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The few families in Kummari Veedhi that are still engaged with the craft buy matti (clay) from a dealer a few months ahead of Vinayak Chaturthi every year. Together they buy a truckload of mud, roughly five tonnes. They pay Rs. 15,000 for the mud and Rs. 10,000 for its transportation from specific locations in the neighbouring Vizianagaram district of Andhra Pradesh. Getting the right jinka matti – a mud with the natural presence of glue is crucial for making both clay artefacts and idols.Paradesam’s family takes nearly a tonne or 1,000 kilograms of the load. A week before Diwali some of the mud can still be seen stacked outside his house in big gunny bags. &nbsp;The dark red mud is dry and lumpy and they must slowly begin mixing it with water to bring it to the right consistency. Later it will be stamped upon to mix it up; Paradesam says it feels hard and also has small rocks that poke his feet.Once the clay has reached the right texture, the master craftsman brings out the heavy wooden wheel marked with splashes of dried up clay from a corner and places it on a stand. He then folds a cloth over an empty paint can and that becomes his seat in front of the wheel.Paradesam's wheel, like other potter's wheels in Kummari Veedhi, is a manual one. He has heard of an electrically run wheel but is unsure how he can control it. “The speed should vary for every kunda [pot] and deepam [lamp]” he points out.Throwing a handful of wet clay onto the centre of the wheel, his hands work gently but firmly, digging into the clay and gradually shaping the diya. The smell of wet mud fills the air as the almost metre-wide wheel begins rotating. To keep the momentum going, he turns it with the help of a large wooden stick. "I am getting old now. I can't always use the same force," says Paradesam. Once the diya starts taking shape and becomes sturdy, the potter uses a thread to slice it off the moving wheel.As they come off the wheel he arranges the diyas and flowerpots carefully in a row on a rectangular plank of wood. The clay items must dry for 3-4 days in the shade. After drying, the items are placed in a kiln and baked for over two days. The kiln is lit once every 2-3 weeks between July to October (for Vinayak Chaturthi, Dussehra and Diwali). During other times of the year it is lit barely once a month.

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<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:center;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">Lukor kotha nuhuniba, batot nangol nachachiba.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:center;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">[Do not listen to people, Do not smoothen the plough on the roadside]

<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">The above figure of speech in the Assamese language is used to describe the importance of keeping one’s attention on one’s work.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">Hanif Ali, a wood craftsman who makes ploughs for farmers, says it applies to him, and his work of making precision tools for farming. Around two thirds of the land around him&nbsp;&nbsp;–&nbsp;in central Assam’s Darrang district, is under agriculture, and this veteran craftsman has an array of tools for agricultural work.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">“I make all agricultural tools such as nangol [plough], chongo [bamboo ladder] juwal [yoke], haath naingle [hand-rake], naingle [rake], dheki [foot-operated pounding mill], itamagur [mallet], haarpaat [a semi-circular wooden tool attached to bamboo pole used to gather paddy into a pile after drying] and more,” he reels off.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">He prefers the wood of the jackfruit tree – called kaathol in the local Bengali dialect and kothaal in Assamese – used in making doors, windows and beds. Hanif says he cannot afford to waste any of the wood he buys and so makes as many tools as possible from each log.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">Ploughs are precision tools. “I must not miss the markings on the wood even by an inch or else I may end up losing a piece,” he adds and an estimated monetary loss of Rs. 250-300.

<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">His customers are mostly marginal farmers from the district who have oxen at home. They multi-crop on their land, growing vegetables such as cauliflower, cabbage, eggplant, knol-khol, peas, chillies, bottlegourd, pumpkin carrots, bittergourd, tomatoes and cucumber, as well as crops of mustard and paddy.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">“Anybody who needs a plough comes to me,” says the veteran craftsman now in his sixties. "About 15-10 years ago there were only two tractors in the area, and people relied on ploughs to till their land," he tells PARI.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">Mukaddas Ali is a farmer in his sixties and among the few who still occasionally use a wooden plough. “I still go to Hanif to repair my plough whenever required. He is the only one who can properly adjust the damages. Like his father, he can make well finished ploughs.”<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">Ali however says that he is not sure if he will invest in another one. “Bulls have become expensive and farm labour is not easily available, also using a plough takes much longer time than a tractor,” he adds explaining why people have shifted to tractors and power tillers to reduce the workload.

<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">Hanif is a second-generation craftsman; he learnt the craft when he was a young child. “I went to school only for a few days. Neither my mother nor my father was interested in education, and I too didn’t want to go,” he says.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">He was very young when he started helping his father, Holu Sheikh, a respected and skilled craftsman. “Babaye shara bostir jonne nangol banaito. Nangol banabar ba thik korbar jonne angor barit aito shob khetiok [My father used to make ploughs for everyone in the village. Everyone would come to our house to make or repair their ploughs].”<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">When he began helping out, his father would do the markings – precise marks essential to make the plough work without a hitch. “You must know at which exact point you have to make the holes. You must be sure that the beam is attached to the murikaath [body of the plough] at the correct angle,” Hanif says as he runs his right hand over a piece of wood he is working on.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">He explains that if the plough is too angular, nobody will buy it because then soil enters the share [cutting edge of the plough], creating a gap and slowing down work.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">It took a year before he gained enough confidence to tell his father, “I know where to mark. Don’t worry anymore.”

<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">He also started to accompany his father popularly known as ‘Holu mistry’. His father would double up as shopkeeper and a huiter – a person who specialises in carpentry specifically in plough making. He recalls how they would go house to house carrying their work hung on a pole on their shoulders.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">After a few years of working with his father who was beginning to age, Hanif – the only son in the family of six – says the responsibility of his sisters’ marriage fell on him. “People already knew our house and as my father was unable to meet all the orders, I started to make ploughs.”<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">That was four decades ago. Today, Hanif lives alone and his home and workplace are is a single room at Number 3 Baruajhar village, home to many Bengali-origin Muslims like him. The area comes under the Dalgaon legislative assembly constituency. His one-room bamboo-thatched home is sparsely furnished with a small bed, a few cooking utensils – a pot to cook rice, a pan, a couple of steel plates and a glass.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">"My father's and my work are important to people in the locality," he says, speaking of the many farmers that are his neighbours. He is sitting in the courtyard shared by five families, also living in one-room homes like him. The other houses belong to his sister, his youngest son, and his nephews. His sister does wage work on people's farms and in their homes; his nephews often migrate to southern states.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">Hanif has nine children, but none are engaged in this craft for which demand is now declining. “The younger generation will not able to recognise what a traditional plough looks like,” says Afaj Uddin, Mukaddas Ali’s nephew. The 48-year-old is a farmer with six bighas of unirrigated land stopped using a plough 15 years ago.

<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">“When I cycle past houses with big trees with angular branches, I ask the house owner to inform me when he plans to cut the tree. I tell them that the angular and solid branches will make good ploughs,” he says, revealing his familiarity among local people.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">Local timber traders also reach out to him when they have a curvy piece. He needs a seven-foot-long beam and a 3 x 2 inch wide wooden plank made of either sal (shorea robusta), shishu (Indian rosewood), titachap (Michelia champaca), shirish (albezia lebbeck) or other locally available wood.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">“The tree should be 25-30 years old then the plough, yokes and rakes will last long. The logs are generally trunks or solid branches grow,” he says, showing PARI a branch he has cut into two parts.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">When PARI visited him in mid-August, he was hewing one part of the wood into the body of a plough. “If I can make two haatnaingle [wooden handrakes] apart from making the body of one plough, I may earn extra 400 -500 rupees from this log,” he says pointing towards the angular-shaped wood bought for Rs. 200.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">“I must utilize as many parts as possible from each wood. Not just that, the shape has to be exactly what the farmers require,” he adds. Over the four decades and more that he has been doing this, he knows the most popular size for a plough is 18-inch shoes (to stabilise the plough) and a 33-inch body.

<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">Once he gets the perfect piece of wood, he starts work before the sun rises, placing his tools for axing, chopping, shaping, and curving nearby. He also has a few chisels, an adze, a couple of saws, an axe, a hand plane, and a few rusting rods which he keeps on an elevated wooden platform at home.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">Using the plain side of the saw, he marks the lines on the wood to make precise cuts. He measures the distance with his hand. Once the markings are done, he slices the sides of the wood with his 30-year-old axe. “Then I use tessha [adze tool similar to an axe] to shave off the uneven surface,” the master woodworker says. The nangol or the shoe-part of the body has to be precisely curved in a way that makes the soil move to either side easily.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">“The starting point of the shoes [the part of the body that glides on the ground] remains around six inches, it gradually decreases to 1.5 to 2 inches towards the end in width,” he says. The shoes’ thickness should be 8 or 9 inches tapering to two inches towards the end where it is nailed into the wood.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">The shoe-share is called faal or pal and is made of an iron bar around 9-12 inches in length and 1.5-2 inches wide, with sharp edges on both ends. “Both the edges are sharp, because if one end gets corroded, the farmer can switch to the other end.” Hanif sources the metal work from local blacksmiths in Bechimari market, around three kilometres from his home.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">It takes at least five hours of continuous pounding of axe and adze to chop and shave the sides of a log into shape. It must then be smoothened with a hand plane.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">When the body is ready, the huiter makes a precise mark to make a whole where the beam of the plough has to fit. Hanif says, “the hole has to be as close as possible to the size of the eesh [the wooden beam], because it must not loosen up while ploughing. It is generally 1.5 or 2 inches wide.”

<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">To adjust the height of the plough Hanif makes five to six hitches near the top end of the beam. Using these hitches, the farmers used to adjust the plough to their requirement of how deep they wanted to till the soil.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">Cutting the wood with a saw machine is expensive and tiring says Hanif. “If I buy a log for 200 rupees, I pay another 150 to the cutting person.” Finishing the plough takes around two days and can, at best, sell one plough for Rs. 1,200.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">While some people approach him directly, Hanif also travels to two weekly markets in Darrang district – Lalpool bazaar and Bechimari bazaar – to sell his products. “A farmer has to pay around 3,500 to 3,700 rupees for the plough and its accessories,” he says pointing out the steep costs that have reduced his buyers to those renting out their ploughs and the odd farmer. “Tractors have replaced the traditional method of tilling.”<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">But Hanif is not stopping. The next day he readies his bicycle with his work – a plough body and a kuthi (handle of the plough). “When tractors finish damaging the soil… people will come back to the plough maker,” he adds.<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width:0px;color:rgb(26, 26, 26);font-family:&quot;Roboto Slab&quot;, Georgia, serif;font-size:20.4px;font-style:normal;font-variant-caps:normal;font-variant-ligatures:normal;font-weight:300;letter-spacing:normal;margin:0px 0px 1em;orphans:2;text-align:left;text-decoration-color:initial;text-decoration-style:initial;text-decoration-thickness:initial;text-indent:0px;text-transform:none;white-space:normal;widows:2;word-spacing:0px;">This story is supported by a fellowship from Mrinalini Mukherjee Foundation (MMF).

In Darrang: ploughing a lonely furrow

दरांगचे हनीफ अली आणि त्यांचे अखेरचे काही नांगर

ٹریکٹروں نے چھینا ہل بنانے والوں کا روزگار

दर्रांग के अकेल्ला नांगर बनेइय्या

ट्रैक्टर आइल, हल कारीगर के रोटी छीनाइल

ଦାରଙ୍ଗ: ନିଃସଙ୍ଗ ଜମିରେ ହଳ ବୁଲେଇବା

தனியாக உழும் பணி

ਦਰਾਂਗ: ਹਲ ਦਾ ਚਲਣ ਵਾਪਸ ਆਵੇਗਾ

ദരംഗയിൽ: ഉഴവുചാലിൽ കലപ്പയുന്തുമ്പോൾ

ದರಾಂಗ್:‌ ಒಂಟಿ ಹೊಲದ ಉಳುಮೆ

ट्रैक्टरों ने छीना हल-निर्माताओं का रोज़गार 

দারাং: একার হাতে চলছে লাঙল 

దరంగ్‌లో ఒకే ఒక నాగలి రూపకర్త

দৰঙত নাঙল-যুৱলিৰ সপোন দেখা এজন সূতাৰ 

દારંગમાં હળ બનાવવાની વિસરાતી જતી કળા

Dalgaon (Pt), Darrang District, Assam, India

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The four foot high door into the temple of Marhai Mata forces most devotees to bow their heads. But such is the reverence for the deity’s healing powers, that scores of people who come from and around Marha village, bow anyway.“If someone in your family is ill, you can come and pray to Bhagwati,” says Babu Singh. Like others seated under the spreading banyan tree, he is waiting for the puja to begin. Bhagwati is the goddess in this temple. “She will solve the problem – be it an illness or bhoot [ghost] or dayan [witch],” he adds confidently. It’s a Wednesday, and the session is extra special – today the temple-priest (locally known as panda) will be possessed by the goddess. Through him, she will answer the questions the devotees have and offer solutions to their problems, usually around health. The audience of devotees is mostly men from the villages of Gahdara, Koni, Kudan, Khamri, Majholi, Marha, Rakseha and Kathari Bilhata, but a few women are also present, veils firmly drawn over their heads. “Aat gaon ke log aate hai, [people from eight villages come here],” says Bhaiyya Lal Adivasi, local priest and interpreter of maladies, as he gets busy for the afternoon. A Gond Adivasi, his family has been serving the goddess for many generations.

Inside the temple, a group of men are playing various instruments, including a dholak and harmonium, and chanting the name of Rama and Sita.In a corner sits an inconspicuous pot with a plate on top of it. “Thaali bajegi aaj [they’ll play the thaali today],” says Neelesh Tiwari, a resident of Panna, referring to the plate, now sitting silently in its place. Bhaiyya Lal has entered and taken up his position in front of the goddess as he rocks back and forth, surrounded by roughly 20 people who are also participating. The atmosphere in the room becomes charged with the loud clamour of the thaali, the rising smoke from incense sticks, bright light of a small fire in front of the shrine, all leading up to time when the goddess appears in the person of the priest.  As the music rises to a crescendo, the panda stops, balancing himself on his feet. No one says anything, but it is understood that the goddess has taken hold of him. There is a rush among the devotees to get their questions answered. The queries are whispered into Bhaiyya Lal’s ears and he picks up a handful of grains. He throws them on the floor in front of him, the numbers dictating a happy or distressing response. The devotees collect the ash from the incense stick which they consider to be holy and swallow it – the cure for the malady which ails them. The remedial quality of Marhai Mata’s prasad remains strong. “As far as I know, it has never failed,” says the panda with a smile. People here say the healing period is eight days. After that, Bhaiyya Lal adds, “you can make whatever offering to the goddess you’d like: coconut or athvaai [small wheat pooris], kanya bhojan or bhagwat – that is up to the benefactor.”

Residents say that typhoid (known locally as babaju ki bimari, babaju being a divine spirit) is rampant. Women’s health and childbirth is neglected across the state. At 41 deaths  per 1,000 births, Madhya Pradesh has the highest infant mortality rate in the country, according to the National Family Health <a href="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/library/resource/national-family-health-survey-nfhs-5-2019-21-madhya-pradesh/&amp;sa=D&amp;source=docs&amp;ust=1730289381858531&amp;usg=AOvVaw026nZcfnmz4Rt9XAa5vEnq">Survey 5</a>, 2019-21.Villages in and around Panna Tiger Reserve are starved for functional health care facilities – the nearest government hospital is around 54 kms away in Panna town, and there is a primary health centre (PHC) around 22 kms away in Amanganj. “People here are hesitant about visiting doctors and hospitals and taking medicines prescribed by them,” says Devashree Somani of Koshika, a nongovernmental organisation that has been working in Panna for about seven years in the field of healthcare. “Our biggest challenge has been to get them to go to doctors while respecting their faith in ethno-medical practices,” she adds. “Residents of villages here believe that an illness is only a symptom, caused by an angry divine being or dead ancestor.” Even within the structures of allopathic medicine, the ‘treatment’ they receive is most often affected by their caste identity, making them even more wary of seeking such remedies, Devashree explains.

The proposed Ken-Betwa River Linking Project (KBRLP) in the area will submerge many villages in Panna and Chhatarpur. Although in the pipeline for decades, residents are unsure about where they will have to go and when. “Kheti bandh hai ab” [Farming has stopped],” the men say, explaining that the shift is imminent. (Read: <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/adivasis-in-panna-tiger-park-dammed-futures/">Adivasis in Panna tiger park: dammed futures</a>).What they do know is “we will take our Bhagwati with us,” affirms Bhaiyya Lal. “Everyone feels bad that we’re losing our land. But I feel worse that we’ll lose this sacred place. If villagers choose to leave to find work, then who knows what will happen to our people. The village will be dispersed. If we were given some place to go, where Bhagwati could be resettled, then we all would be protected,” he says.  Santosh Kumar has come from Majhgawan, about 10 kms away. He has been regularly visiting the temple for about 40 years. “Tasalli milti hai [I feel a sense of peace],” the 58-year-old says. “Now that we have to leave, I thought maybe in a couple of years I will not get to visit the goddess, so I came,” says the farmer who cultivates masoor [legume], chana [chickpea], and gehun [wheat] on his five-six acre farmland.

Bhaiyya Lal is unsure if his son, now in his 20s, will continue the tradition of serving the goddess, “Woh toh unke upar hai,” he laughs and says. His son works on their five-acre farmland, cultivating gehun [wheat] and sarson [mustard]. They sell some of the crop and keep the rest for their own use.“Araam milti hai,” says Madhu Bai, a farmer who has come here from Amanganj. “Darshan ke liye aye hai,” says the 40-year-old, sitting on the ground with other women, the constant, rhythmic sound of singing and drum beats playing in the background. As she speaks, the faint sound of the dhol and harmonium reaches a crescendo, making it impossible to hear each other even from close quarters. “Darshan karke aate hai, [I’ll go see the goddess now]” she says, standing up and fixing her saree.

An interpreter of maladies in Marha

ਮਰਹਾ ਦੀ ਸਮੱਸਿਆਵਾਂ ਦਾ ਤਰਜਮਾਨ

மர்ஹாவில் பிரச்சினைகளுக்கான தீர்வை வழங்குபவர்

മർഹയിൽ രോഗങ്ങൾക്കൊരു വ്യാഖ്യാതാവ്

મરહામાં વ્યાધિનો વિવેચક

ମରହାରେ ସକଳ ବ୍ୟାଧିର ଜଣେ ବ୍ୟାଖ୍ୟାକାର

मरहा के दुखों को हरने वाली माता

মারহা গ্রামে রোগ-বালাইয়ের মুশকিল-আসান

मरहा मं मरहाई देवी के सवारी

মাৰহাত দেৱীৰ হাতত ৰোগ-ব্যাধিৰ নিৰাময়

लौकिक बेमारियन के अलौकिक इलाज

Raipur

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“The SDM [sub-divisional magistrate] came in June and said, ‘here’s a notice to leave’.”Babulal Adivasi points to the large banyan tree at the entrance to his village Gahdara – the place where community meetings are held – and now the spot where the future of his people changed in a day.Thousands of residents of 22 villages in and around the Panna Tiger Reserve (PTR) in Madhya Pradesh have been asked to give up their homes and land for a dam and a river-linking project. <a href="https://pib.gov.in/PressReleaseIframePage.aspx?PRID=1805813">Final</a> environmental clearances came as far back as 2017, and tree cutting has started in the national park. But imminent eviction threats have gained momentum.In the pipeline for over two decades, the project is a Rs. 44,605 crore plan (<a href="https://pib.gov.in/PressReleasePage.aspx?PRID=1779306">Phase I</a>) to link the rivers Ken and Betwa with a 218-kilometre long canal.The project has been widely criticised. “There is no justification for the project, not even hydrological justification,” says scientist Himanshu Thakkar who has been involved in the water sector for 35 years. “To begin with, the Ken does not have surplus water. There has been no credible assessment or objective study, only pre-determined conclusions,” he adds.Thakkar is Coordinator of the South Asia Network on Dams, Rivers and People (SANDRP). He was a member of the expert committee set up around 2004 by the Ministry of Water Resources (now Jal Shakti) on interlinking of rivers. He says the very basis of the project is shocking: “River linking will have huge environmental and consequent social impacts on forest, river, biodiversity and will impoverish people here as well as in Bundelkhand and far beyond.”

The dam’s 77-metre-high reservoir will drown 14 villages. It will also drown core tiger habitat, cut off critical wildlife corridors, and so eight other villages like Babulal’s have been handed over by the state to the forest department as compensatory land.So far, nothing unusual. Lakhs of rural Indians, especially Adivasis, are routinely displaced to make way for cheetahs, <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/library/resource/indian-tiger-reserves-tribals-get-out-tourists-welcome/">tigers</a>, renewable energy, dams and mines.The stupendous success of Project Tiger now in its 51st year – <a href="https://ntca.gov.in/assets/uploads/Reports/AITM/status_of_tiger-copredators-2022.pdf">3,682</a> tigers (2022 tiger census), has come at great cost to India’s indigenous forest communities. Overwhelmingly, these communities are among the nation’s most deprived citizens.In 1973 India had nine tiger reserves, today we have 53. For every tiger we’ve added since 1972, we have displaced on average 150 forest dwellers. That too, is a serious underestimate.It’s not ending – on June 19, 2024, a letter issued by the National Tiger Conservation Authority (NTCA) called for moving lakhs more – 591 villages across the country will be moved on a priority basis.Panna Tiger Reserve (PTR) has 79 of the great cats and when the dam drowns a large part of core forest area, they must be compensated. Babulal’s land and home in Gahdara must go for the tigers.Simply put: it’s the Forest Department being ‘compensated,’ not the displaced villagers who are losing their homes forever.

“We will reforest it,” says Anjana Tirki, Deputy Forest Officer of Panna range. “Our job is to convert it into grassland and manage the wildlife” she adds, unwilling to comment on the agroecological aspects of the project.On conditions of anonymity though, officials admit that the best they can do is only grow plantations to compensate for the 60 square kilometres of dense and biodiverse forest that will drown. This, just two years after UNESCO included Panna in the <a href="https://www.unesco.org/en/articles/panna-india-fuvahmulah-and-addu-atoll-maldives-join-unescos-world-network-biosphere-reserves">World Network of Biosphere Reserves</a>. What will be the hydrological implication of cutting down some 46 lakh trees (as per assessment given in Forest Advisory Committee meeting in 2017) from natural forest has not even been assessed.Tigers are not the only hapless wild residents. One of India’s only three ghariyal (crocodile) sanctuaries is a few kilometres downstream of the proposed dam. The area is also an important nesting site for the Indian vulture – on the IUCN <a href="https://www.iucnredlist.org/species/22729731/204672586">Red List</a> for Critically Endangered birds. Besides there are many large herbivores and carnivores who will lose habitat.Babulal is a small farmer with a few bighas of rain-fed land which he relies on to feed his family.  “Since no date was given for leaving, we thought we would plant some makkai [maize] so that we could feed ourselves.” As he and hundreds of others in the village got their fields ready, forest rangers appeared. “They told us to stop. They said, ‘we will bring a tractor and crush your fields if you don’t listen’.” Showing PARI his fallow land he grumbles, “neither have they given us our full compensation so that we can move, nor have they allowed us to continue living and sowing here. We are asking the government - as long as our village is here, let us farm our fields…or what will we eat?”Loss of ancestral homes is another blow. A visibly distressed Swami Prasad Parohar tells PARI that his family has lived in Gahdara for over 300 years. “We had the aamdani [income] of farming, of through-the-year forest produce like mahua, tendu…Now where will we go? Where will we die? Where will we drown…who knows?” The 80-year-old worries that coming generations will lose all touch with the jungle.

The river linking project is just the latest land grab by the state for ‘development’.In October 2023 when the final sanctions for the Ken-Betwa River Linking Project (KBRLP) came through, it was welcomed with cheers by then BJP Chief Minister Shivraj Singh Chouhan. He called it a “fortunate day for the people of Bundelkhand who had lagged behind.” He made no mention of the thousands of farmers, herders, forest dwellers and their families in his state that it would deprive. Nor did he see that the forest clearance was awarded on the basis that power generation would be outside the PTR, but now it is inside.The idea of linking surplus with deficient river basins started in the 1970s, and the National Water Development Agency (NWDA) was born. It began studying the possibility of 30 links across rivers in the country – ‘grand garland’ of canals.The Ken originates in the Kaimur hills of central India and is part of the Ganga basin – meeting the Yamuna in Banda district of Uttar Pradesh. On its <a href="https://nwda.gov.in/upload/uploadfiles/files/9361064102.PDF">427</a> kilometre-long journey, it passes through the Panna tiger reserve. The village of Dhodan, inside the park is the site for the dam.Running far west of the Ken is the Betwa. The KBLRP aims to take water from a ‘surplus’ Ken and send it upslope to the ‘deficient’ Betwa. Linking the two is expected to irrigate 343,000 hectares in water-deficient areas of Bundelkhand, an economically backward region and votebank. But in fact, scientists say the project will facilitate export of water from Bundelkhand to areas of upper Betwa basin, outside Bundelkhand.

The notion that the Ken has surplus water needs to be questioned, says Dr. Nachiket Kelkar. The dams that already exist on the Ken– Bariyarpur barrage, Gangau dam and one at Pawai – should have provided for irrigation. &quot;When I visited Banda and surroundings along the Ken some years back, I regularly heard that irrigation water was not available,” adds this ecologist at the Wildlife Conservation Trust.Researchers from SANDRP who walked the length of the river in 2017 wrote in a <a href="https://sandrp.in/2023/06/06/the-natural-water-systems-that-make-ken-a-living-river/">report</a>, “...the Ken is now not a perennial river everywhere…For a longer part, the river runs flowless and waterless.”Ken itself has an irrigation deficit, so what it can give to Betwa will compromise its own command area. A point echoed by Nilesh Tiwari who has lived all his life in Panna. He says there is a lot of anger about the dam as it will permanently deprive people of Madhya Pradesh while seeming to benefit neighbouring Uttar Pradesh.“The dam will drown lakhs of trees, thousands of animals. People [forest dwellers] will lose their freedom, they will become beyghar [without a home]. People are angry, but the state is not paying attention,” says Tiwari.“Somewhere, they [state] set up a national park, somewhere a dam in this river and on that…and people are displaced, moved out…” says Janka Bai whose home in Umrawan was swallowed by the expanding PTR in 2015.In her fifties, this resident of Umrawan, – a village of Gond tribals – has been fighting for adequate compensation for a decade now. “The state is not worried about our future, the future of our children. They have made fools of us,” she adds, pointing to the fact that her land, taken for the tigers, will now house a resort. “See here is the land they have surveyed for tourists to come and stay, after throwing us out.”

In December 2014, the Ken-Betwa river link was announced in what was supposed to be a public hearing.Locals however, swear there was no public hearing, only eviction notices and verbal promises. That is a violation of the Right to Fair Compensation and Transparency in Land Acquisition, Rehabilitation and Resettlement <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/library/resource/the-right-to-fair-compensation-and-transparency-in-land-acquisition-rehabilitation-and-resettlement-act-2013/">Act</a>, 2013 (LARRA). This act mandates that: “Matters of land acquisition should be announced in an official gazette, local newspapers, in the local language, on relevant government sites.” Once the notification has been given, the village gram sabha (council) must be informed by a meeting called for this purpose.“The government had not notified people through any of the ways prescribed in the Act. We have asked multiple times, ‘tell us which section of the Act you are doing this under’,” points out Amit Bhatnagar, social activist. In June this year, he had organised a protest at the District Collector’s office demanding to see proof of the gram sabha sign-off. They were lathi-charged.“First tell us what gram sabha meeting you [state] did, because you didn’t,” says Bhatnagar, a member of the Aam Aadmi Party. “Secondly, this scheme, like the law says, must have people’s consent which they don’t have. And thirdly, if they are leaving, where are you sending them? You have not said anything, given any notice or information regarding this.”Not only was LARRA disregarded, but state officials made promises at public forums. Dhodan resident Gurudev Mishra says everyone feels cheated. “Officials said, ‘we will give you land for your land, a pukka house for your house, you will get employment. Your send-off will be like that of a beloved daughter’.” A former sarpanch, he is speaking to PARI at an informal village meeting. “We are only asking what the government had promised, what the District Collector [of Chhatarpur], the Chief Minister, the officials of the [KBRLP] project had promised us when they came here,” he says. “But they have not done any of that.”

On the eastern side of the PTR in Gahdara, the situation is no different. “The collector [of Panna] said we will re-establish you as you were. It will be to your convenience. We will rebuild this village for you,” says octogenarian Parohar. “Nothing has been done, and now we are being told to leave.”The amount of compensation is also not clear and many figures are floating around – between Rs. 12 to 20 lakh for each male over 18 years. People here ask: “Is that per head or for each family? What about where women are the head? And will they compensate us for the land separately? What about our animals? We have not been told anything clearly.” As a result of the lies and opacity behind state action, in every village that PARI visited, no one knew when and where they would go, or the exact amount / rate of compensation for houses, land, cattle and trees. People of 22 villages seem to be living in a state of suspended animation.<a></a>Seated outside his home in Dhodan that the dam will drown, a worried Kailash Adivasi brings out past receipts and official papers to prove his land ownership. “They say I don’t have a patta [official document of ownership]. But I have these receipts. My father, his father, his father…they all had this land. I have all the receipts.”According to the Forest Rights Act 2006, Adivasi or forest-dwelling tribes are allowed “conversion of pattas or leases or grants issued by any local authority or any State Government on forest lands to titles.”But Kailash is being denied compensation as his papers are ‘not enough.’ “We are not clear now if we have rights on this land and house or not. We are not being told if we will get compensation. They want to chase us away. No one is listening.”

In the next village, Palkoha, Jugal Adivasi prefers to speak privately. “The patwari [headman] declares we have no records of your patta” he says, as we walk away from the village centre. “Half the people have got some compensation, and the rest nothing.” He worries that if he resumes his annual migration due now, he may miss out on any compensation, and the future of his seven children will be jeopardised.“When I was a young boy, I worked on the land and we went into the forest,” he recalls. But in the last 25 years, restriction on entry into the forest that became a tiger reserve has left Adivasis like him with no option but to migrate for daily wage work. Women in the to-be-displaced villages are adamant about getting their fair share. “[Prime Minister] Modi is always saying ‘this scheme for women…that scheme for women.’ We don’t want that. We want what is our right,” says Sunni Bai, a farmer in Palkoha who belongs to the (Dalit) Ravidas community. “Why are only men getting the [compensation] package and nothing for the women. On what basis has the government made this law?” asks this mother of a son and two daughters. “What if a woman and her husband fall out, then how will she feed her children and herself? The law should be thinking of these things…after all, she is also a voter.”

“Jal, jeevan, jungle aur janwar [water, livelihoods, forests and animals],” people here tell PARI, “are what we are fighting for.”<a></a>Gulab Bai of Dhodan shows us her large courtyard and says the compensation for the house has excluded courtyards and kitchens as they lie outside the ‘walls’ of their living rooms. The 60-year-old is not backing down. “Adivasi [like me] have got nothing from the shahsan [administration]. I will fight from here to Bhopal [state capital]. I have the strength. I have been there. I am not scared. I am ready for andolan [protest].”Protests against KBRLP started in a small way in 2017 with village meetings. Momentum built up and on January 31, 2021, over 300 people gathered to protest at the Chhatarpur District Collector’s office against the flouting of LARRA. On Republic Day 2023, the first of three jal satyagrahas (protests for water-related causes) saw thousands of people from 14 villages in the PTR speaking up against the violation of their constitutional rights. Locals say their ire has reached the Prime Minister who decided not to come to Dhodan to inaugurate the dam last year, but this reporter could not independently verify that. The controversy and ill will surrounding the project hit the tendering process that began in August 2023. It saw no takers at all. So, dates were extended by six months.

“Not many people talk about climate change in central India, but it is here that we are witnessing rapid increase in extreme rain events as well as droughts, both indicative of climate change impacts,” points out ecologist Kelkar. “Most rivers in central India are seeing accelerated flows caused by climate change, but they won’t last. These flows may be feeding the notion of surplus now, but under climate change projections, it is evident that they would be short-term.”He warns that if these short-term changes are encashed to link rivers, the possibility of the region facing far more serious drought in the future cannot be ruled out.Thakkar also warns that the hydrological impact of destruction of a huge area of natural forest, is a monumental mistake. “The report of the Central Empowered Committee of the Supreme Court has thrown light on this, but that report has not even been considered by the SC.”A <a href="https://www.nature.com/articles/s41467-023-41668-x.epdf?sharing_token=l18xYOcwZNh4WiahtGh91NRgN0jAjWel9jnR3ZoTv0MYEAuiVdp9Bwn0zQxojEwWHbFjMairPCqhBtX4PEf6PSATQQAvbz2MmABRhtE8ngZbXyiUJXDFTEqca6763-xgbfo_puG477cSMV1CeBIZRiN0DNV_C1zqdmPxHhERkwk%3D">paper</a> published in 2023 by the Indian Institute of Technology (IIT) Mumbai on river linking in Nature Communication also rings a warning bell: “Increased irrigation from the transferred water reduces mean rainfall in September by up to 12% in already water-stressed regions of India…Reduced September precipitation can dry rivers post-monsoon, augmenting water stress across the country and rendering interlinking dysfunctional.”

Whatever data has been used by the National Water Development Agency (NWDA) under whose aegis the project exists, is not being shared with scientists, citing national security concerns, adds Himanshu Thakkar.In 2015, when the dam began to look like a real possibility, Thakkar and others in SANDRP had wrote many <a href="https://sandrp.in/wp-content/uploads/2015/09/drp-july-aug-2015.pdf">letters</a> to the Environment Assessment Committee (EAC). One such titled ‘Flawed Ken Betwa EIA &amp; violations in Public Hearing’ said, “the EIA of the project is fundamentally flawed, incomplete and its public hearings involved numerous violations. Any clearance to the project with such inadequate studies would not only be wrong, but also legally untenable.”Meanwhile over 15-20 lakh trees have already been felled. Threats of eviction hang in the air with no clear idea of compensation. Farming has been stopped. Migrating for daily wage work risks getting excluded from any potential handouts in the name of compensation.Sunni Bai sums it all up in these few words: “we are losing everything. They are taking it away. They should help us. Instead they say ‘here is the package, sign the form, take your money and go’.”

Adivasis in Panna tiger park: dammed futures

পান্না ব্যাঘ্ৰ সংৰক্ষিত অঞ্চলত বিপদত আদিবাসী

ପାନ୍ନା ବ୍ୟାଘ୍ର ଉଦ୍ୟାନରେ ଆଦିବାସୀ: ଅଭିଶପ୍ତ ଭବିଷ୍ୟତ

पन्ना टाइगर पार्क: बिपदा मं परे आदिवासी मन के भविष्य

ਉਜਾੜਨਾ ਹੀ ਹੈ: ਕਦੇ ਚੀਤਿਆਂ ਲਈ ਤੇ ਕਦੇ ਡੈਮ ਲਈ

பன்னா புலிகள் பூங்காவின் பழங்குடிகள்: முடக்கப்பட்ட எதிர்காலங்கள்

अनिश्चिततेच्या झाकोळात पन्नामधले आदिवासी

పన్నా టైగర్ పార్క్‌లో అగమ్యగోచరంగా మారిన ఆదివాసుల భవిష్యత్తు

ಮುಳುಗು ನೀರಿನಲ್ಲಿ ಪನ್ನಾ ಹುಲಿ ಮೀಸಲು ಪ್ರದೇಶದ ಆದಿವಾಸಿ ಜನರ ಬದುಕು

বাঁধের বাঁধনে আটক পান্না ব্যাঘ্র প্রকল্পের আদিবাসীদের ভবিষ্যৎ

बेघर होने के कगार पर पन्ना के बदनसीब आदिवासी

પન્ના વાઘ પ્રકલ્પમાં આદિવાસીઓનું ભાવિ અંધકારમય

പന്ന കടുവാസങ്കേതത്തിലെ ആദിവാസികൾ: ഇരുളിലാണ്ട ഭാവി

केन-बेतवा के मार, आदिवासी भइल बेघर-बार

Yavatmal

01-IMG_2962-AA-The_waters_of_the_Sutlej_run_black.jpg

“Nark hai eh [It is hell].”Kashmira Bai is talking about the Buddha nala, a waterbody polluted by industrial effluents that runs along her village and empties into the Sutlej river, just one hundred metres from her home.In her late forties now, Bai remembers a once clean river that people relied on for drinking water. Originating at Koomkalan village in Ludhiana, the Buddha nala passes through Ludhiana for 14 kilometres before merging with the Sutlej, next to Bai’s village of Walipur Kalan. “Asin tan nark vich baithe haan [We are sitting in hell]. Whenever there are floods, dirty black water enters our homes,” she says. “The water turns yellow overnight if kept in the utensils,” she adds.

On August 24, 2024, to protest the state’s apathy towards the people affected by the polluted waters, hundreds of people from all over Punjab, Haryana and Rajasthan, came together in Ludhiana to protest. Under the banner ‘Kale Pani Da Morcha&#39;  (protest against water pollution), it included affected people from areas along the Sutlej. ‘Spare Buddha dariya [river]! Spare Sutlej.’The uproar against the pollution in Buddha nala is not new, neither are the projects to clean it. It has been going on for at least three decades but to no effect. The first project –Action Plan for Clean River Sutlej – was launched in 1996; three sewage treatment plants (STPs) were set up at Jamalpur, Bhattian and Balloke villages.In 2020, the Punjab government set up a Rs.650 cr two-year rejuvenation project for the Buddha nala. Chief Minister Bhagwant Mann, while blaming the previous government, inaugurated the state’s largest STP at Jamalpur and other projects worth Rs 315 cr for rejuvenation of Buddha nala.While the blame game continues, Kashmira Bai says that neither the government nor political parties have done anything to resolve the issue. Activists in Ludhiana have been bringing up this issue with the Punjab government time and again, but even after spending crores, the nala remains polluted, forcing people to take to the streets every now and then.Malkeet Kaur, 60, came to join the protest all the way from Ahmadpur in Mansa district. “The polluted water, the discharge by the industries into the ground is the reason for so many ailments plaguing us. Water is the basic necessity of life, and we should have access to clean water,” she said.

In Walipur Kalan, Kashmira Bai says the entire village is dependent on groundwater – bores go down to 300 feet and can cost upto Rs. 35,000 - Rs. 40,000 to dig. But even that does not ensure clean water for them, she says. Well-to-do families in these villages have water filters in their homes for drinking water, and they must be serviced constantly.Also from the same village, Baljeet Kaur, 50, lost a son to Hepatitis C. “Both my sons suffered from Hepatitis C and one of them died of it,” tells Kaur, mentioning that there are many patients in this and nearby villages.“We are protesting because if we still not wake up, our next generations would have no chance at a decent life,” said 45-year-old Rajwinder Kaur of Goniana Mandi in Bathinda. “Every household has a cancer patient now because of environmental pollution. These factories polluting Sutlej waters should be shut down. Our next generations can be saved only if these factories are shut down,” she adds.“Eh sadi hond di ladayi hai [It is a fight for our existence],” said activist Bibi Jeewanjot Kaur, an activist participating in Kale Pani da Morcha at Ludhiana. “It is a fight to save the next generation.”

Amandeep Singh Bains is an activist at the forefront of the movement. He says, “the root cause of the problem is not being addressed. The government comes up with projects to clean it, but why do they allow the industry to dump discharge in a water source at all? Pollutants should not enter the dariya [river] at all.” The Ludhiana-based lawyer adds, “the dyeing industry should be shut down.”Ludhiana has nearly 2,000 industrial electroplating units, and 300 dyeing units. Both have been blaming each other for the pollution in the Buddha nala. Badish Jindal, a Ludhiana-based industrialist said to PARI, “as per the Punjab Poisons Possession and Sale Rules, 2014, the administration has to keep record of sale and purchase of any poisonous chemicals. But the administration does not have such records.”He further said that the industries have to adopt Zero Liquid Discharge (ZLD), a water treatment process. “No industry waste, treated or untreated, should go into the Buddha nala,” he said.Devinder Sharma, agriculture expert, called for a complete shutdown of the polluting industry. Speaking to PARI, he said, “The industry has been polluting our rivers for 40 years and nobody seems to be bothered. Why are we welcoming dirty industry? Just for the sake of investment? Governments should invest in environmental safety and public health.”

Activists revealed that the dyeing industries had clear orders not to discharge any liquid, even the treated waste/water into the Buddha nala. This was revealed in the documents that came up recently during the NGT hearing. Activists ask why the Punjab Pollution Control Board PPCB remained silent on this for 10-11 years.Punjab’s activists are asking, “if Tripura can ban the polluting industries, why not Punjab?”

Buddha nala’s clear waters turn into a pitch black stream as it passes through Ludhiana and villages downstream. It joins the Sutlej, completely dark to the eye. The greasy liquid goes till Rajasthan before entering into Pakistan and then the Arabian Sea. The satellite imagery too clearly shows the difference between the waters of river Beas and Sutlej at Harike Pattan (barrage) where the two rivers meet.

In a response on August 13, 2024 (a copy of which is with PARI), the Central Pollution Control Board (CPCB) replied to the National Green Tribunal (NGT) on the status of pollution in Buddha nala. It mentioned that three Common Effluent Treatment Plants (CETPs) in the city have been found “not complying with the disposal condition stipulated in the environmental clearance issued by the Ministry of Environment, Forest and Climate Change.”CPCB further informed NGT that it issued directions to PPCB on August 12, 2024 to “take appropriate action including imposing environmental compensation. The PPCB in turn has admitted in an earlier report that the water from the Buddha nala is unfit for irrigation. “If it is unfit for agriculture, do you think it is fit for drinking?” activists argued.In a joint statement, the organisers of the protest march announced their plan to plug the Buddha nala on September 15, later pushed to October 1, 2024. After this ultimatum, PPCB ordered immediate cessation of treated effluent discharge from the three CETPs into Buddha nala, on September 25. However, as per reports, no such action has taken place.Instead of plugging the stream, activists organised a sit-in at Ferozepur road in Ludhiana on October 1 and gave an ultimatum to the government to act by December 3, 2024.“Every now and then someone comes and takes samples from the Buddha nala but hunda kuchh nahin [nothing happens]. Either this pollution should be stopped or we should be provided with clean water so that our next generation can live,” says Baljeet Kaur, disenchanted with the government surveys and promises.

The waters of the Sutlej run black

నల్లగా ప్రవహిస్తున్న సత్లజ్ జలాలు

ستلج کا زہریلا پانی

ਸਤਲੁਜ ਦੇ ਪਾਣੀਆਂ ਵਿੱਚ ਪੈਂਦਾ ਜ਼ਹਿਰ

কালো স্রোতের ঘূর্ণিপাকে গুমরে মরছে সাতলেজ নদী

சாக்கடையான சட்லஜ் நதி

କଳା ପଡ଼ିଗଲାଣି ସତଲେଜର ପାଣି

സത്‌ലജിലെ ജലം കറുപ്പ് നിറത്തിലൊഴുകുന്നു

सतलुज का ज़हरीला पानी

ಕಪ್ಪು ಬಣ್ಣಕ್ಕೆ ತಿರುಗುತ್ತಿರುವ ಸಟ್ಲೆಜ್‌ ನದಿ

સતલજ, તારાં કાળાં પાણી

सतलजच्या पाण्यात 'काही तरी काळेबेरे'

ক’লা হৈ পৰা শতদ্ৰুৰ পানী

करिया होवत सतलज के पानी

सतलुज के करिया पानी

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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

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Sooraj Jatti was not yet a teenager when he told his father he wanted to join the Indian army. His father, Shankar, a retired serviceman himself, beamed with pride at the thought of having inspired his son.“For me, it was an obvious choice because of the atmosphere in my house,” 19-year-old Sooraj says, in between his training session at an academy in Palus city of Maharashtra’s Sangli district. “Ever since I could remember, I have never thought about anything else.”  Shankar was pleased with his son’s decision. It was the ultimate approval a father could have asked for.Less than a decade later, Shankar is no longer so sure about his son’s choice. From an emotional and proud father, somewhere along the years he turned sceptical. On June 14, 2022 to be precise.It was on this day that Defence Minister Rajnath Singh held a press conference and said, &quot;Under Agnipath scheme, Indian youngsters will be provided an opportunity to serve in armed forces as Agniveer.&quot;Before the introduction of the scheme, the five year average of recruitment into the armed forces between 2015-2020 stood at 61,000. When the pandemic struck in 2020, recruitment was stopped.The <a href="https://pib.gov.in/PressReleasePage.aspx?PRID=1834227">Agnipath scheme</a> would recruit less – around 46,000 youth, or Agniveers, into the Indian army for a “younger, fitter and diverse” force. The eligible age was decided between 17.5 to 21 years for the enrolment, potentially bringing down the average age of the forces by 4-5 years, according to the government press release.Unlike a lifelong army career, this is a four-year engagement, at the end of which 25 per cent of the batch would get a job in the regular cadre of the armed forces.

Shivaji Suryavanshi, 65, an ex-armyman and the president of Sainik Federation in the city of Kundal in Sangli believes the scheme is against national interest. “Four years is too short a time for a soldier to be ready,” he says. “If they are deployed in Kashmir or any other conflict region, their lack of experience can put other trained soldiers in danger. The scheme jeopardises national security.”It is also disrespectful to those being enrolled, says Suryavanshi. “If Agniveers die on duty, they don’t even get the status of a martyr,” he adds. “It is shameful. If an MLA [state legislator] or an MP [member of parliament] is in office for a month, he gets the same benefits as those legislators who serve their full tenure. Then why discriminate against soldiers?” The controversial scheme was met with widespread protests across India after being announced; it was opposed by candidates and ex-servicemen alike.  After an underwhelming performance in the general elections of 2024, the BJP-led union government is reportedly considering amendments to it. The Bharatiya Janata Party suffered serious losses in states like Haryana, Punjab, Uttar Pradesh and Rajasthan, which are known to have a high recruitment in the armed forces. Two years on, the disenchantment with the scheme is as evident as ever in western Maharashtra – a region also known for a high number of recruitment in the armed forces. There are entire villages here that have sent at least one individual to the army from each household.Jatti belongs to one such household. He is in the last year of a Bachelor of Arts degree. However, ever since he has enrolled in the academy to train to be an Agniveer, his studies have taken a hit.

“I spend three hours in the morning and three in the evening for physical training,” he says. “It is exhausting, and doesn’t leave me any energy to concentrate on my studies. I will have to leave before the exams if I get selected.”His training involves intense workouts: sprinting, push-ups, crawling on the floor, and even carrying another person on the back while finishing a lap. At the end of each session, his clothes are drenched in sweat and covered in dirt. Then he repeats the exercise all over again in a few hours.A year of this discipline and selection as Agniveer should get Jatti Rs. 21,000 a month in hand as an Agniveer, going up to Rs. 28,000 in the fourth year. If he fails to be among the 25 per cent of recruits from his batch, he will return home with Rs. 11.71 lakh at the end of his engagement as per the Agnipath scheme.He will also be 23, in the market for a job and with no graduation degree to improve his chances.“That’s why my father is worried about me,” Jatti says. “He is asking me to become a police officer instead.”The Indian government said that 46,000 Agniveers would be recruited in the inaugural year of 2022 – so 75 per cent of those or 34,500 youngsters in their early to mid-twenties would return home in 2026 with no prospects, and having to start from scratch.The upper limit for recruitment until 2026 is 175,000. The target is to increase the recruits to 90,000 in the fifth year, and to 125,00o from the year after that.

Most of the men in uniform are children of farmers, struggling with the agrarian crisis. Thousands of farmers have taken their lives due to rising debt, falling crop prices, lack of credit and devastating impacts of climate change. It is even more important for children belonging to farm households to land a job with stable income over a sustained period.Prakash Bhore, who runs Yash Academy in Palus, believes the Agnipath scheme will worsen the employment crisis in rural India because it is designed in such a way that the youth often have to leave for duty before they can complete their graduation. “The job market is already not promising,” he says. “Not having a degree would make it worse for the kids. Upon returning home after the four year engagement, they would either work as security guards outside a society or an ATM.”Nobody would want to marry them either, he added. “The bride’s family clearly asks if the prospective husband has a permanent job or is he a ‘four-year army man’. Imagine a pool of frustrated youngsters trained to use firearms and nothing to do. I don’t want to say more but it is a scary picture.”Major Himmat Owhal, who spent 17 years in the army, and has been running a training academy since 2009 in Sangli, says that the scheme has actually discouraged youngsters to join the army. “We used to have 1,500-2,000 kids enrolled in our academy every year since 2009,” he says. “Post Agniveer, that number has gone down to 100. It is a drastic drop.”Under such circumstances, the ones who still join do so in the hope of being among 25 per cent of their batch – like Jatti. Or, like Riya Beldar they have an emotional reason.Beldar is a daughter of marginal farmers from a small town of Miraj in Sangli. She has been close to her uncle since she was a child, and wants to make him proud. “He wanted to serve in the Indian army,” she says. “It was a dream he could never fulfil. I want him to live his dream through me.”

Training under Owhal, she has ignored snide comments her neighbours have made for wanting to be in the army despite being a girl. She has been mocked at, and made fun of. “But I didn’t pay attention to them because my parents stood by me,” Beldar says.The 19-year-old acknowledges that the Agnipath scheme isn’t ideal for her. “You train day in day out, you face your critics, you risk your education, you wear the uniform,” she goes on, “and in just four years all of it is snatched away from you with no future ahead. It is so unfair.”However, Beldar has her plans for after she finishes her four year stint. “I want to come back and start an academy for girls and I will cultivate sugarcane in our farmland,” she says. “Even if I don’t get permanent recruitment after finishing four years, I can still say I once served in the army and fulfilled my uncle’s dream.”Om Vibhute, 19, from Kolhapur city training at the same academy as Beldar, has opted for a more practical approach. He joined Owhal’s academy before the announcement of the Agnipath scheme, hoping to serve the country. But two years ago, he did a course correction. “I now want to be a police officer,” he says. “It gives you job security until the age of 58, and serving in the police force is also in national interest. I would have liked to become an army man, but the Agnipath scheme changed my mind.”Vibhute says that the thought of returning home after four years made him extremely anxious. “What will I do after I return?” he asked. “Who will give me a decent job? One has to be realistic about your future.”Suryavanshi, the ex-serviceman, says the biggest fallout of the Agnipath scheme is that it has diluted nationalism among aspiring servicemen. “I have been hearing some disturbing reports,” he says. “When kids realise they may not make it in the 25 per cent, they stop putting in the effort and disobey their seniors. And I don’t blame them. Why would you risk your life, why would you pour your blood and sweat into a job that will discard you in four years? The scheme has reduced soldiers into contract labourers.”

Young soldiers of misfortune

‘अग्निवीर योजना ने फ़ौजियों को बंधुआ मज़दूर बना दिया है’

सैन्यभरतीच्या वाटेतले ‘निखारे’ आणि निराशा

‘ये योजना ह फौजी मन ला ठेका मजूर बना दे हवय’

’اگنی ویر اسکیم نے فوجیوں کو بندھوا مزدور بنا دیا ہے‘

দুৰ্ভাগ্যই লগ দিয়া নতুনচাম সৈনিক

ਅਗਨੀਵੀਰ ਯੋਜਨਾ: ਭਾਰਤੀ ਫ਼ੌਜ ਦਾ ਕਾਲ਼ਾ ਭਵਿੱਖ

అగ్నిపథంలో యువ సైనికులు

দেশের জওয়ান আজ ঠিকে-মজুর

रोजगार खातिर अग्निवीर के भेंट चढ़त नौजवान

துரதிர்ஷ்டத்தில் இளம் வீரர்கள்

ದುರಾದೃಷ್ಟವಂತ ಯುವ ಸೈನಿಕರು

ચાર વર્ષીય સૈનિક યોજના

ദൌർഭാഗ്യത്തിന്റെ യുവസൈനികർ

ଦୁର୍ଭାଗ୍ୟର ଯୁବ ସୈନିକ

Kozhikode

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Before we begin Sathyapriya’s story I would like to talk about my periamma. From when I [Palani] was 12 years old and in Class 6, I stayed at my periappa and periamma [father’s brother and his wife’s] home. I always addressed them as amma and appa [mother and father]. They took very good care of me and my family would often go to their house for our holidays.My periamma [aunt] was a very important figure in my life. She generously looked after our needs, feeding us through the day, and always on time. When I began learning English at school, my aunt was the one who taught me things. I would go to her with doubts as she worked in the kitchen. I didn’t know how to spell many words but she would teach me, little by little. I liked her since then.When she passed away because of breast cancer it could be said she had died without living the life meant for her. There is a lot more I can say about her, but I’ll stop for now.

After my aunt’s passing, I asked Sathyapriya if she could draw my aunt from a photograph. I am not jealous of artists, but I grew jealous of Sathya’s work. Only Sathya could build on a work so minutely and patiently. Her style is hyperrealism and resembles a high resolution portrait.I was introduced to Sathya through Instagram. When I sent her the photo to draw, the image pixelated. We weren’t sure if it could be used for a drawing. I thought it was impossible.Sometime later I had organised a photography workshop for sanitation workers’ children in Madurai. It was my first workshop and there I met Sathya in person for the first time.  She had brought along her drawing of my aunt. It was an excellent attempt and I connected with it right away.Receiving the drawing of my beloved aunt at my first workshop made me very happy. It was then that I decided to write about Sathyapriya’s work. I was fascinated by what I saw and began to follow her on Instagram. The fascination grew when I went to her home filled with her work – on the floor, on walls, everywhere.

When Sathyapriya begins telling her story, you can almost hear her paintings speak.“I am Sathyapriya. I am from Madurai and 27 years old. My work is hyperrealism. I actually do not know how to draw. When I was in college, I went through a love failure [romantic break-up]. I started drawing to move on from the break-up; I used art to push out the depression my first love gave me. Art, to me was like smoking cigarettes or drinking alcohol – a way to get out of my depression.Art gave me relief. I told my family that henceforth I was only going to draw. I don’t know where I found the courage to say it. Initially I had wanted to become and IAS or IPS [civil services] officer initially and so I attempted UPSC [Union Public Services Commission] exams. But I never pursued it again.From a young age I felt discriminated against based on my appearance. In school, college and NCC (National Cadet Corps) camp others would belittle me, treat me differently. The principal and teachers from my school would target me and scold me all the time.When I was in Class 12, the school drains were blocked because girls had not properly disposed of their used sanitary napkins. Our principal could have just called all Class 5, 6 and 7 students or all the newly menstruating girls and told them how to dispose the napkins properly.Instead, I was singled out. After the morning prayer when Class 12 stayed back to do yoga, she said, ‘only girls like this [girls like me] do such things [clogging drains]’. I was perplexed. What did I have to do with a clogged drain?

In school I was often targeted like this, multiple times. Even when kids in Class 9 got into romantic relationships, it was seen as my fault. They would call my parents and tell them that I was the one who helped the kids in these relationships and that I had brought them together. They would ask my parents to write a letter apologising on my behalf, for ‘untoward words’ or ‘untoward actions’. They would ask me to bring the Bhagavad Gita and swear on it that I was not lying.Not a day in school passed that I did not come back home in tears. At home I was told ‘I’m sure, you must have said something’ or ‘must have been your fault’. I stopped saying anything at home.An insecurity grew in me.In college I was mocked and teased for my teeth. If you think about it, in the movies also it is the same things that people ridicule. Why? I am just like everyone else, a human being. People treat the teasing as normal because everybody does it. They don’t pay attention to how their teasing affects a person, hurts their feelings, or how much insecurity it gives them.I still have moments when such incidents from my life affect me. Even now when someone takes my photo, I feel insecure. I have been feeling this for 25 or 26 years now. It has become so normal to make fun of a person’s body.

Why don’t I draw myself? If I don’t represent myself, who will?I wondered what it is like to draw a face like mine.

I started this work with beautiful faces. But later I realised that we don’t just judge people by their beauty, but also by their caste, religion, talent, profession, gender and sexuality. So, I draw my pieces based on unconventional beauty. If we look representations of transwomen, in art, only those who look like a woman are portrayed. Who will draw the other transwomen? There is a standard for everything and I am not interested in those standards. I reflect on why I include people in my art; I wish that people in my art be happy.No one does art featuring people with disabilities. The differently-abled have done a lot of work but there has been no art on them. No one works on the deaths of the sanitation workers.Is it because art is aesthetics and everyone sees it in relation to beauty? I see my art as a politics of the common people and a medium to bring out the realities of their lives. Hyperrealism is an important genre for this. Many people tell me ‘oh but you only draw photography’. Yes, I only draw photography. Hyperrealism branched out from photography. It emerges after the camera was invented, after photos were taken.I want to tell others, ‘look at these people, get to know them’.

How do we usually present those with disabilities? We reduce them to being a ‘special person’. Why look at a person like they are someone ‘special’? They are normal people just like us. For example, if we are able to do something, and another person is not able to do it, we need to make arrangements so that the person can access things too. How is it fair if we just box them as a ‘special needs’ person and just let them be, without making inclusive arrangements.They have wants and desires. When able-bodied people cannot step out for a minute, we are frustrated. How can the special needs person not feel the same? Doesn’t the person need entertainment? Shouldn’t that person want for an education, desire sex and love? We don’t notice them; we don’t try to know them. No art work represents people with disabilities. No mainstream media features them. How do we remind the society that they exist and they have needs?Now, you [Palani Kumar] have been working with sanitation workers for over six years. Why? Because only when we engage with a subject repetitively, people come to know about it. There is a need for us to document the existence of any subject: scars, folk art, people with disabilities. All our work should support society. I see art as a support system. It is a medium to share what happens to people. Why not feature a child with disability? Why not feature the child smiling? Is it necessary that such a child should always look sad and pitiful?

About my work featuring Anitha amma, when we were working, she couldn’t continue with the project because there was no monetary help or emotional support. She faced a lot of difficulties. Here, we have to create awareness about the subject, only then can we collect funds. When we do this, we can offer the people some monetary help. The emotional support is also an important part. I want to use my art for them.I choose the black and white medium as it allows me to feature people the way I want to, and it makes the audience see only that. There is no distraction in it. We can bring out the essence of who they are [subjects and models], and their true emotional self.A favourite art work of mine is Anita amma’s work. I worked sincerely on Anita Amma’s portrait; and I have deep feelings towards it. My breasts hurt when I worked on the portrait. It had a profound effect on me.Septic-tank deaths still happen to this day, continually affecting lives and families. There is no awareness about this. The job [manual scavenging] is forced on those belonging to specific castes, against their will. They end up doing this work and losing their self-respect. Despite all this, the society looks down on them. The government doesn’t attempt to make things better for them. Their life has no value.As a contemporary artist, my art reflects the society around me and the problems in it.”

Hyperrealism and the art of Sathyapriya

অতিবাস্তববাদ এবং সত্যপ্রিয়ার চিত্রশিল্প

اپنے آرٹ کے ذریعہ لوگوں کے غم بانٹتیں ستیہ پریہ

लोगों के दुखों को अपनी कला में आवाज़ देती सत्यप्रिया

अतियथार्थवाद अऊ सत्यप्रिया के कला

അതിസൂക്ഷ്മ യാഥാർത്ഥ്യവും സത്യപ്രിയയുടെ കലയും

હાઈપરરીઅલિઝમ અને સત્યપ્રિયાની કળા

कमजोर आ लाचार के बात करत एगो कलाकार

ಹೈಪರ್‌ ರಿಯಲಿಸಮ್‌ ಮತ್ತು ಸತ್ಯಪ್ರಿಯಾ ಅವರ ಕಲೆ

ਅਤਿ-ਯਥਾਰਥਵਾਦ ਤੇ ਸਤਿਆਪ੍ਰਿਆ ਦੀ ਕਲਾ

हायपर रिॲलिझम आणि सत्यप्रियाची चित्रकला

ଅତିବାସ୍ତବବାଦ ଏବଂ ସତ୍ୟପ୍ରିୟାଙ୍କ କଳା

சத்யபிரியாவின் கலையும் ஹைபர்ரியலிசமும்

জীৱনৰ দুখবোধক নকৈ চোৱা সত্যপ্ৰিয়াৰ শিল্পকৰ্ম

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It all began with a piece of paper and a question from a stranger.Kamlesh Dandoliya, all of 12 years old, was wandering near a tourist guest house closer to his home in Rathed village, when he came across a pardesi (stranger). “He asked if I knew Bharia.” Before Kamlesh could answer, “the man handed me a paper and asked me to read.” The stranger was taking a fair chance – here in Patalkot valley of Tamia block, there are many members of the Bharia community, a Particularly Vulnerable Tribal Group<a href="https://www.tribal.mp.gov.in/cms/?page=SsXsUlgI54LMOgSTA9oqjg%3D%3D"> (PVTG)</a> in Madhya Pradesh. Kamlesh is a Bharia and was fluent in Bhariati – the language of his community. The young child read the paper with confidence at first. It contained general information about his community. Since it was in Devanagari script, “it felt easy.” In the second section which consisted of the names of objects, Kamlesh started to stumble. “The words were surely in Bhariati,” he recalls, “Those sounds were so familiar, but those words were strangers.” He pauses for a minute while trying hard to recollect something. “There was one word in particular. It was a type of junglee jadibutti [medicinal plant]. I wish I had written it down,” he says, shaking his head in disappointment. “Now I can’t even recall the word or its meaning.” Kamlesh’s distress left him thinking: “I wondered how many more words in Bhariati I didn’t know.” He did know that he was fluent – he grew up speaking Bhariati to his grandparents who had brought him up. “It was the only language I spoke until my teenage years. I still struggle to speak fluent Hindi,” he adds laughing.

There are almost two lakh members of the Bharia community in Madhya Pradesh (Statistical Profile of Scheduled Tribes, <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/pa/library/resource/statistical-profile-of-scheduled-tribes-in-india-2013/">2013</a>), but only 381 people returned Bhariati as their mother tongue. Although this information is from 2001 <a href="https://language.census.gov.in/eLanguageDivision_VirtualPath/MTSI/MADHYA%20PRADESH/Bharia.pdf">consolidated data</a> published by the Indian language census, there is no further update as Bhariati has not been listed separately in the 2011 census. It remains hidden in the unnamed mother tongues category that often overlooks tongues with less than 10,000 reported speakers.The community were once porters to the kings of Maharashtra, says this government released <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8qmaLj-ZEps">video</a>. After Mudhoji II of Nagpur (also known as Appa Saheb) faced a defeat in the 1818 battle during the Third Anglo-Maratha War and had to flee, many Bharias followed suit and resettled in the forests of Madhya Pradesh’s Chhindwara, Betul, and Pachmarhi.Today the community identifies themselves as Bharia (or Bharti). Their <a href="https://language.census.gov.in/eLanguageDivision_VirtualPath/MTSI/MADHYA%20PRADESH/Bharia.pdf">traditional</a><a href="https://language.census.gov.in/eLanguageDivision_VirtualPath/MTSI/MADHYA%20PRADESH/Bharia.pdf"> </a>occupation was shifting cultivation. They also had wide knowledge of medicinal plants and herbs – a reason people continue to visit the village through the year. “They come here to buy the jadibutti from us. Many elders now have license and can go anywhere to sell these medicinal plants,” says Kamlesh. But just like language, even the knowledge of these plants, “is now known only to the elders in the village,” he adds.   For the younger generation that has not picked up the traditional knowledge, farming bhurta (sweetcorn in Bhariati) and the seasonal forests produce such as charak (chironji / cuddapah almond in Bhariati), mahu (Madhuca longifolia), amla (Indian gooseberry) and firewood helps them sustain throughout the year. The community’s access to roads is still poor, even though popular tourist destinations like the Mahadev Temple and Raja Khoh Gufa are in their valley. They live largely in the Patalkot region, across 12 villages scattered at the foothills of the Satpura mountain range. The children of the community often live in residential schools in nearby cities like Indore to pursue their education.

Ten years later, an older Kamlesh was grazing his cows and goats in the hills of central India, when once again he met with a stranger. His smile reaches his ears as he recalls his déjà vu moment. When the stranger stopped his car to ask Kamlesh a question, he thought to himself, “probably he too will pull out a kagat [paper] for me to read!” Kamlesh had dropped out of Class 12 to help on the family’s land; there was little money for college and school fees for him and his seven siblings. The village had a primary school till Class 5. After that, boys went on to a residential school in Tamia and nearby cities, while girls dropped out. The stranger asked the now 22-year-old Kamlesh whether he would like to preserve his mother tongue so that the next generation could remember how Bhariati was spoken. The question struck a chord and he instantly agreed. The stranger was language researcher Pavan Kumar from the Dehradun-based Institute of Languages and Linguistics who had come to the village to document Bhariati. He had already travelled to several other villages where he could not find any fluent speakers. Pavan Kumar stayed on in the area for three-four years and “we digitally published many stories and even a kitap [book] in Bhariati,” Kamlesh recalls.

Once Kamlesh agreed, one of the first tasks was to find a place where he could work without any disturbance. “Yahan bahut shor-sharaba hota tha kyunki touristo ka aana jaana laga rehta tha [Here it was very noisy as many tourists would keep coming and going].” He decided to move to another village to form a Bharia Language Development Team.Within a month Kamlesh and his team successfully developed the Bhariati <a href="https://bharia.in/sites/www.bharia.in/files/Bharia%20alphabet%20chart%20.pdf">alphabet </a>chart, “I drew all the images against each letter.” Elders helped select words. But he did not stop here. With the help of the researcher, their team managed to digitally print more than 500 copies of the alphabet chart. Divided into two groups, they would travel on motorbikes to distribute these charts to the primary schools and anganwadis in different cities including Narsinghpur, Seoni, Chhindwara and Hoshangabad (now known as Narmadapuram). “I alone might have covered more than 250 primary schools and aaganwadis in Tamia, Harrai and even Junnardeo,” Kamlesh tells PARI. Even though the distances were far, sometimes as much as 85 kilometers, “hum teen-char din gharpe nahi aate the. Hum kisi ke bhi ghar rukh jaate the raat mai aur subah wapas chart baatne lagte.” [We would not return home for three-four days. We would seek shelter at someone’s house for the night and by morning we would be up again distributing charts].” Most of the primary school teachers they met didn’t know much about their community, Kamlesh says, “but they were very appreciative of our efforts, which helped us reach villages where Bhariati was not spoken anymore.”

Within a year Kamlesh and his language development team authored several books including a language spelling <a href="https://bharia.in/en/bharia-literature/bharia-language-spelliing-guide">guide</a>, three health stories and three moral stories in Bhariati. “We wrote everything on paper first,” he says while fishing out a few colourful chart papers buried in a trunk at this house. The efforts of the community led to the creation of a <a href="https://bharia.in/en/welcome">website </a>in Bhariati.“We were excited for the second phase of the website,” he says, talking to us at his house in Rathed, “I was ready to share the digital copies of the pocket books, folk songs, riddles, word games for kids and many more…but the pandemic hit.”  The team’s efforts stalled. Worse followed: Kamlesh lost the data on his phone overnight when his phone got reset. “Sab chale gaya,” he says sadly. “We couldn’t even secure the handwritten copy.” He did not have a smartphone; only this year he has figured out how to email. What little remained he handed it over to his team members of the other village. He says he is no longer in touch with them, “I am not sure if they still have it.” But it wasn’t just the pandemic that pushed Kamlesh to pause his documentation. The lack of interest from both the young and old in his community he says is one of the biggest hurdles in documenting Bhariati. “Bujurgo ko likhna nahi hai aur bachho ko bolna nahi hai [the elders don’t want to write and the children don’t want to speak],” he adds. “Slowly I started losing hope and then I stopped.”

Kamlesh’s team had consisted of fellow farmers who spent their days working in the fields. After a long, tiring day, they would return home to eat and sleep early, he explains. But after a point they too stopped engaging.I could not do this alone,” says Kamlesh. “This is not one-person job.”

As he walks through the village, Kamlesh stops outside a house. “When I meet my friends, we often talk about Divlu bhaiya.Divlu Bagdariya is a 48-year-old folk dancer and singer and often represents the Bharia community at cultural programs organised by the Madhya Pradesh government. “He is the only one who really understands how important our language is to our culture,” says Kamlesh. PARI met Divlu outside his home in Rathed. He was singing a song in Bhariati to his grandchildren who were awaiting their mother’s return from the forest where she had gone to collect firewood. “Writing and speaking are both important,” says Divlu as he leans toward Kamlesh. “Maybe just like how English and Hindi are taught as subjects, Bhariati and other Adivasi mother tongues can be taught as an optional [subject]?” He begins to show Kamlesh’s alphabet chart to his youngest chava (grandson). His grandson points at the dhadus (monkey) in the chart and giggles, “He will soon learn Bharia,” Divlu says.

Kamlesh is not so easily convinced, having seen the challenges he faced while working with his community. “If he starts going to residential schools, he will never speak Bhariati. Only if he lives with us [here] will he be able to speak,” says the language archiver.“Waise toh 100 mai se 75 pratishat toh vilupth hi ho chuki meri bhasha [Almost 75 per cent of my language has been lost],” says Kamlesh. “We forgot the original names of objects in Bhariati. Everything slowly mixed with Hindi.”  As people began to travel more, and children started going to school, they brought back Hindi words and expressions, teaching their parents. Even the older generation started speaking like their children, and the use of Bhariati began to decline. “I also started speaking less Bhariati once school started, spending more time with friends who spoke Hindi. It became a habit, even for me,” says Kamlesh. He speaks both Hindi and Bhariati, but interestingly, he never speaks them together. “I can’t mix them as easily as others do because I grew up with my Bhariati-speaking grandmother.” Kamlesh’s grandmother Suktibai almost 80 years old, still doesn’t speak Hindi. He says she understands it now but can’t respond to it. His siblings don’t speak much as “they feel embarrassed. They prefer speaking Hindi.” His wife Anita doesn’t speak the mother tongue either but he does encourage her.

“What is the use of Bhariati? Does it give us rojgaar [employment]? Sirf apni bhasha bolne se ghar chalta hai? [Can we run our house by just speaking our mother tongue?],” is a question that bothers both language enthusiasts.“We can’t avoid Hindi,” says a practical Divlu. “But we have to keep our own language alive.” Kamlesh retorts saying, “these days, you can prove your identity with your Aadhaar or driving license.” Not to be outdone, Divlu leans in toward him and asks, “if someone asks you to prove your identity without these documents, how will you do it?” Kamlesh laughs and responds, “I’ll speak in Bhariati.” “Exactly. Language is also your identity,” Divlu affirms.

The linguistic classification of Bhariati remains uncertain due to its complex history. Once possibly Dravidian, the language now exhibits strong Indo-Aryan traits, particularly in vocabulary and phonetics, reflecting its central Indian location and ties to both language families. This ambiguity in its classification highlights the intricate blending of Indic and Dravidian influences over time, making a clear-cut categorisation elusive for linguists. The reporter would like to thank Manjiri Chande and Ramdas Nagare from the Pararth Samiti, and Pallavi Chaturvedi. Anagha Menon, researcher and lecturer at Khalsa College and Dr. Chinmay Dharurkar, linguist and Assistant Professor, at the Department of Humanities and Social Sciences, IIT Kanpur generously shared their knowledge.PARI&#39;s Endangered Languages Project (ELP), is part of an initiative supported by Azim Premji University.  It aims to document the vulnerable languages of India through the voices and lived experiences of people who speak them.

In Chhindwara: Bhariati language declining fast

छिंदवाड्याच्या भरियाटी भाषेला उतरती कळा

ਆਪਣੀ ਹੋਂਦ ਦੀ ਲੜਾਈ ਲੜਦੀ ਭਰਿਆਤੀ ਭਾਸ਼ਾ

છિંદવાડામાં: ભરિયાટી ભાષા ઝડપથી લુપ્ત થઈ રહી છે

அழிந்து வரும் பரியாட்டி மொழி

छिंदवाड़ा मं नंदावत जावत भरियाटी भाखा

ছিন্দওয়াড়া: দ্রুত তলিয়ে যাচ্ছে ভারিয়াটি ভাষা

اپنے وجود کی بقا کی لڑائی لڑتی بھریاٹی زبان

‘खाली आपन भाषा बोले से घर ना चले’

চিণ্ডৱাৰা: পাহৰণিৰ গৰ্ভত লীন হ’ব ধৰা ভাৰিয়াতি ভাষা

ചിന്ദ്‌വാരയിൽ: അതിവേഗം ക്ഷയിക്കുന്ന ഭരിയാടി ഭാഷ

ଛିନ୍ଦୱାଡ଼ାରେ: ଦ୍ରୁତ ବିଲୁପ୍ତପ୍ରାୟ ଭରିଆଟି ଭାଷା

अस्तित्व बचाने की लड़ाई लड़ती भरियाटी भाषा

ಛಿಂದವಾರ: ವೇಗವಾಗಿ ಕ್ಷೀಣಿಸುತ್ತಿದೆ ಭರಿಯಾಟಿ ಭಾಷೆ

Mangi

eng-birds-desk.png

“I know almost 450 bird calls.”It’s a critical skill for Micah Rai. As a photographer in the wild, capturing rare birds and animals on camera is a waiting game, and one in which recognising sounds can make all the difference.From winged creatures to furry mammals, Micah has shot roughly 300 different species over the years. He recalls one of the most difficult, a bird – Blyth’s Tragopan ( Tragopan blythii ), of which sightings are very rare.It was October 2020 and Micah had acquired a Sigma 150mm-600mm telephoto zoom lens. With this powerful lens he was determined to photograph the Tragopan. He tracked the calls of the bird, relentless in his pursuit. “ Kaafi din se avaaz toh sunayi de raha tha [I was hearing the call for many days].” For months, the exercise didn’t lead to any photographs.Finally, in May 2021, once again Micah was following the call of Blyth’s Tragopan through the dense jungles of Eaglenest Wildlife Sanctuary in Arunachal Pradesh, when the elusive creature came into clear view. He was in position, armed with his Sigma 150mm-600mm telephoto zoom lens on his Nikon D7200. But his nervousness got the better of him. “I got a blurry shot. It was of no use,” he recalls.Two years later, near Bompu camp in West Kameng, the still elusive bird, the colour of bright rust with small white dots on its back, came into sight, partly obscured by leaves. This time Micah didn’t miss. In a burst of 30-40 shots, he managed to get 1-2 good photos. It was published for the first time on PARI,<a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/arunachals-birds-canary-in-the-coalmine/"> Arunachal’s birds: canary in the coalmine .</a>

Micah is part of a team of locals who assist scientists from the Indian Institute of Science (IISc) in Bengaluru in their study of the impact of climate change on birds in the eastern Himalayan mountains of West Kameng district, Arunachal Pradesh.“Folks like Micah are the very backbone of the work that we do in Eaglenest. Working in the field and collecting the kind of data that we need would have been impossible [without them],” says ornithologist Dr. Umesh Srinivasan.Micah’s passion for birds goes beyond the scientific. He retells a Nepali story about the Blessing Bird. “In the jungle, a man, haunted by a stepmother's cruelty, finds refuge and sustenance in wild bananas and undergoes a metamorphosis into a bird. This colourful nocturnal creature symbolises the enduring and mystical bond between humans and the natural world in Nepali tradition.” Micah says the bird is none other than the elusive Mountain Scops Owl, believed by many to embody the Blessing Bird. Its rarity is the mystical essence of the tale.While chasing birds in this forest, Micah and others have also had a few close encounters with four-legged creatures, specifically the world’s largest, tallest and heaviest bovine species, wild gaur ( Bos gaurus ), also called the Indian Bison.Micah and two friends had come to clear the road of debris after a night of rain. The trio saw the mighty bison a mere 20 metres away. “I gave a yell and the mithun [gaur] began charging towards us at full speed!” Micah laughs as he recounts the story of his friend madly scrambling up a tree while being chased by the gaur; he and his other friend managed to escape and dashed to safety.He says his favourite animal in the forests of Eaglenest is a medium-sized wild cat called the Asian Golden Cat ( Catopuma temminckii ), found in the forests of Eaglenest. He spotted the cat at twilight on his way back to Bompu camp. “I had a camera [Nikon D7200] and got the shot,” he says happily. “But I never saw it again.”

*****Micah was born in Dirang, West Kameng, and moved with his family to village Ramalingam in the same district. “Everyone calls me Micah Rai. Micah Rai is my name on Instagram and Facebook. In documents it’s ‘Shambu Rai’,” says the 29-year-old who left school after Class 5 because, “money was a problem and my younger siblings also had to study.”The next few years went by in a blur of hard work – road construction in Dirang and work as kitchen staff at Bompu camp in Eaglenest Sanctuary and also at Lama Camp – in the Singchung Bugun Village Community Reserve (SBVCR).In his mid-teens, Micah finally returned to Ramalingam. “I was at home with my parents and helping them in the fields.” His family is of Nepali origin and lease 4-5 bighas of land from the Bugun community on which they grow cabbage and potatoes, selling the harvest in Tezpur, Assam, a four-hour road journey.When ornithologist and Assistant Professor of Ecology at the Centre for Ecological Sciences, Indian Institute of Science (IISc) in Bengaluru, Dr. Umesh Srinivasan came to Ramalingam to study the effects of climate change on birds, he asked around for 2-3 young boys to work as field staff. Micah leapt at the chance to earn a steady income. In January 2011, 16-year-old Micah started work as a field staff with Srinivasan’s team.

He happily acknowledges that his real education started in the forests of Arunachal Pradesh. “I recognise the calls of birds in West Kameng district the most [easily],” he says. His favourite bird is “the Sikkim Wedge-billed Babbler. It’s not much to see looks-wise but I love its style,” he adds, referring to the unique beak of the bird and its eyes ringed with white colouring. A rare creature, it is found only in a few places – here in Arunachal Pradesh, far-eastern Nepal, Sikkim and eastern Bhutan.“Recently I shot the White-rumped Shama [ Copsychus malabaricus ] at an elevation above 2,000 metres. This is a strange thing because the bird normally resides at an elevation of 900 metres and lower. Because of the heat, the bird is changing its location,” says Micah.Scientist Srinivasan says, “eastern Himalayas are the second most biodiverse region on the planet, and many of the species found here are highly sensitive to temperature. Climate change here therefore has the potential to threaten a significant fraction of earth's species.” He says that their work shows that resident birds staying at a particular elevation are now slowly shifting their ranges to higher elevations. Read: <a target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/en/articles/arunachals-birds-canary-in-the-coalmine/">Arunachal’s birds: canary in the coalmine .</a>As a fellow photographer interested in climate change, I watch in fascination as Micah swipes through his phone, showing me images of birds, he’s photographed over the years. He makes it looks easy, but my own experience here tells me that it takes hard work, dedication and unending patience to get the right visual.

*****The team’s campsite, located at Bompu camp, lies inside Eaglenest sanctuary, a hotspot for hardcore birders across the world. It’s a transient home made of wood meshes and tarpaulin wrapped tightly around a broken concrete structure. The research team is a mix of scientists, an intern, and field staff from West Kameng district. Micah is an integral part of this crew headed by Dr. Umesh Srinivasan.The wind whips around us as Micah and I stand outside the research hut. The tips of surrounding peaks peek out from under thick garlands of grey cloud. I am keen to hear him speak about his experiences of a changing climate.“If there is a lot of heat at low elevations, then it picks up fast in the mountain area. The heat here in the mountains is increasing. Because of climate change we also know that the monsoon is upside down,” he tells me. “Earlier, people knew the patterns of the weather. Older people remember February being a cold and cloudy month.” Now in February, untimely rains cause great problems for farmers and their crops.It’s hard to imagine the serious effects of climate change in the lush forests of Eaglenest sanctuary, surrounded by the trilling of birds, cocooned by towering alder, maple and oak trees. The sun rises early in this eastern edge of India and the staff have been awake since 3:30 a.m., hard at work under a bright blue sky. Large puffs of white cloud sail slowly by.Under Srinivasan’s guidance, Micah has learnt ‘mist netting’ – a process of catching birds by stretching very fine netting made of nylon or polyester between two bamboo poles fixed in the mud. Once caught, the birds are placed inside a pouch. Gently taking the bird out of the little green pouch, Micah hands the creature over to Srinivasan.

Working rapidly, the bird’s weight, wingspan, the length of its legs is measured in less than a minute. After being tagged with an identification ring on its leg the bird is released. This entire process, of catching the bird in the mist netting, bringing it to the makeshift table, taking measurements and then setting it free, takes about 15-20 minutes. The team goes through this exercise every 20 minutes to half an hour for at least eight hours, depending on the weather. And Micah’s been doing this for close to 13 years now.“When we first started catching the birds, it was difficult to pronounce names like White-spectacled Warbler ( Seicercus affinis ). It was difficult to say because we don’t have the habit of speaking in English. We had never heard these words,” says Micah.Sharpening his birding skills at Eaglenest Sanctuary gave Micah a chance to travel to neighbouring Meghalaya where he says he saw that swathes of forest had been chopped down. “We roamed around in Cherrapunji [in 2012] for 10 ten days and saw not even 20 species of birds. Then I realised that I wanted to work in Eaglenest because there were so many more species here. We had seen a lot more birds sitting in Bompu.”“ Camera ka interest 2012 se shuru hua [My interest in cameras started in 2012],” Micah says. He used to borrow the camera of visiting scientist, Nandini Velho: “The Green-tailed Sunbird ( Aethopyga nipalensis ) is a common bird. I started photographing it as practice.”A couple of years later, Micah started guiding and taking a few tourists on birding expeditions. In 2018, a group from Mumbai – BNHS (Bombay Natural History Society) arrived. He clicked photos of them when asked. Sensing his joy while shooting photos, one of the group members offered him a Nikon P9000. “Sir, I want to buy a DSLR (digital single-lens reflex) model. I don’t want the camera you are giving me,” he recalls saying.With generous donations from four members of the same group, savings from his field work and bird guiding, “I collected 50,000 rupees and the price was 55,000. So, my boss [Umesh] said that he would contribute the balance.” In 2018, Micah finally bought his very first DSLR, a Nikon D7200 with an 18-55mm zoom lens.

“For 2-3 years with the small 18-55mm zoom lens I used to take photos of the flowers around the house.” Taking close-up shots of birds from a massive distance requires very long and powerful telephoto lenses. “After a few years I thought I should buy the 150-600mm sigma lens.” But using the lens turned out to be difficult for Micah. He couldn’t manage to figure out the relationship between aperture, shutter speed and ISO on the camera. “I clicked such bad pictures,” he recalls. It was Ram Alluri, a cinematographer and Micah’s good friend, who taught him the technicalities of using a DSLR camera. “He taught me how to use the settings and now I only use manual [settings],” he adds.But only shooting stunning photographs of birds wasn’t enough. The next step was learning how to edit images in the Photoshop software. In 2021, Micah sat with Siddharth Srinivasan, a Masters student, to learn how to edit images in Photoshop.Soon news of his skills as a photographer spread and he was asked to contribute photos for an article ‘Lockdown brings hardship to birder’s paradise in India’ for The Third Pole , a website dedicated to stories on the Himalayas. “They took seven of my photos [for use in that piece]. I got money for each and felt very pleased,” he says. His steadfast contribution to fieldwork also translated into Micah being a co-author on a number of scientific papers.Micah is a man of many talents. Apart from being a meticulous field staffer, passionate photographer, and bird guide, he is also a guitarist. Walking into the church in Chitre Basti (also known as Tsering Pam), I see Micah in his musician avatar. Surrounded by three swaying women, he strums his guitar gently, rehearsing a song for the wedding ceremony of his friend, the local pastor’s daughter. As his fingers move nimbly over the guitar strings, I’m reminded of their deftness while gently extricating birds from the gossamer-like mist netting in the forest.All of those he measured, tagged, and then released in the past four days – harbingers of an unfolding climate crisis – those birds have flown.