01-PAL_5267-PK-There_is_no_such_thing_as_professional_grief_ZWwcFmh.jpg

Each time I attempt to pen the deaths of my people, my mind empties out, like breath leaving the body of a corpse.The world around us has advanced so much yet our society pays no heed to the lives of manual scavengers. The government simply denies the occurrence of these deaths, but in a response to a <a href="https://sansad.in/getFile/annex/265/AU1096_V1fqD9.pdf?source=pqars">question</a> in the Lok Sabha this year, the Minister for Social Justice and Empowerment, Ramdas Athawale shared data showing that there have been more than 377 deaths from 2019-2023 &quot;due to hazardous cleaning of sewers and septic tanks&quot;.I have personally attended an innumerable number of manhole deaths in the last seven years. In Avadi, Chennai district alone, there have been 12 manhole deaths since 2022.On August 11, Hari, a 25-year-old Avadi resident and member of the Arunthathiyar community who was working as a contract labourer drowned while cleaning a sewage canal.Twelve days later I went to report on the death of Hari anna. I found his body lying inside a freezer box in his home. His wife Tamil Selvi had been asked by her family to finally carry out all the rituals a widow is expected to do. Her neighbours’ relatives smeared turmeric all over her then bathed her before cutting off her thali [symbol of a married woman]. She remained solemn and silent during these rituals.

When she moved to another room to change her clothes, the entire place was filled with silence. Their house built with just the red bricks had not been cemented. Each and every exposed brick was crumbling and eroded. The house seemed to be at the verge of collapsing.When Tamil Selvi akka came back after changing her saree, she ran towards the freezer box with a scream and began crying and wailing as she sat next to the freezer box. Her cries silenced the crowd and filled the room.“Oh dear! Wake up! Look at me, maama [term of endearment]. They are making me wear a saree. You don’t like it when I wear sarees, right? Wake up and ask them to not force me.”These words echo within me even today. Tamil Selvi akka is physically challenged having lost an arm. It is difficult for her to pin the pleats of the saree end on to her shoulder. That is why she doesn’t wear sarees. This memory stays and haunts me every day.Every such death that I’ve attended has stayed within me.Behind each and every manhole death many stories lie hidden. Deepa, aged 22, who also lost her husband Gopi in the recent manhole deaths at Avadi questioned whether 10 lakh rupees as compensation will cover the loss of her family&#39;s joy and happiness. “The 20th of August is our wedding day and 30th of August is our daughter&#39;s birthday, and he has left us in the same month as well,” she said. The monetary compensation they receive doesn’t meet all their financial needs.

Women and children of families who face manhole deaths are often not considered as victims. In Madampattu village in Villupuram district, when Anushiya akka’s husband, Maari died in a manhole, she couldn’t let out a cry as she was eight months pregnant. The couple already had three daughters; the first two daughters cried but their third daughter who couldn’t comprehend what was happening was running around the house in this eastern edge of Tamil Nadu.State compensation is seen as blood money. “I’m just unable to bring myself to spend this money. Spending this feels like gulping down my husband’s blood,” Anushiya akka said.When I followed up with the family of Balakrishnan, a manual scavenger who died in Karur district, Tamil Nadu, I observed that his wife suffers from serious depression. She said that even while working she often forgets her surroundings. It takes her time to realise her state, she said.The lives of these families get turned upside down. To us, however, these deaths are nothing more than news.

On September 11, 2023, Moses, a sanitary worker from Bheema Nagar in Avadi passed away. His is the only house with a tiled roof. Both of his daughters were able to comprehend the situation. I was at their house a day before his body arrived and his daughters were wearing tee-shirts that said ‘Dad loves me’ and ‘Dad’s little princess’. I was unsure if it was a coincidence.They spent the entire day crying incessantly, and despite others consoling them they were not pacified.Even though we may attempt to document and therefore mainstream these issues, there is a tendency to treat these deaths as merely news.

Two years ago in Kanjipattu, a hamlet in Sriperumbudur, three sanitary workers – Naveen Kumar, aged 25, Thirumalai  aged 20 and Ranganathan aged 50, passed away. Thirumalai was newly married, and Ranganathan is a father of two children. A number of workers who die are newly married and it is heart-breaking to see their widows losing hope. A few months after her husband died, others threw a baby shower for Muthulakshmi,.Manual scavenging is an <a id="4519" linktype="page">illegal act</a> in our country. Yet, we are unable to reduce the number of manhole deaths. I have no idea as to how I should take this issue further. My writing and photographs are the only way I know through which I hope to put a stop to this atrocious act.Each and every one of these deaths’ taxes me heavily. I often question whether it is okay for me to cry or not at their funerals. There is no such thing as professional grief. It is always personal. However, if not for these deaths I wouldn’t have become a photographer. To stop yet another manhole death, what more should I do? What should we all do?

‘There is no such thing as professional grief’

’پیشہ ور تکلیف جیسی کوئی چیز نہیں ہوتی‘

'ਰੋਟੀ ਕਮਾਉਂਦਿਆਂ ਮਰ ਜਾਣਾ, ਇਸ ਤੋਂ ਵੱਡੀ ਤ੍ਰਾਸਦੀ ਹੋਰ ਕੋਈ ਨਹੀਂ'

'વ્યાવસાયિક વ્યથા જેવી કોઈ વસ્તુ નથી'

‘ବୃତ୍ତିଗତ ଦୁଃଖ ବୋଲି କିଛି ନାହିଁ’

‘వృత్తిపరమైన దుఃఖమంటూ ఏదీ ఉండదు’

'തൊഴിൽപരമായ വിഷമം എന്നൊന്നില്ല'

मैनहोल में मरते सफ़ाईकर्मियों की सुध कौन लेगा?

‘ವೃತ್ತಿಪರ ನೋವೆನ್ನುವುದೇ ಇಲ್ಲʼ

‘পেচাদাৰী শোক বুলি একো নাই, যন্ত্ৰণা সদায়েই ব্যক্তিগত’

‘पेशेवर दुख जइसने कोनो जिनिस नइ होवय’

'தொழிற்பூர்வ துயரம் என எதுவும் இல்லை'

दुखवा मो का से कहूं!

‘পেশাদারি শোক বলে তো কিছু হয় না’

Kolhapur

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“We&#39;ve spent our entire lives
presenting documents and proving to the government and fellow citizens that we
belong to this country just like everyone else here.” 



Baharul Islam is busy segregating
waste. He is making different piles – of plastic bottles, wet garbage,
cardboard and thermocol, shoving each into separate plastic sacks. The
35-year-old is part of 13 migrant families from the districts of Barpeta,
Bongaigaon and Goalpara in Assam. They all live together on a plot of land in
Asawarpur town of Haryana, and their livelihood is waste picking and
segregation.



“People question our identity all
the time, both here and in Assam.” Baharul says that officials keep turning up
at his slum demanding documents from everyone. “When we go to pick up the waste,
people ask us where we are from. Upon hearing Assam, they assume that we are
Bangladeshi.” He adds that the police often ask for police verification from
Assam to ensure they don’t have a criminal record. “What we say doesn&#39;t
matter,” says Baharul who is aware of the National Register for Citizens (NRC)
being conducted in Assam but says he is not worried as he has land ownership
papers. 



Also living in the same compound, brothers Riyaz
and Nur Islam say they left Assam as the constant flooding of their land near
the Brahmaputra made it impossible to rely on farming. Back in Barpeta, their
parents farm 800 square feet of land where they cultivate green chillies,
tomatoes, and other vegetables. “During heavy rainfall, the river water enters
our houses, and we have to leave. We use banana tree logs to travel from one
place to another,” say the brothers According to the <a href="https://www.nrsc.gov.in/sites/default/files/pdf/DMSP/FloodAffectedAreaAtlas_Digital.pdf">National Remote Sensing Centre (NRSC)</a>, about 28.75 per cent of land in Assam state has
been affected by floods between 1998 and 2015.

Baharul, Riyaz and Nur now live
thousands of kilometres from their homes in Assam, as do 11 other migrant
families – all from the districts of Barpeta, Bongaigaon and Goalpara in Assam.
They work and live together, lending support to each other in this alien
environment and helping cope with the daily stigma of migrancy they encounter. 



Baharul says, “if someone here needs
money, we lend it to each other. Since only a few can [afford to] return to
Assam and their families, we celebrate festivals like Meethi Eid and Bakrid together
here. During Ramadan, we occasionally share sehri
as well.”



Most of the families arrived before
the pandemic in 2017, and the rest followed in 2021. Together they rent this
space for Rs. 17,000 a month, each family paying up a little over a thousand
rupees. Women like Baharul’s wife Mofida help too. Mofida, also from Bongaigaon,
is a Class 10 graduate and can read and write English, besides Assamese. She helps
with measuring and noting down the waste collected by each family in a small
book. 



All the families work around waste: some collect
garbage from residential areas, while others like Baharul collect waste from
the neighbouring factories and industrial areas. Young children also help doing
chores like segregating the waste, and they sometimes even go along with the
adults to help in gathering waste.

“We start our day at 7 in the
morning, going inside the city to pick up waste and then come back at around 3
p.m.,” says Nur Islam, but adds that if the volume of work is more, they might
return at 9 p.m. Once the waste is collected, it is segregated into roughly
30-35 categories: used bottles, plastic sacks, chapatis, thermocol, glass products and more. “We then sell the
waste to local dealers,” says Baharul. The dealer decides the price based on
the demand, and the waste pickers must accept it. “The price of a kilo of
thermocol varies from 15 to 30 rupees,” says Baharul. 



Family earnings range from Rs. 7,000
to 10,000 a month – the higher amount coming through in the summers when more
water sold in plastic bottles is consumed. 



“Almost half of our income is spent
on rent, electricity, and water bills. Electricity and water charges are
separate. The electricity bill reaches around 1,000 rupees,” says Baharul. The
families also have to buy the drinking water from a supplier, as the tap water
available in the plot is unfit for consumption. 


Baharul mentions that spending on
food adds more to their expenses. “We receive ration at home [in Assam],” he
says referring to foodgrains given through the PDS (Public Distribution
System). “But here [in Haryana], a Haryana ID card is needed for rations, which
we don&#39;t possess.”



Baharul is unaware of the <a href="https://static.pib.gov.in/WriteReadData/userfiles/one_nation.pdf">ONORC</a> (One Nation One Ration Card) – a nation-wide portability
scheme since 2019 which is aimed at ensuring food security for all, including
internal migrants within India. “I am not aware of it,” he tells this reporter.

Their makeshift homes are made with
tarpaulin stretched on bamboo poles. Their homes and the piles of sorted and
unsorted waste spill into each other, and their children run and scamper
around. According to this <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/library/resource/a-study-on-access-to-education-by-children-of-migrant-workers/">report</a>, only 55
per cent of children who migrate to cities with their parents are likely to
attend school. Many children living in this locality are choosing to work
instead of continuing their education. Anwar, Riyaz’s 12-year-old son,
discontinued schooling after completing Class 3. He now assists Riyaz with
waste picking and segregation. “Nobody wanted to come near the son of a kabadiwala. I had no friends. To help my
father, I dropped out,” says Anwar. 



Before he arrived in Sonipat,
Baharul worked as a college security guard for three years in Chennai. “I moved
here following the footsteps of a fellow villager,” he says. 



“If I were to tell my parents and
village people that I engage in this work, I would feel ashamed,” says Baharul.
“I say I work in small jobs in schools.” He says he feels the challenges in
migration in other ways too: “In Assam, fish is a key part of our diet.
However, some neighbours look down on us if we eat fish here; we have to cook
and eat it very secretly.”



His dream is to earn enough money to buy a small
plot of land in Assam and go back to living with his people. “No one likes to
lie to their family members, we all want to live dignified lives.”

‘People question our identity all the time’

'எங்கள் அடையாளத்தை எப்போதும் கேள்வி கேட்கின்றனர்'

ਮਸਲਾ ਸਾਰਾ ਹੋਂਦ ਦਾ!

‘ଆମ ପରିଚୟକୁ ନେଇ ଲୋକମାନେ ସବୁବେଳେ ସନ୍ଦେହ କରନ୍ତି’

'ആളുകൾ എല്ലായ്‌പ്പോഴും ഞങ്ങളുടെ പൗരത്വം ചോദ്യം ചെയ്യും'

‘ಜನ ಯಾವಾಗಲೂ ನಮ್ಮ ಅಸ್ಮಿತೆಯನ್ನು ಪ್ರಶ್ನೆ ಮಾಡುತ್ತಾರೆʼ

‘हमर सरी जिनगी अपन पहिचान बतावत गुजर गे’

‘लोग हरदम हमनी के पहचान पर अंगुरी उठावेला’

‘সারাক্ষণ আমাদের পরিচয় নিয়ে লোকে প্রশ্ন তোলে’

‘মানুহে সততে আমাৰ পৰিচয়ক লৈ প্ৰশ্ন কৰে’

‘लोग हमें शक की नज़र से देखते हैं’

Asawarpur

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Noren Hazarika sings his heart out standing in the bright green paddy, days before it will turn golden. The 70-year-old is accompanied by Jiten Hazarika, 82, on the dhul and Robin Hazarika, 60, on the taal. The three are marginal farmers in Balijan village of Titabar subdivision. They were once expert Bihuwas (Bihu artists) in their youth.“You can continue speaking, but the tales of rongali [spring festival] Bihu are endless!”

As the harvest season (November-December) approaches and the paddy turns to gold, local granaries will once again be abundant with bora, joha and aijung (varieties of local rice). The immense sense of fulfilment of the Chutia community with the harvest is heard in the Bihu naam (songs), passed on by generations here in Jorhat district of Assam. The Chutia are an indigenous tribe, largely agrarian and they reside mainly in upper Assam. The Assamese term thuk which means a bunch of areca, coconut and banana palms, is used to describe abundance. The phrases in the songs, ‘moromor thuk’ and ‘morom’ mean love – an outcrop of love. For the agrarian community, this abundance of love is also very valuable, and the musicians voices rise above the fields.“Forgive me if my singing falters”They are keen that younger people also pick up this musical tradition and it does not die. “O xunmoina,The sun is all set to continue its journey…”

‘And then I begin my naam...’

خوشحالی اور محبت سے لبریز بیہو گیت

'బిహు పాటను పాడతాను'

‘பிறகு எங்களின் பாடலைத் தொடங்கினோம்’

‘ਖੁਸ਼ਹਾਲੀ ਅਤੇ ਪਿਆਰ ਵਿੱਚ ਪਰੁਚੇ ਬਿਹੂ ਗੀਤ’

‘ତା’ପରେ ମୁଁ ଆରମ୍ଭ କରେ ମୋ ‘ନାମ’ [ଗୀତ]’

‘आणि 'नाम' सुरु होतं’

‘പിന്നെ  ഞാൻ എൻ്റെ പാട്ട് തുടങ്ങുന്നു’

'ಈಗ ನಾನು ನಾಮ್‌ [ಹಾಡು] ಆರಂಭಿಸುತ್ತೇನೆ'

समृद्धि और प्रेम में पगे बिहू गीत

‘અને પછી હું મારું નામ [ગીત] શરૂ કરું છું’

बिहू नाम (गीत) मं फूटत संतोस के भाव

‘आउर फेरु हम नाम (गीत) सुरु करिला’

‘এভাবেই নামগান শুরু করি’

‘প্ৰথমে বিহু নাম গাও’

Jorhat

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“The train stops only for five minutes, and we board amidst a lot of
rush and crowding. Sometimes the train starts moving, and we have to leave
behind some bundles on the platform.” Saranga Rajbhoi is a rope maker, and the
bundles she is forced to leave behind are leftover fibres from textile
factories that women like her make into ropes they sell. The ropes are used to
tie cows and buffaloes, cargo on trucks and tractors, and even to hang clothes
to dry.

“Hamara khaandani hai [Ours
is a family business],” says Santra Rajbhoi. Seated in an open space near her
home in a municipal housing block in Vatva, Ahmedabad, she is busy untangling
knots from a heap of synthetic fibre.

Saranga and Santra belong to the Rajbhoi nomadic community in Gujarat.
They travel from Ahmedabad to Surat buying up waste fibres from textile mills
along the way, which they then turn into ropes. It’s a job that makes them
leave home around eleven at night and return only at seven in the evening the
next day. Their young children are left behind in the care of relatives and
neighbours.

The trains they catch often reach their destination at one or two in
the morning, so the women rope makers sleep on the railway platforms for which
they are often harassed. “We are taken to the police station for two-three
hours and questioned about where we come from. The policemen catch hold of poor
people,” says Karuna. “If they feel like detaining us, they do.”

Karuna, Santra and Saranga are all neighbours in
the Char Maliya municipal housing located in Vatva. They say their homes lack
basic amenities like regular water supply and sewage lines. Electricity
connections came only after a long fight.

They belong to the Rajbhoi community in which traditional occupations for women include making ropes whereas men
work as ear-wax cleaners. Their community has been struggling for recognition and
access to state benefits and a better standard of living. The Rajbhois are a
nomadic tribe, but “our caste is not listed with the Nigam [Gujarat Nomadic and
Denotified Tribes Development Corporation],” says Rajesh Rajbhoi, the mukhiya or head of the community.
Accessing work opportunities and other schemes available for nomadic
communities is not a straightforward process as, “we are listed there as
‘Bhoiraj’ instead of ‘Rajbhoi’ and that becomes a problem when it comes to
government work.”

Neither Rajbhoi nor Bhoiraj figure in the list
of 28 Nomadic Tribes and 12 Denotifed Tribes that appear on the Gujarat
government’s<a href="https://sje.gujarat.gov.in/ddcw/List-of-Castes?lang=english"> </a><a href="https://sje.gujarat.gov.in/ddcw/List-of-Castes?lang=english">website</a>.  ‘Bhoi’
of Gujarat are listed in the <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/library/resource/draft-list-of-denotified-tribes-nomadic-tribes-and-semi-nomadic-tribes-of-india/">Draft list of Denotified
Tribes, Nomadic Tribes and Semi-Nomadic Tribes of India</a> (Ministry of Social Justice and Empowerment).
In Gujarat, Bhoiraj are listed under Other Backward Classes. “People from our
community are also called Salat-Ghera outside of Gujarat and are engaged in
making mill-stones and grindstones,” says Rajesh. The Salat-Ghera are also a nomadic
tribe and listed as such on the website.

Sourcing the fibre required to make ropes takes these women across
textile factories in Surat. “Vatva to Maninagar and Maninagar to Kim. We buy the [raw]
material at twenty-five rupees per kilo,&quot; says Saranga Rajbhoi, chewing a
betel leaf. Her hands keep working on the fibres.

The distance from Maninagar in Ahmedabad to Kim in Surat is almost 230 kilometres. They
have no other choice but to travel by train; fares are high, but a laughing
Saranga, wiping the betel juice running down her chin, says, “We don’t buy
tickets.” From Kim railway station the women travel by rickshaw to textile
factories in the area.

“Any damaged material is kept aside. The workers
sell it to us or to the junk dealers, who in turn sell it to us,” says 47-year-old Gita Rajbhoi. But not just any fibre will do, explains Karuna: “Cotton is
of no use to us. We can only use resam [synthetic
silk], and the factories working with it are only in Kim.”

Often the raw material (fibre) is knotted together, says Gita and
costs less. The price varies between Rs. 15 to 27 a kilo. White fibre used in
sofas, bedding and pillows is expensive – Rs. 40 a kilo.

“One woman can bring 100 kilos. She might bring 25 or sometimes even
10 kilos,” says Santra. But there is no guarantee that they might get that much
– there are always too many people looking to buy and not enough fibre to go
around.

Transporting the material from Kim to Ahmedabad requires them to “go
around [to multiple factories] in Kim to buy the goods and bring it to the
station,” explains Saranga.

At the station, their large bundles attract the attention of the
railway staff.  “If they catch us, they
sometimes let us go when we explain that we are poor. If some headstrong
officer turns up, we have to pay 100-200 rupees,” adds Karuna Rajbhoi. “Every
time we purchase material worth a thousand rupees, we end up spending three
hundred [on travel].” Whether or not they are able to get the required
material, an expense of Rs. 300 is inevitable.

A finished rope of 30 arms’ length is sold for Rs. 80 and a rope of 50
arms’ length for Rs. 100. 

The women carry 40-50 ropes with them. Sometimes
they manage to sell all and sometimes only about 20 in small towns and cities
like Mahemdabad, Anand, Limbachi, Tarapur, Kathlal, Kheda, Govindpura, Matar,
Changa, Palla, Gomtipur and many other places.

“We work hard to make the ropes and spend money to go and sell them in
the villages of Nadiad and Kheda, only to be bargained down from 100 to 50-60
rupees,” says Saranga. And then the travel and fines also eat into their
earnings.

Making ropes is hard and exhausting work that they do in between
household chores. “Jab nal aata hai tab
uth jaate hain. [When water comes in the taps, we get up],” says Aruna
Rajbhoi.

As their homes are too small to accommodate the work, the women work
in the open with no protection from the sun. “We work from seven to noon, and
from two to five-thirty in the afternoon,” she adds. “We make more ropes in the
summer as the days are longer – about 20-25 in a day. But only 10-15 in the winter,”
adds Rupa.

A small hand wheel and a large fixed spinning wheel are two important
tools of their trade.

One woman spins the wheel while another holds
the strands, preventing them from sticking together. Yet another woman manages
the ends of the rope. Since three or four people are needed at a time, family
members often work together. “As we keep spinning the wheel, fibre gets spun
into yarn. Three separate strands are formed and get twisted together to form a
rope,” says Sarvila Rajbhoi, adding that a rope of 15-20 feet takes 30-45
minutes. In a day, a group can make 8-10 ropes, sometimes they even make
twenty. On order, they even make ropes 50-100 feet in length.

The Bhoi community in the state are largely in the Saurashtra region.
According to Bhagvadgomandal, an encyclopaedic Gujarati dictionary published in
the 1940s, Bhois are &quot;a backward Shudra community&quot; once engaged in tanning
leather. But opposition to animal slaughter from the dominant Jain community forced
many of them to agriculture and other labour work. Bhois who turned to
different occupations came to be known by different names. Rajbhois could have
been palanquin bearers.

The women’s enterprise and hard work is brushed off by male members of
the community, including Bhanu Rajbhoi. An ear cleaner by trade he says of the
money the women earn: “It doesn’t help much. It just helps a little with their
household expenses.” After all, caste-specific traditionally inherited
occupations only beget “thoda bahot ghar
ka kharch.”

But to Gita Rajbhoi, this is still better than
trying to find a salaried job. It is clear when she says, “dasvin ke baad barvin, uske baad college, tab jaake naukri milti hai.
Isse achha apna dhanda sambhalo! [One has to pass Class 10, Class 12 and
later college. Only then does one get a job. Better to manage your own
business!]”.

The reporter would like to thank Aatish Indrekar
Chhara.

The tangled skeins of Rajbhoi rope makers

رسی بنانے والی راج بھوئی کمیونٹی کی الجھی ہوئی دنیا

చిక్కుబడిన రాజ్‌భోయ్ తాళ్ళ తయారీదారుల జీవితాలు

கயிறு செய்பவர்களின் வாழ்க்கை முடிச்சுகள்

ਰਾਜਭੋਈ ਰੱਸੀ ਬਣਾਉਣ ਵਾਲ਼ਿਆਂ ਦੀ ਆਪਣੀ ਜ਼ਿੰਦਗੀ ਉਲਝਦੀ ਹੋਈ

ରାଜଭୋଇ ରଶି ନିର୍ମାତାଙ୍କ ଅଡୁଆ ଗଣ୍ଠି

രാജ്ഭോയ്: കയർ നിർമ്മാതാക്കളുടെ കെട്ടുപിണഞ്ഞ ജീവിതങ്ങൾ

ರಾಜಭೋಯಿ ಸಮುದಾಯದ ಹಗ್ಗ ತಯಾರಕರ ಬದುಕಿನ ಕಗ್ಗಂಟು

राजभोई समुदाय की रस्सी-निर्माताओं की उलझी हुई दुनिया

राजभोई समाज: रस्सी बरत, संटाय जिनगी

रसड़ी आउर मोटरी में अझुराइल जिनगी

রজ্জুতেই সম্ভ্রম: রাজভোই শ্রমজীবী নারীদের কথা

ৰেচমী আঁহ-নিৰ্ভৰ শ্ৰমজীৱী মহিলাৰ জীৱন

રાજભોઈ સમુદાયની મહિલાઓનાં ગૂંચવાયેલાં જીવન

Vatva, Ahmedabad

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Two men are making their way up a hill, cutting through dense thickets as they trek towards their farms in Ngahmun Gunphaijang, a small village of 40 Kuki-Zo tribal households in Manipur&#39;s Kangpokpi district. The sky is overcast on this September day in 2023, and all around them is a hillscape overrun with wild shrubbery. Just a few years ago, though, these hills were covered with striking white, mauve, and pink flowers belonging to the poppy plant (Papaver somniferum). “I used to grow ganja (Cannabis sativa) in the early 1990s, but back then, it did not yield much money,” says Paolal, a farmer and one of the men making this journey. “In the early 2000s, people started cultivating kaani [poppy] in these hills. I grew it too,” he says, “up until it was banned some years ago.” Paolal is referring to the winter of 2020, when S.T. Thangboi Kipgen, the chieftain of Ngahmun Gunphaijang, called for the eradication of poppy farms in the village and urged farmers  to cease cultivation altogether. His decision wasn&#39;t an isolated one but made in support of the state BJP government’s aggressive ‘War on Drugs’ campaign. Poppy, from which the highly addictive narcotic opium is made, is cultivated primarily in Manipur&#39;s hill districts such as Churachandpur, Ukhrul, Kamjong, Senapati, Tamenglong, Chandel, Tengnoupal as well as Kangpokpi; most of the people living in Kangpokpi are from the Kuki-Zo tribe.It was five years ago, in November 2018, that the BJP state government under Chief Minister Biren Singh launched the &#39;War on Drugs&#39;.   Singh appealed to village chiefs and churches in the hill districts to stop poppy cultivation in those areas.

Locals from the Kuki-Zo tribe say that the ‘War on Drugs’ campaign has been a direct attack on them, even fuelling the bloody ethnic conflict that broke out in May 2023 between the majority Meitei community and the minority Kuki-Zo tribals. Although poppy is grown in both Naga and Kuki Zo hill districts, Chief Minister Biren Singh (BJP), locals allege, has singled out the Kukis as responsible for driving the drug trade in Manipur.The 30 farming households in Ngahmun Gunphaijang, like Paolal’s were forced to give up poppy cultivation and grow vegetables and fruits like peas, cabbage potatoes, and bananas instead, getting a fraction of their earlier earnings.  “It was like strangling them,” said Samson Kipgen, acting village chief.  Here, the land is community-owned, coming under the stewardship of the village chieftain – a hereditary role passed down in a family. “But they [farmers who switched] understood that it is for the good of the village and the environment,” he adds. Poppy had been a winning crop for farmers who do not have access to other viable employment opportunities like the Mahatma Gandhi National Rural Employment Guarantee (MNREGA).  The 45-year-old farmer Paolal says that the government’s threat to arrest and imprison cultivators made him discontinue the practice.  The campaign warned that if villagers did not cooperate, local police would slash and burn poppy fields.  Recently, a valley-based civil society group even went on to claim that the Centre has agreed to <a href="https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/city/guwahati/centre-will-use-iaf-to-destroy-poppy-fields-if-manipur-govt-approaches-it/articleshow/103706106.cms?from=mdr">conduct</a> air strikes on poppy fields, but there has been no official confirmation of this.Since 2018, the state government claims to have destroyed over 18,000 acres of poppy cultivation and arrested 2,500 cultivators. . However, data by the Narcotics and Affairs of Border, a specialised unit of the Manipur Police, from 2018 to 2022 shows a total of 13,407 acres of poppy plantations destroyed. Manipur shares a border with Myanmar, the world’s largest producer of poppy, where the alleged sale and production of other potent narcotic derivatives like morphine, codeine, heroin, and oxycodone take place. This proximity keeps it vulnerable to the flow of drugs and other illegal trade. According to a 2019 survey,  <a href="https://socialjustice.gov.in/writereaddata/UploadFile/Survey%20Report636935330086452652.pdf">Magnitude of Substance Abuse in In</a>dia (Ministry of Social Justice and Empowerment), Manipur is said to have the highest number of injecting drug users in northeast India. &quot;Was it a fault to start a war on drugs to save the youth?” Chief Minister Singh asked party workers in December 2023, during a meeting at the BJP headquarters in Imphal. He was responding to allegations holding the BJP accountable for the ethnic strife.

Ironically, it was the &#39;War on Drugs&#39; that cost Demza’s children their education. Until four years ago, Demza and his family lived a comfortable life cultivating poppy in Ngahmun Gunphaijang. After it was banned, Demza moved to mixed crop cultivation and his earnings fell. “If we can cultivate [vegetables] twice a year and get a good yield, we earn up to a lakh [rupees] annually,” says Demza, talking to PARI. “With poppy, we used to make a minimum of three lakh rupees a year despite having only a single harvest.”This substantial decrease in income has meant pulling his kids out of school in Imphal; he was able to admit only one of them to a local school in the Kangpokpi district headquarters.Poverty, food insecurity and material needs drive opium cultivation among tribal farmers in Manipur, says a 2019 <a href="https://www.epw.in/engage/article/why-are-farmers-manipur-cultivating-poppy">study</a> on the hill districts of Kangpokpi, Churachandpur, and Tengnoupal. The study was led by Ngamjahao Kipgen, an Associate Professor of Sociology at the Indian Institute of Technology (IIT), Guwahati. He surveyed 60 households and found that a hectare of land produces between 5-7 kilos of opium, which can sell for anywhere between Rs. 70,000-150,000 a kilo.

November is a time of joy for the minority Kuki-Zo tribe as they celebrate the annual Kut festival which coincides with the poppy harvest season. During the festival, communities come together, cook large feasts, sing and dance, and even hold beauty pageants. The year 2023 was different, though. In May, a bloody civil conflict broke out between the Meitei community and the Kuki-Zo, the former comprising 53 per cent of Manipur’s population.  In late March 2023, the Manipur High Court directed the state government to consider a longstanding request of the Meitei community — inclusion in the Scheduled Tribes list, which would provide them with economic benefits and quotas for government jobs. In addition, Meiteis would also be able to purchase land in the hilly areas predominantly occupied by Kuki tribes. The Court’s recommendation was opposed by all the tribal communities in Manipur, who felt that the control over their land would be threatened.

This set off a series of violent attacks across the state, including barbaric murders, beheadings, gang rapes, and arson.Two months before PARI visited the village, a video of a horrifying incident went viral: two women from B Phainom village in Kangpokpi were paraded naked by a mob of Meitei men. The incident occurred during an attack on B Phainom in early May, when it was razed to the ground. After the video was shot, their male relatives were killed and the women were allegedly raped in the paddy fields. So far, an estimated 200 (and counting) have been killed in the conflict, and over 70,000 displaced, most of whom are the minority Kukis. They have also accused the state and police of abetting Meitei militants in this civil war. At the heart of the bloody civil war is the poppy plant. “Politicians and bureaucrats are at the top of this chain, as are the middlemen who buy from farmers and make good money,” says IIT Professor Kipgen. Despite the destruction of poppy farms and mass seizures and arrests, he says that the kingpins remain out of the law’s clutches. Most small farmers, Kipgen says, made bare minimum in the poppy trade.Chief Minister Biren Singh has <a href="https://www.ndtv.com/india-news/video-how-manipur-is-turning-the-tides-in-war-against-drugs-4630405">blamed the conflict on poor poppy growers</a> from the Kuki-Zo tribe, backed by Kuki-Zo armed groups like Kuki National Front (KNF) involved in the narcotics trade across the border with Myanmar. The state government also holds poppy cultivation in the hills responsible for the rampant destruction of reserve forests and the severe environmental crisis in the Meitei-dominated valley.The poppy cultivation cycle, the farmers say, begins with clearing large tracts of land by cutting down trees and burning forest patches, followed by the use of pesticides, vitamins and urea. This <a href="https://www.epw.in/engage/article/quest-end-illicit-poppy-cultivation-manipur">paper</a> published in 2021, says that villages next to newly-cleared plantation sites in Churachandpur district saw the drying up of streams and the rise of water-borne diseases among children in the villages. However, Professor Kipgen said that there is a lack of sufficient scientific research on the environmental impact of poppy cultivation in Manipur.

The United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime&#39;s (UNODC) <a href="https://www.unodc.org/documents/crop-monitoring/Myanmar/Myanmar_Socio-economic_Survey_2019_web.pdf">report</a> on opium poppy cultivation in neighbouring Myanmar found that forest quality deteriorates more rapidly in poppy-growing villages than in non-poppy ones. However, the impact of climate change on both poppy and non-poppy land was seen in falling yields in both, from 2016 to 2018. The fact remains that there is no conclusive data on the environmental impact of poppy cultivation. Farmer Paolal contests this, saying, “If poppy affected the soil, we would not be able to cultivate this vegetable farm here.” Other Ngahmun farmers say they have had no trouble growing fruits or vegetables despite earlier cultivating opium on their land.

Farmers say that the real problem lies in the lack of state alternatives to the high incomes that poppy gave them. Despite the chief&#39;s claim of distributing potato seeds to all villagers, former poppy cultivators like Paolal say they have not benefited. “I barely managed to buy one packet of seeds costing 100 rupees from the market. This is how I grew ankam [vegetables],” he told PARI. A year after Ngahmun joined the government initiative, the Peh village council in the Tangkhul Naga-dominated Ukhrul district also destroyed poppy plantations in the hills. The Chief Minister swiftly announced a Rs. 10 lakh reward in 2021. The Horticulture and Soil Conservation Department along with the Manipur Organic Mission Agency, are also working with the council to identify beneficiaries and provide alternative livelihood means like kiwi and apple plantations. In addition to the reward, Moon Shimrah, village chairman of Peh told PARI that the village has received an additional grant of Rs. 20.3 lakh in cash apart from machinery and equipment for ploughing, 80 bags of fertiliser, plastic packaging as well as saplings for apple, ginger and quinoa. “Actually, it was only one household that started growing poppy until the village council intervened and for that, the government has awarded us,” said Shimrah. The government grant would benefit all 703 households in the village, located 34 kilometers from the district headquarters in Ukhrul, where yam, lemon, orange, soya beans, millets, maize, and paddy are otherwise grown. “However, we request the government to provide us with proper training on the cultivation of these new crops and to monitor the project closely for it to be successful. We also need barbed wires to fence the plantation because our livestock roam around freely and can destroy the crops,” he added.Kipgen, the acting chief of Ngahmun, told PARI that though his village received one-time support for livelihood alternatives like poultry and vegetable seeds from a state university for research purposes and an MLA, government outreach has not been consistent. “We were the first tribal village in the hills to join the ‘War on Drugs’,” he said. “Yet the government seems to be only rewarding some tribal communities while ignoring others.”

However, sources in the state government pin the blame not on insufficient livelihood alternatives but the model itself. “The hill tribal farmers have collected seeds and poultry but it’s mostly for subsistence farming,” says a source in the Manipur government who oversees livelihood initiatives for poppy farmers in both Naga and Kuki-Zo dominated hill districts. The income from growing vegetables or rearing poultry, he said, could never match what farmers earned from poppy – an estimated annual income of Rs.15 lakhs as compared to barely Rs. one lakh from vegetables and fruits. Providing alternative livelihoods with poor earnings will not eradicate poppy cultivation. “The ‘War on Drugs’ campaign has not succeeded in the hills,” says the government employee on condition of anonymity. “It’s just an eyewash.” The forcible eradication of poppy cultivation is meaningless unless replaced by sustainable alternative livelihoods and broad based development initiatives like MNREGA. Not doing this, says Professor Kipgen, will “escalate social tensions, and also create animosity between the local government and farmer communities.” Even the UNODC report concluded that “opportunities that can help farmers maintain their level of income after stopping poppy cultivation are needed to sustain the effort of poppy eradication.”The ethnic conflict has only added to the woes of the hill tribal farmers, who can no longer trade or do commerce in the valley. “After the [annual] poppy cultivation was over we used to make additional income from selling sand from the quarry to Meiteis. Even that is gone now,” says Demza. “If this [the conflict] keeps going on, then a time will come when we won’t be able to keep our children in schools or maintain a livelihood.”

Kangpokpi farmers: waiting to be rehabilitated

کانگپوکپی کے کسانوں کو بازآبادکاری کا انتظار

மறுவாழ்வுக்காக காத்திருக்கும் காங்போக்பி விவசாயிகள்

ਮੁੜ ਵਸੇਬੇ ਦੀ ਮੰਗ ਕਰਦੇ ਕੰਗਪੋਕਪੀ ਦੇ ਪੋਸਤ ਪੈਦਾਕਾਰ

ଥଇଥାନ ଅପେକ୍ଷାରେ କାଙ୍ଗପୋକପୀର ଚାଷୀ

കാങ്‌പോക്പിയിലെ കർഷകർ: പുനരധിവാസത്തിനായുള്ള കാത്തിരിപ്പിൽ

ಪುನರ್ವಸತಿಗಾಗಿ ಕಾಯುತ್ತಿರುವ ಕಾಂಗ್ಪೋಕ್ಪಿಯ ರೈತರು

पुनर्वास के इंतज़ार में कांगपोकपी के किसान

પુનર્વસનની રાહ જોતા કાંગપોક્પીના ખેડૂતો

पुनर्वास ला अगोरत कांगपोकपी के किसान

पुनर्वास के रस्ता ताकत कांगपोकपी के किसान

পুনর্বাসনের পথ চেয়ে কাংপোকপির আফিম চাষিরা

কাংপোকপীত পুনৰ্সংস্থাপনৰ আশাত বন্দী খেতিয়ক

NH2, Motbung, Saikul, Kangpokpi District, Manipur, 795107, India

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“It has been over two years since we have returned from
Delhi. The government had said they would fulfil all our demands, but no one
called us farmers to discuss those demands,” says the 60-year-old Charanjit
Kaur, resident of Sangrur district in Punjab. She and her family grow wheat,
paddy and a few vegetables for household consumption on their two acres of
land. “We are fighting for the rights of all the farmers,” she adds. 

Charanjit is sitting with her neighbour and friend,
Gurmeet Kaur among a group of women at the Shambhu border in Patiala district. The warm afternoon
sun is falling on the group. “They [government] didn’t even let us go to Delhi,”
says Gurmeet. She is referring to the
multilayer barricades of concrete walls, iron nails, and barbed wires that have
been placed on the roads along the Haryana-Punjab borders, and then along the
Delhi-Haryana borders, stopping protesting farmers from reaching Delhi. Read: <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/i-feel-imprisoned-at-shambhu-border/">‘I feel imprisoned at Shambhu border’</a>



The
farmers gathered here say that the Centre has failed them on many counts:
guarantee of minimum support price (MSP) as per the recommendations of the
<a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/all-reports-by-the-swaminathan-commission/">Swaminathan Commission</a>, a complete waiver of debts for farmers and farm
labourers, justice for the farmers affected in the Lakhimpur-Kheri massacre, arrest
of the culprits, a pension scheme for farmers and labourers, and compensation
to families of farmers who were martyred in the <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/protests-against-farm-laws-full-coverage/">2020-2021 protest</a>. 

A few weeks ago on February 13, when these farmers began
a peaceful march to the national capital to press for their demands, they were
met with tear gas, water cannons, rubber bullets from pellet guns, fired by the
Haryana police to stop them from moving further.

Surinder
Kaur’s son is among the protesters at the Shambhu border between Haryana and
Punjab. “Sade tey mobile, television band
hi nahi honde. Asi dekhde hai na sara din gole vajde, tado mann vich haul jeya
paenda hai ki sade bache tey vaje naa. [Our mobile phones and televisions
are constantly on. As we see tear gas shelling persisting through the day, we
worry for our children’s safety],” she says. 



Surinder
Kaur is from Khoje Majra village and arrived on the morning of February 24,
2024 to participate in the candlelight march for 22-year-old Shubhkaran Singh,
who died following a clash between security personnel and protesting farmers at
another Haryana-Punjab border in Khanauri. 



“We
are protesting for our rights (hak),
we will not return until our rights are met,” she asserts. The 64-year-old is
accompanied by her daughter-in-law and grandchildren. 



Surinder Kaur’s family of
six rely on their two acres of farm in Fatehgarh Sahib district where they
cultivate wheat and paddy. She says that MSP for just five crops is not
enough. “Mitti de bhav
laende hai sadi fasal [They buy our crops for next to nothing],” she says
referring to the other crops like mustard sold in and around their fields. 



“Despite our peaceful
protests, why do the police resort to such extreme measures?” asks a worried
Devinder Kaur whose sons have been at the protest site since the beginning. A
resident of Landran village in Sahibzada Ajit Singh Nagar district of Punjab, Devinder
Kaur too had come with her family – daughters-in-laws and grandchildren aged 2,
7, and 11. 

“The government provides MSP on only two crops – wheat and paddy. Then they ask us to diversify to other
crops. How are we to
diversify under such circumstances?” Devinder asks. “The maize we grow is
brought at a price of 800 to 900 rupees a quintal, as against the Rs. 1,962 a quintal MSP on maize set by the Food Corporation of India for 2022-2023.”

Nearly 200 metres from the barricades,
standing on a makeshift stage built on a trolley, farm leaders are delivering
speeches and updating protesting farmers on upcoming events scheduled ahead.
People are seated on durries spread on the highway; a four-kilometre long caravan
of thousands of tractor trolleys stretches towards Punjab. 





A farmer from Rajpura,
Punjab, Parampreet Kaur, 44, has been here at Shambhu since February 24.
Tractor trolleys from the villages of Amritsar and Pathankot have four to five
women in each one. They stay for the entire day and the next day, other groups
of women come. The lack of toilets at the protest site, they say, is why they
cannot stay overnight. “I felt the urge that someone from the family should
come in support,” says Parampreet. Her 21-year-old son is ill and could not
come so she has come instead with her relatives. The family own 20 acres of
land on which they grow wheat and paddy, but since her husband’s stroke in
2021, they have not earned anything from the land. 



“No one is interested in
cultivating on the land on lease also because the groundwater there has been
polluted from the chemical released from a factory nearby,” she adds. 





Amandeep Kaur and her
family own 21 acres of farmland in Bhatehri village in Patiala district. They
mainly grow wheat and paddy. “The value of our crops remains negligible while
they’re in our fields. However, once they leave our possession, they are sold
at a double price in the market.” 



Speaking about the protest she says, “protesters are
unarmed, yet the government is resorting to using weapons against its own
citizens. There is little reason to remain in India. It’s no wonder the youth
are leaving the country. Not only are there limited jobs here, but when we
assert our rights, we’re met with such treatment.&quot;

Women farmers at Shambhu border

شمبھو بارڈر پر محاذ سنبھالے خواتین کسان

శంభూ సరిహద్దు వద్ద మహిళా రైతులు

ஷம்பு எல்லையில் பெண் விவசாயிகள்

ଶମ୍ଭୁ ସୀମାରେ ମହିଳା ଚାଷୀ

शंभू सीमेवरच्या शेतकरी महिला

ശംഭു അതിർത്തിയിലെ സ്ത്രീ കർഷകർ

ಶಂಭು ಗಡಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಸೇರಿರುವ ಮಹಿಳಾ ರೈತರು

शंभू सीमा पर डटीं महिला किसान

શંભુ સરહદ પર અડીખમ મહિલા ખેડૂતો

शंभु बार्डर मं महतारी शक्ति

शम्भू बॉर्डर पर महिला किसानन के मोर्चा

শম্ভু সীমান্তে সমবেত পঞ্জাবের মহিলা চাষিরা

শম্ভু সীমান্তত থিয় দিছে মহিলা কৃষকে

ਸ਼ੰਭੂ ਬਾਰਡਰ ’ਤੇ ਮਹਿਲਾ ਕਿਸਾਨਾਂ ਦੀ ਹਾਜ਼ਰੀ

Shambhu Khurd, Rajpura Tahsil, Patiala District, Punjab, 140417, India

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Harmandeep
Singh is standing with colourful kites strewn all around him. Up ahead, at the
Shambhu border between Punjab and Haryana, huge barricades have been set up by
the police to prevent farmers from marching to Delhi. The
17-year-old from Amritsar used the kites to bring down the drones that were
dropping tear-gas shells on the protesting farmers, an innovative way to
counter the attack. “I have also applied toothpaste around my eyes as it helps
in reducing the effects of tear gas. We will march ahead and win this battle,”
he says.   Harmandeep
is one among thousands of farmers and labourers from Punjab who began their
peaceful march to Delhi on 13 February 2024.  At the Shambhu border, they
were met with paramilitary, Rapid Action Force (RAF) personnel, and police
officers. Iron
nails and concrete walls were placed on the road, barring farmers from reaching
their protest site in Delhi.At
the first barricade, Gurjand Singh Khalsa, addresses a gathering, reiterating
the five main demands – guarantee of minimum support price (MSP) as per the
recommendations of the Swaminathan Commission, a complete waiver of debts for
farmers and farm labourers, justice for the farmers affected in the Lakhimpur
Kheri massacre and to arrest the culprits, introduce a pension scheme for
farmers and labourers and to compensate the families of farmers who were
martyred in the 2020-2021 protest.

In
2020-21, farmers across the country had gathered to protest against three farm
laws – <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/library/resource/the-farmers-empowerment-and-protection-agreement-on-price-assurance-and-farm-services-act-2020/">Farmers (Empowerment
and Protection) Agreement on Price Assurance and Farm Services Act, 2020</a>, the <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/library/resource/the-farmers-produce-trade-and-commerce-promotion-and-facilitation-act-2020/">Farmers’ Produce Trade
and Commerce (Promotion and Facilitation) Act, 2020</a> and the<a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/library/resource/the-essential-commodities-amendment-act-2020/"> Essential Commodities
(Amendment) Act, 2020</a>, pushed through in Parliament in September 2020. The
government agreed to repeal the laws in November 2021. Read PARI stories on the
movement: <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/protests-against-farm-laws-full-coverage/">Protests against farm
laws: full coverage</a>

“We
never ended the protest,” says 22-year-old Khalsa from Karnal.  “We just paused it because we had a meeting
with the central government in which the union ministers agreed to all our
demands and promised to fulfil them. We waited for this long as the talks
continued with the committee formed by the government. But after two years, the
meetings were suddenly stopped and the committee was dissolved, forcing us to
return.”

 A
large group of farmers and labourers gathered in the fields right next to the
road and started challenging and, distracting officials, so that protestors
could cross the border.As
protestors started to break through the barricades at Shambhu, the police
officials fired multiple tear gas shells resulting in many people getting
injured. Onlookers reported that the police were aiming tear gas shells at the
individuals instead of firing it in the air for the dispersal of the crowd.
Water cannons were also used to disperse the protestors. Many elderly farmers
and labourers came with sticks to defuse the tear gas shells. With every shell
defused, the crowd cheered and celebrated.

Tirpal
Singh, a farmer from Amritsar, was amongst those diffusing the tear gas shells.
“We are not armed, yet they use weapons like rubber bullets, pellets, petrol
bombs and tear gas,” he says. “This road belongs to the world, we are just
trying to move ahead. Despite being peaceful, we are being attacked. Right now,
I feel imprisoned at Shambhu border.”  The
50-year-old feels the government has betrayed them. “The government is not
guaranteeing MSP because they want to keep those rich corporates happy who fund
their party.” he says.  “Without the
guarantee of MSP, big corporations can exploit us. They can come at any time,
buy our crops at an extremely cheap rate and then sell it at higher rates.  If the government can waive loans worth
hundreds of crores for big corporations, Tirpal Singh believes that it should
also be able to waive loans for farmers and labourers who have only a few lakhs
or less.    After
braving tear gas smoke and water cannons, many protestors tried to remove the
nails on the second layer of barricading. At that point, the police were seen
firing rubber bullets at the crowd, specifically targeting their legs so they
would be forced to retreat. In
a matter of minutes, several farmers and labourers were seen bleeding and being
carried away to the medical camp set up by independent doctors. “In
the last hour, I have had to tend to 50 patients,&quot; says Dr. Mandeep Singh,
who&#39;s in charge of one such camp. &quot; I have lost count of the number of
patients I have seen since I arrived at Shambhu border,&quot; says the
28-year-old doctor. Back in his village of Hoshiarpur in Punjab&#39;s Hoshiapur district, Mandeep runs the Baba
Shree Chand Ji hospital. The young doctor also comes from a family of farmers
and was a part of the protests back in 2020, where he ran a camp with
United Sikh, an advocacy and humanitarian relief organisation affiliated to the
United Nations.  “Patients have come with several different types
of problems ranging from cut wounds to incised wounds and some with breathing
difficulties,” he says.  “The government
should care for our farmers and their well-being. We only elect them and put
them into power,” he adds.

Deepika,
another doctor on the ground, has come all the way from Shimla in Himachal
Pradesh to help in the medical camp. The 25-year-old says, “Along with
breathing difficulties, people are feeling anxious and uneasy. They’re
complaining of stomach problems because of all the smoke from the hours of
continuous tear gas shelling.” 

Doctors
are not the only ones helping — a few metres away from the barricades, people
are busy setting up their trolleys and preparing langar (a communal free kitchen) for everyone. Many have come with their families. Gurpreet
Singh is here with his young son Tejasveer. “I got my son here so that he
can see our struggle,” says Gurpreet, who has come from Patiala. “I want to
teach him why fighting for our rights is important as this is what us farmers
and labourers have to do against governments hellbent on oppressing us,” he adds.From
around the protest site, revolutionary songs and slogans ring out. “ikki dukki chakk deyange, dhaun te goda rakh deyange&quot; [We’ll knock out every Tom, Dick and Harry, their necks will be
under our feet], is the call, as groups march and mobilise more people. “I
protest because it is a fight for the basic rights of farmers,” says Raj Kaur Gill.“ The 40-year-old from Chandigarh was a fixed figure at Matka Chowk in
2021, the nerve site of farmers’ protests in Chandigarh.  “By
not providing MSP, the government is making a farmer’s basic survival very
difficult. All this just so big corporate houses can flourish, while exploiting
those who feed the nation,” she says. “They
will never succeed.”

‘I feel imprisoned at Shambhu border’

’ایسا لگتا ہے کہ مجھے شمبھو بارڈر پر قید کر لیا گیا ہے‘

'శంభూ సరిహద్దు వద్ద నేను బందీనైనట్టనిపించింది'

‘ஷம்பு எல்லையில் சிறைபட்டதாக உணர்கிறேன்’

‘ମୋତେ ଶମ୍ଭୁ ସୀମାରେ ବନ୍ଦୀ ହେବା ପରି ଲାଗିଲା’

‘शंभू सीमेवर मला कैदेत टाकल्यासारखं वाटतंय’

'ശംഭു അതിർത്തിയിൽ തടവിലായപോലെയാണ് എനിക്കനുഭവപ്പെടുന്നത്'

‘ನಾನು ಶಂಭು ಗಡಿಯಲ್ಲಿ ಬಂಧಿಯಾಗಿದ್ದೇನೆʼ

शंभू बॉर्डर: सरकार से हक़ मांगने आए किसानों की आपबीती

શંભુ સરહદ પર મારો જીવ ઘૂંટાય છે

‘मंय शंभू बार्डर मं कैदी कस मसूस करत हवं’

‘शम्भू बॉर्डर पर हम कैद बानी’

'শম্ভু সীমান্তে যেন আটকা পড়ে আছি'

‘শম্ভু সীমান্তত নিজকে কাৰাৰুদ্ধ যেন লাগিছে’

‘ਇਓਂ ਜਾਪ ਰਿਹਾ ਜਿਓਂ ਸ਼ੰਭੂ ਕੋਈ ਬਾਰਡਰ ਨਾ ਹੋ ਕੇ ਜੇਲ੍ਹ ਹੋਵੇ’

01-I-am-still-here_poem_illustration_LJ-Reclaiming-the-past-the-present-an.jpg

“History, whether of a country or language or religion, is filled with actions of kings, chieftains and leaders. Ordinary people don’t have much space in that, though history can hardly exist outside of them. It is the people who create nations, build languages and popularize religions. But with the passage of time powerful elites come to own it,” says Merajuddin, who now lives on the edge of Kuno National Park. Working closely with the communities in and around the park, he has been a witness to disenfranchisement of the people of the forest and felt the pain of the ordinary people that he expresses in his poems.

Translated from the original by Pratishtha Pandya

Reclaiming the past, the present and the prophet

கடந்தகாலத்தையும் நிகழ்காலத்தையும் நபிகளையும் மீட்டல்

ਆਪਣੇ ਇਤਿਹਾਸ, ਆਪਣੇ ਵਰਤਮਾਨ ਤੇ ਨਬੀ ਨੂੰ ਹਾਸਲ ਕਰਾਂਗੇ ਹੀ

ଅତୀତ, ବର୍ତ୍ତମାନ ଓ ପୈଗମ୍ବରଙ୍କ ପୁନଃସ୍ଥାପନା

सुन लो के अभी मैं ज़िंदा हूं!

ഭൂത-വർത്തമാന കാലത്തെയും പ്രവാചകനേയും തിരിച്ചുപിടിക്കുമ്പോൾ

ಇತಿಹಾಸ, ವರ್ತಮಾನ ಮತ್ತು ಪ್ರವಾದಿಯನ್ನು ಮರಳಿ ಪಡೆಯುವೆವು

‘सुन लो कि अभी मैं ज़िंदा हूं’

મારા ભૂત, મારા વર્તમાન, ને મારા પયગંબરની વાત

सुन लौ जी अभी मंय जीयत हंव

अतीत, वर्तमान आउर भविष्य जनता के बा

হুঁশিয়ার, আমি আজও বেঁচে আছি হেথা

অতীত, বৰ্তমান আৰু ভৱিষ্যত ঘূৰাই পোৱাৰ কবিতা

سن لو کہ ابھی میں زندہ ہوں

Agara

01-IMG_20231110_103456-AK.jpg

Three fingers, a
wet rectangular piece of cloth and a light touch. “I have to be very careful.” 



Vijaya is talking about making poothareku – a sweet that is local to coastal Andhra Pradesh (AP). Made using fine papery
films of rice batter and filled with jaggery, dry fruits and ghee, it’s a festive
season sell-out. Skilled sweet maker, Vijaya makes around 200 reku every day and they are picked up by
local sweetshops. “I need to concentrate fully when I make poothareku. I can&#39;t really talk to anyone,” she tells PARI. 



“Any festival,
ritual, or any special occasion in my house is incomplete without pootharekulu,” says G. Ramakrishna.
A resident of Atreyapuram, he helps a few shops source packing material and
boxes here. “I really like it because it&#39;s like a surprise sweet! At first, it looks all papery, and you
might think you&#39;re eating paper. But when you take a bite, it melts in your
mouth. I don’t think there is any other sweet like this in the world,” he declares proudly. 



It’s the rice
from Dr. B.R. Ambedkar Konaseema
district of AP that defines this delicately-fashioned sweet. “The rice
is sticky, so no one uses it for anything except making reku [sheet],” says sweet maker, Kayela Vijaya Kota Sathyawati,
a resident of <a href="https://konaseema.ap.gov.in/about-district/administrative-setup/village-panchayats/">Atreyapuram</a> village in Ramachandrapuram division. It is Atreyapuram&#39;s poothareku that received a <a href="https://ipindia.gov.in/writereaddata/Portal/Images/pdf/Year_wise_GI_Application_Register_-_31-08-2023.pdf">Geographical Indicator</a> (GI) tag in 2023. The GI was awarded to Sir Arthur Cotton Atreyapuram Putharekula Manufacturers Welfare Association in Visakhapatnam on June 14, 2023.



The GI for poothareku is the third awarded to a food item in the state (the others are the Tirupati laddoo and Bandar laddoo). Andhra
Pradesh has 21 products with a GI under various categories such as handicrafts, food
items, agricultural and more. Last year, along with poothareku, Goa’s Bebinca
sweet also received a GI tag and previously, Morena&#39;s gajak, and Muzaffarnagar&#39;s gur also have GIs.

Veteran sweet
maker, Vijaya has been making reku since
2019 and she says she always has to give it her full concentration. “But I can freely talk to people and make other sweets
because they are easier to make,&quot; and so she makes sweets for her family –
sunnundalu, kova and others. Sunnundalu
are laddoos made with roasted and finely
ground urad dal and sugar
or jaggery, with ghee.



“I wanted to make
some money to support my family and myself. There’s no other work I know so I
got involved in this,” says Viajaya, explaining how she got into selling the reku to sweet shops. She doesn&#39;t make any other sweets for sale.



At the beginning of the month she buys 50 kilos of loose rice in the local market. Only jaya biyyam is used to make pootharekulu and a kilo is priced at Rs. 35. “This rice once cooked becomes very sticky so no one uses
it for anything except making reku,”
Vijaya explains. Her day as a sweet maker begins at 7 a.m. when she starts the process of making reku by taking half a kilogram of jaya  biyyam which she rinses and covers with water for at least 30 minutes.  



After her sons
have left for school, Vijaya grinds the soaked rice to a smooth, thick paste.
She pours this into a bowl and places it on a little wooden stool outside her
house in her small workshop. 



Finally, around 9
a.m., in a corner of her workshop, Vijaya begins making the delicate,
gossamer-like rekulu using a special
inverted pot with a hole on one side. “This pot is made only in this region,
with the mud found here. Any other pot or vessel can’t be used. The inverted
shape of the reku is formed with
the help of this pot,” she explains.

The pot is heated
by lighting a fire to dry coconut leaves. “Coconut leaves [unlike others] produce
consistently high heat by burning quickly. Without the right vessel and heat,
the rekulu won’t form,” she
says.  

“The pot costs
between Rs. 300- 400. I replace it every two to three months. It doesn’t last
longer than that,” she adds. Vijaya buys coconut fronds at the local markets once every two weeks. She
buys 5-6 bunches and each bunch is priced at Rs. 20 - 30. . 
 
While Vijaya’s inverted pot is heating up, she wrings out a clean dry
rectangular cloth piece and wets it. A cotton cloth (from her saree, or
any other clothing) is washed and used for this purpose. She pours the batter
into a larger plate and dips the cloth into the batter. 
 
Vijaya then gently pulls the cloth out and transfers a thin layer of the batter
sticking to the cloth, onto the inverted pot. A wafer-thin grayish-white film
is formed in an instant whilst releasing a lot of smoke. The film sits on the
pot for a few seconds until fully cooked. 



The next step calls
for the greatest delicacy of touch. Using no more than three fingers, she
detaches the reku from the pot.
“Removing it is the toughest part. If it crumbles, it’s gone. So I have to be
very careful,” even as she deftly removes and places it on a pile next to her. In an hour she estimates she can make
90-100 reku, and in roughly two to
three hours she has churned out 150-200 of them. On the days leading up to a
festival, the orders touch 500 and she prepares the batter accordingly.

In Atreyapuram,
many women make rekulu, most at home
but some in shops as well. 



V. Shyamala, 54 works at KK Nethi Pootharekulu – a
shop near the Atreyapuram bus stop. She lives around four kilometres away
from the shop and has been
involved in making the sweet for the last 25-30 years. Shyamala began her
career by making reku at home like
Vijaya. “I used to make 100 sheets a day and get paid Rs. 25-30 for it,” she
recalls. She is
primarily involved in the last step of making poothareku: she folds the reku with sugar, jaggery, dry fruits, a generous amount of ghee, and other
fillings. Shyamala says she finds it difficult to walk to her workplace as “my knees hurt.” So her son drops her to the shop every day.



Once she arrives
and settles into a small nook behind KK Nethi Pootharekulu shop, she grabs a
high metal stool, adjusts her saree and sits where the sun doesn’t bother her too much. She faces the road
and can be seen wrapping the poothareku by customers who pass by. 



Shyamala gently
picks out one reku from the pile
beside them and smears it with a generous amount of ghee. She then spreads jaggery powder on it. “For a plain poothareku,
that’s all the ingredients,” she says as she places another half reku on it. She then folds it gently to
make sure none of the ingredients fall out, taking a little more than a minute
to fold one poothareku. They are traditionally folded into a
long rectangular shape, but can also be folded in the triangular shape of samosa. 



For every poothareku that is folded in the shape
of a samosa, Shyamala is paid an extra Rs. 3 for it. “Folding in the shape of a
samosa is hard even for me. I have to be very careful or the reku will break,” she says.

“Plain sugar or
jaggery is the original poothareku in
my opinion. This is the recipe passed down generation after generation in our
village,” Shyamala explains, adding that the addition of dry fruit in the sweet
is relatively new.



Shyamala works
alongside the shop owner- Kasani Nagasathyawati (36) from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. on
all days except Sunday. She is paid Rs. 400 per day for her work. This amount
has not changed for the last three years or even after poothareku got the GI tag. 



The GI tag for
Atreyapuram poothareku has not had
any effect on workers like Vijaya and Shyamala. Their daily wage has not
increased since the GI tag was awarded, but they say shop
owners and other big vendors seem to be making good profits.



Sathya says that poothareku has
always been famous in Telugu states of Andhra Pradesh and Telangana. “But now
more people know about it. Earlier we had to explain what poothareku is to people from other states. Now, it needs no
introduction,” she says. 



Sathya is one of
the members of Sir Arthur Cotton Atreyapuram Manufacturers Welfare Association.
The Association has been seeking a GI tag for poothareku for over 10 years and so when they were awarded the tag in June 2023, “it was a proud
moment for the entire village.”

Sathya says that
the number of orders at all shops including hers has risen.  “Most of our orders come in bulk for 10 boxes to as many as
100,” she says. Each box contains 10 pootharekulu.




“People order
from Delhi, Mumbai and so many other places,” she says. “In the village
we price each poothareku between Rs. 10-12 and they [big shops outside] charge more than Rs. 30 for one,” she explains. 



“The price hasn’t
changed much since the GI tag has been awarded,” Sathya explains.
“Ten years ago one poothareku was priced at Rs. 7 or so,” she says.



“Last week a girl
from Dubai came to my shop. I showed her how pootharekulu is made and she was fascinated by it. She couldn’t
believe how the sweet just melted in her mouth. She called the making an art.
And honestly, I never thought of it that way. But it’s true - no one can replace
all of us who make reku and
fold them so perfectly through the year,” she added.  This story is supported by a grant from <a href="https://rangde.in/">Rang De</a>.

Atreyapuram's delicate rice paper sweet

اَتریا پورم کی چاول سے بنی لذیذ کاغذی مٹھائی

ஆத்ரேயபுரத்தின் அற்புதமான இனிப்பு வகை

ਮੂੰਹ 'ਚ ਪਾਉਂਦਿਆਂ ਹੀ ਘੁਲ਼ ਜਾਵੇ ਚੌਲ਼ਾਂ ਦੇ ਵਰਕ ਦੀ ਮਠਿਆਈ

ଅତ୍ରେୟପୁରମ୍‌ର ପତଳା ଚାଉଳ କାଗଜ ମିଠା

अत्रेयपुरमची जिभेवर विरघळणारी अनोखी मिठाई

ആത്രേയപുരത്തെ മൃദുലമായ റൈസ് പേപ്പർ മധുരപലഹാരം

ಆತ್ರೇಯಪುರಂನ ಅಕ್ಕಿಯಿಂದ ಮಾಡಿದ ತೆಳುವಾದ ಪೇಪರ್‌ ತಿಂಡಿ

अत्रेयपुरम की नाज़ुक काग़ज़ी मिठाई

મોંમાં મૂકો ને પીગળે એવો અત્રેયાપુરમનો ચોખાના કાગળની ઘારી

अत्रेयापुरम के जादू जइसने मिठाई

अत्रेयपुरम के बेजोड़, नरम मिजाज मिठाई

আত্রেয়পুরমের ফিনফিনে এক মিঠাইয়ের গল্প

আত্ৰেয়াপুৰমৰ সুস্বাদু চাউলৰ কাগজ-মিঠাই

ఆత్రేయపురంలో పూతరేకులు చుట్టే సున్నితమైన కళ

Atreyapuram

01-IMG_20231208_125620-JS-In_Maharashtra_anganwadi_workers_go_on_strike.jpg

“Shaasan ka bara kadar karat nahi aamchya mehnatichi [Why does the government not appreciate our hard work]?” asks anganwadi worker Mangal Karpe.“Deshala nirogi, sudrudh thevnyaat aamcha motha haatbhaar laagto [We contribute a lot in keeping the country healthy and strong],” she says referring to how anganwadi workers like her run state schemes for pregnant and lactating mothers and their young children. Thirty-nine-year-old Mangal runs the anganwadi in Dorhale village in Rahata taluka of Maharashtra’s Ahmadnagar district. Like her, across the state there are two lakh women who work as anganwadi workers and helpers. They implement all the health, nutrition and early learning initiatives of the Integrated Child Development Services (ICDS), under the Ministry of Women and Child Development. To protest the state’s indifference towards them, hundreds of them are participating in a Maharashtra-wide indefinite protest launched on December 5, 2023. “We have protested many times before too,” says Mangal. “We want recognition as government employees. We want 26,000 [rupees] salary per month. We need pensions after retirement, travel and fuel allowance,” she says, listing down the core demands of the protestors.

On the third day of the protest, with no response from the state till this story was published, hundreds of workers marched to the District Collector’s office in Shirdi town on December 8, 2023. “Are we doing anything wrong demanding [they] give us a dignified life,” says Manda Rukare, a 58-year-old anganwadi worker. With her age nearing 60, she is worried: “I will retire in a few years. Who is going to look after me when I won’t be capable of any physical activity?”. For the last 20 years Manda has worked at the anganwadi in her Rui village also in Ahmednagar district of the state. “What will I get in return as social security?” she asks. Anganwadi workers currently earn a monthly honorarium of Rs. 10,000, and helpers get Rs. 5,500. “When I started, I used to get 1,400 [rupees]. Over the years, it’s only an increment of 8,600 rupees since then [2005],” Mangal points out. Mangal takes care of 50 children – 20 of them between the ages of 3 to 6 years – at the Gavhane Wasti anganwadi, where, “every day I need to ensure children come to the center.” So, she often brings them herself on her scooter. But that’s not all. She also, “cooks breakfast and afternoon meals, making sure they eat properly, especially undernourished kids.” Her day doesn’t end with that – she has to keep records of each child and update the POSHAN tracker app – a time consuming and tedious data entry task.

“The cost of the diary and other stationary, internet recharge for POSHAN app, fuel to roam around for household visits, everything goes from our pocket,” says Mangal. “Nothing much is left from the money.” A graduate, she has been doing this work for the last 18 years, running her home as a single parent of her two teenage children – son Sai, 20 and Vaishnavi 18. Sai is studying for an Engineering degree and Vaishnavi is preparing for NEET exams. “I want my kids to have the best education. Our annual expenses go into thousands [of rupees]. It’s tough to manage on 10,000 [rupees] along with other household expenses,” she says.So Mangal is forced to find other sources of income. “I go from home to home asking if they want anything to be stitched [like] blouses or dresses. I also edit small videos for people, help with any kind of application forms in English. Any petty work. What else shall I do then?” she says to explain why she looks for work. The struggles of anganwadi workers are similar to that of ASHA workers - Accredited Social Health Activists. (Read: <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/caring-for-villages-in-sickness-and-in-health/">Caring for villages, in sickness and in health</a>). Both acts as a primary provider of health services and information from childbirth, immunisation, nutrition to handling deadliest diseases like tuberculosis or even pandemic like Covid-19.

In April 2022 Supreme Court of India in its judgement, acknowledged the role of anganwadi workers and helpers as ‘pivotal’ and ‘significant’ against malnutrition and covid-19. The court directed that eligible anganwadi workers and helpers are ‘entitled to gratuity, with a simple interest of 10 per cent per annum’ Justice Ajay Rastogi in his parting remarks requested state and central government ‘to find out modalities in providing better service conditions of the voiceless commensurate to the nature of job discharged by them.’ Mangal, Manda and lakhs of anganwadi workers and helpers have been waiting for the implementation.“We want written assurance from the Government this time. We won’t give up strike until then. This is about the respect we deserve. It is about our entity [अस्तित्व],” Mangal adds.