 a.m. to 11 a.m. from March onwards. “The only good thing about it [working at the kiln] is that the whole family works in one place,” says Anita.

At the brick kiln, they are paid Rs. 500 for every 1,000 bricks made. This kiln season, they had to work off an advance of Rs. 30,000 borrowed from the contractor, who is from their village, around October 2019.  For another Rs. 75,000 borrowed for their daughter’s wedding from the contractor as no-interest advance, they are expected to labour at the kiln starting again from November 2020.At the kiln Teera, Anita and their sons receive a weekly allowance of Rs. 1,000 “with which we buy rice, oil, salt, and vegetables,” says Teera. “If we need more money, we ask the contractor and he gives it to us.” This weekly allowance, the small borrowings, and the bigger advance are all deducted – as is the wage system at kilns – from the final amount paid to the labourers for the total number of brick they make during their months at the kiln.Last year, when they returned in early June 2019, they came back with Rs. 50,000 in hand, which saw them through some months. But this time, the Bhuiya family’s brick work was cut short due to the lockdown. And by the end of March, they got just Rs. 2,000 from the contractor.Since then, the Bhuiya family, like many others from their community, has been seeking a source of income. Some relief came in the form of around five kilos of rice and one kilo of dal for each adult family member in April, May and June under the Pradhan Mantri Garib Kalyan Yojana. And on their Antyodaya Anna Yojana ration card (for the “poorest of the poor” in the classification of the Department of Food &amp; Public Distribution), the family gets 35 kilos of grain at subsidised rates every month. “This is not enough for my family for even 10 days,” says Teera. Besides him and Anita and their two sons and one daughter, the household includes their two daughters-in-law and three grandchildren.With their rations running out, they have been managing by doing odd jobs in Mahugawan and neighbouring villages, and by borrowing money.

For the kharif sowing this year, Teera and Anita estimate they spent over Rs. 5,000 on seeds, fertilisers and pesticides, to cultivate rice and some maize on two acres of leased farmland. “I didn’t have any money,” says Teera. “I have borrowed from a relative, and now there is a lot of debt on my head.” The land they are cultivating belongs to Ashok Shukla, who owns 10 acres, and he too has been facing losses for over five years, largely due to insufficient rainfall. “We used to cultivate [enough] grains to last 18 to 24 months,” Ashok recalls. “Nowadays, our kothi [store room] is empty within six months. I have cultivated for almost 50 years. But the last 5-6 years have made me realise that there is no future in agriculture – there is only loss.”Shukla says that even landowners in the village – most of them from upper caste communities – have increasingly been migrating to towns and cities in search of other jobs. Due to the falling yields, they prefer leasing their land out on batiya instead of hiring farm labourers at Rs. 300 a day. “In the whole village, you will rarely find them [upper caste landowners] doing agriculture by themselves now,” says Shukla. “They all have given their land to Bhuiyas or other Dalits.” (In Mahugawan, between 21 and 30 per cent of the village’s 2,698 people belong to Scheduled Castes, notes Census 2011.) This year though the rainfall has been good. So Teera is hoping their batiya harvest will be robust too. A good harvest would mean a total of 20 quintals of paddy on their two acres, he estimates. After separating the husk from the grain, and splitting the yield with Ashok Shukla, they will be left with around 800 kilos of rice – and it will be the mainstay of all the meals for Teera’s 10-member family, who have no regular aces to other foodgrains. “I wish I could sell it in the market,” says Teera, “but the dhan [grain] will not be enough for us for even six months.”   Teera says he knows farm work better than any other, and with more landowners willing to lease their land, he hopes to cultivate a wider variety of crops on larger tracts.For now, he and Anita are hoping the harvest in a few weeks will be plentiful.