01-IMG_7446-MH-In Darrang-ploughing a lonely furrow.jpg

<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

01-IMG_1679-MB-The_naturalist_of_Dachigam.jpg

“When I first saw a hangul, I was so fascinated that I could not move,” recalls Shabir Husain Bhat. He kept returning to the same place again and again to get a glimpse of the deer (Cervus elaphus hanglu), native to Kashmir and <a href="https://wii.gov.in/images/hangulconference_brochure.pdf">critically</a> endangered.Almost 20 years later, Shabir says his fascination for the animals, birds, trees and flowers in the 141 square kilometer park has not diminished. “I would definitely say it was hangul that ignited the spark inside me and of course Himalayan Black Bear too.” At the park, he is fondly referred to as the ‘encyclopedia of Dachigam’. “I have so far identified 400 species of plants, more than 200 bird species and almost all the animal species in this region,” he tells PARI. Other wild animals found in this park include: musk deer, Himalayan brown bear, snow leopard and golden eagle.

Shabir didn’t start at the park as a naturalist, but in fact as driver of the battery-operated vehicles used for tourists in Dachigam National Park. As his knowledge grew, he became a guide, and is now a celebrated one; in 2006 he became an employee of the state wildlife department.Hanguls were once found across the Zanskar mountains, but a Wildlife Institute of India 2009 <a href="https://wii.gov.in/images/hangulconference_brochure.pdf">report</a> says that hunting, poaching and habitat fragmentation and degradation has shrunk their population from an estimated 2,000 individuals in 1947 to about 170-200. The report also says they are largely confined to the Dachigam National Park and a few sanctuaries in Kashmir valley. Shabir is from the Nishat area in Srinagar city, roughly 15 kilometers from the park. He lives with his family of six including his parents, wife and two sons.  He accompanies tourists and wildlife lovers, remaining in the park from morning to evening. “If you want to take a tour of Dachigam park you can come anytime in the day, but if you want to see the animals you have to either come early in the morning or before sunset,” he tells PARI.

The naturalist of Dachigam

रुख-रई, चिरई-चिरगुन, जीव-जन्तु चिन्हे मं माहिर

ଡଚିଗାମର ପ୍ରକୃତିପ୍ରେମୀ

దాచీగామ్ ప్రకృతి ప్రేమికుడు

தச்சிகமை சேர்ந்த இயற்கையிலாளர்

ਦਸ਼ੀਗਾਮ ਜੰਗਲ ਦਾ ਉਹ ਕੁਦਰਤ-ਪ੍ਰੇਮੀ

ദച്ചിഗാമിലെ പ്രകൃതിനിരീക്ഷകൻ

દચીગામના પ્રકૃતિવાદી

दाचिगमचा निसर्गवेडा

दाचीगाम का प्रकृति-प्रेमी

दाचीगाम के जीव-जंतु प्रेमी

দাছীগামৰ প্ৰকৃতিবিদজন

ڈاچی گام کے فطرت پسند

দাচিগামের প্রকৃতিবিদ শাবির সাহেব

ದಚಿಗಾಮ್‌ ಅರಣ್ಯದ ಪ್ರಕೃತಿ ತಜ್ಞ

Kolhapur

01-PAL_5267-PK-There_is_no_such_thing_as_professional_grief_ZWwcFmh.jpg

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

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

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

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

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

‘There is no such thing as professional grief’

’پیشہ ور تکلیف جیسی کوئی چیز نہیں ہوتی‘

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

'વ્યાવસાયિક વ્યથા જેવી કોઈ વસ્તુ નથી'

‘ବୃତ୍ତିଗତ ଦୁଃଖ ବୋଲି କିଛି ନାହିଁ’

‘వృత్తిపరమైన దుఃఖమంటూ ఏదీ ఉండదు’

'തൊഴിൽപരമായ വിഷമം എന്നൊന്നില്ല'

मैनहोल में मरते सफ़ाईकर्मियों की सुध कौन लेगा?

‘ವೃತ್ತಿಪರ ನೋವೆನ್ನುವುದೇ ಇಲ್ಲʼ

‘পেচাদাৰী শোক বুলি একো নাই, যন্ত্ৰণা সদায়েই ব্যক্তিগত’

‘पेशेवर दुख जइसने कोनो जिनिस नइ होवय’

'தொழிற்பூர்வ துயரம் என எதுவும் இல்லை'

दुखवा मो का से कहूं!

‘পেশাদারি শোক বলে তো কিছু হয় না’

01-20221227-_DSC9677-ST-I_cannot_lead_a_false_life.jpg

In Class 5, Ramya, raised as a boy,
began to identify as a girl. 



“In [middle] school I had to wear
shorts and my thighs showed,” she says, “It was embarrassing to be made to sit
with the boys.” Now in her thirties, she wears a red saree and sports long hair, embracing her
identity as a woman. 



Ramya manages a small amman (goddess) temple in Thiruporur town, Chengalpattu district. Her
mother Vengamma is seated on the floor next to her. “While growing up he
[pointing to Ramya] liked to wear chudidaar
[a two-piece women’s outfit], davani
[half-sari] and kammal [ear studs].
We tried to tell him to behave like a boy. But this is who he wanted to be,”
says Ramya’s 56-year-old mother.

Since
the temple of goddess Kanniamma is closed, the quiet allows for this
conversation to flow freely. Members of the Irular community, like this
mother-daughter duo, come here during the day to worship goddess Kanniamma. 



Ramya
was one of four siblings and grew up in this Irular locality. Irulars are
listed as one of the six Particularly Vulnerable Tribal Groups (PVTGs) in Tamil
Nadu. Her parents, like most others in their community, did seasonal wage work
earning between Rs. 250 to 300 a day working on farms, in construction and
MGNREGA (Mahatma Gandhi National Rural Employment Guarantee Act) sites. 



“Those days people were not aware of
thirunangais [Tamil word for a
trans woman]. So, when I stepped out of home, people in town would talk behind
my back,” Ramya says, “They’d say ‘he is dressed like a boy but behaves like a
girl, is it a boy or a girl?’ and this would hurt me.”

She dropped out of school in Class 9
and took up daily wage work like her parents. Ramya continued to express her
gender as a girl, and her mother recalls frequently pleading to Ramya, “to
behave like a boy,” worried about what other members of their community would
say about them. 



In her early twenties she suggested
leaving home to live the way she wanted. That’s when her mother and late
father, Ramachandran began to hear her out. “We had four sons. We said let him
be the girl child we never had,” says Vengamma, “Boy or girl, it was our child.
How could we let him leave home?” 



And so, Ramya was allowed to wear
women’s clothing inside their home. Vengamma, however, feared common stereotypes of trans women and told
her daughter, “Nee kadai erakoodadhu,” which meant Ramya must not go
from shop to shop seeking money as her livelihood. 



“Even though I felt like a woman
inside, outwardly others saw only a man with a beard and male features,” Ramya
says. In 2015, she spent all her savings, nearly one lakh rupees, on gender
affirmation surgery and laser hair removal.



It cost her Rs. 50,000 to pay for
gender affirmation surgery at the Mahatma Gandhi Medical College and Research
Institute in Puducherry, 120 kilometres from Thiruporur. Although far and not
free, the hospital was the preferred one as it was recommended by her friend for its gender care team. Free surgeries were offered in select Tamil Nadu
government hospitals across the state. She spent an additional Rs. 30,000 to
remove her facial hair over six sessions at a clinic in Chennai about 50 kms
away. 



Valarmathi, an Irula thirunangai, accompanied her to the
hospital. Moments before her surgery, sitting on the hospital bed, Ramya
realised the enormity of the step she was about to take. She had heard of
fellow trans women whose surgeries did not turn out well, “either the parts
were not removed fully, or they had trouble passing urine.”

Her surgery was a success, and “felt
like rebirth,” Ramya says. “My parents started calling me Ramya only after I
got this operation. Until then they called me by my panthi [dead] name.” 



She
believes that the operation changed the attitude of women around her. They now think of her as one of them and “they even accompany me to the toilet if we go out,” she
says smiling. Ramya is the head of a women’s self-help group called Kaattu malli irular pengal kuzhu with 14
members. 



A
licenced snake catcher, she and her brother supply snakes to the Irular
Snake-Catchers’ Industrial Cooperative Society for anti-venom preparations,
earning about Rs. 3,000 a month for six months a year (non-monsoon months). She
also continues to do daily wage work.



Last
year, her Irular community of 56 families relocated to Sembakkam Sunnambu
Kalvai, a new government housing layout about five kms from Thiruporur town. Ramya
met government officials and helped secure new electricity connections and
apply for identity documents.



Her
civic and political roles are only strengthening – during the last panchayat
elections in 2022, she led protests to secure her community&#39;s voting rights.
Non-Irular members of Sembakkam panchayat had objected to their voting. “Now I
am looking to get special ward status for our hamlet,” she says and hopes to
contest panchayat elections someday to serve her community. “One must live a
life that they like. I cannot lead a false life.”

Across
the state, around two lakh people are part of the Irular community (Census 2011). “For us,
whether it is a boy, girl or thirunangai,
we accept our child and provide for it. But it also depends from family to
family,” she says. Her friends Satyavani and Suresh, both Irulars in their late
twenties, have been married for 10 years. Since 2013, they have lived in a tiny
tarpaulin covered thatched hut in an Irular hamlet in Kunnapattu, 12 kms from
Thiruporur town. 



Ramya
attributes her comfort growing up trans to her community and friends like
Valarmathi. As the duo sit outside Ramya’s home, they share how festivals such
as Aadi thiruvizha, celebrated in the
Tamil month of Aadi, and Maasi magam, an annual congregation of the Irular
community along the Mamallapuram (popularly known as Mahabalipuram) coast, were
spaces where they both felt a sense of belonging. 



They
signed up for dance performances at these gatherings to “dress up like girls,”
says Valarmathi. She would eagerly await the Aadi festival and often wonder why she couldn’t dress like that every
day! 



“We
have been friends since our pant-shirt days,” says Ramya. They met in Class 6,
when Valarmathi lost her mother and moved from Kanchipuram town to
Edayankuppam, an Irular hamlet near Thiruporur town with her father and two
siblings. Both would confide in each other their feelings and worries, and
discovered how they yearned for similar things at a young age.

As
a first born ‘son’, Valarmathi’s gender identity created tension in her
relationship with her father. She dropped out of school in her early teens and ran away from home to join a thirunangai family about 35
kms away. “I lived with other thirunangais
in a house together. We were adopted by a guru or amma [mother], an
older trans woman.”  For
three years, Valarmathi’s job was to visit local shops seeking money in return
for blessings. “I went every single day. It was like going to school,” she
says. She had to turn over all her earnings, a few lakhs as per her estimates,
to her guru. During this time, she
even had to repay a loan of one lakh rupees, allegedly taken in her name by her
guru towards expenses for her gender affirmation surgery and an elaborate
ritual to celebrate it. Unable
to send home money and not allowed to meet her biological family, Valarmathi
sought another guru’s help to leave
this house. She paid a penalty of Rs. 50,000 to the guru whose trans family she left to transfer to a new thirunangai
family in Chennai. 



“I had promised my father to send
money home and support my siblings,” she says. With limited education and work
opportunities available to trans persons, especially those like her in their
late teens, she she did sex work and travelled on suburban trains blessing
people in exchange for money. It was during these train journeys that she met
Rakesh, who was in his late twenties, and working at a shipping yard then.

The couple fell in love, underwent
marital rituals and began to live together in 2021. Unable to find a suitable
house in Thiruporur town, or an owner who treated them with respect, they
initially moved into Valarmathi’s father, Nagappan’s house in Edayankuppam.
While Nagappan shared his home his acceptqnce wasn&#39;t wholehearted and the couple moved out and rented a hut adjacent to his. 



“I
stopped going for vasool [go from
shop-to-shop seeking money]. It was tempting to go clap and earn a few thousand
rupees but Rakesh did not like it,” Valarmathi says, and began to work with her
father at a nearby wedding hall, cleaning utensils and the premises for wages of
Rs. 300 a day.



“She
told me everything about herself. I liked that about her,” Rakesh told this
reporter when they met in December 2022. He supported Valarmathi financially
and emotionally, when she wanted to undergo the breast enhancement procedure
after her earlier gender affirmation surgery. They spent over a lakh of rupees
on the surgery and post-surgery recovery. “All the surgeries were my decisions.
I didn&#39;t do it because others did it. I thought of only myself and how I wanted
to be,” she says. 



During
Valarmathi’s first birthday after their wedding, she and Rakesh went to buy a
cake. On seeing her, the shopkeeper extended some coins, assuming she had come
for vasool. Embarrassed, they
explained their purpose and the shopkeeper apologised. Later that night,
Valarmathi had a memorable birthday in the company of her husband and siblings,
with cake, confetti and laughter. The couple also met her grandfather for his
blessings.



Another
time, she recalls, the police stopped them as they rode late on a bike. She
showed them her thaali (sacred thread
signifying marriage). Contrary to the couple’s fears, the police were
surprised, wished them well and let them pass.

In August 2024, Rakesh moved to
Chennai after securing a government job. “He avoided my calls and never
returned,” says Valarmathi, who travelled to the city after her father
encouraged her to look for him.



“Rakesh’s parents told me politely
to let him go so he can marry someone with whom he can have children. It never
occurred to me that I should register my marriage. I trusted him not to leave,”
she says. Valarmathi has decided not to pursue Rakesh anymore, and has moved
back with her thirunangai family in
Chennai.



Despite these setbacks, she looks
forward to mentoring two young trans girls, from low-income communities, whom
she adopted into her thirunangai
family. One of them wants to become a police officer and Valarmathi hopes to
help her realise this dream.

'I cannot lead a false life'

‘मी खोटं आयुष्य नाही जगू शकत’

'ਮੈਂ ਝੂਠ ਦਾ ਗਿਲਾਫ਼ ਚਾੜ੍ਹ ਕੇ ਨਹੀਂ ਜਿਊਣਾ ਚਾਹੁੰਦੀ'

‘ମୁଁ ମିଛ ଜୀବନ ବଞ୍ଚି ପାରିବି ନାହିଁ’

'నేను అబద్ధపు బతుకును బతకలేను'

‘വ്യാജജീവിതം നയിക്കാൻ എനിക്കാവില്ല’

‘मैं नकली ज़िंदगी नहीं जी सकती’

'ನಾನು ನಾನಾಗಿಯೇ ಬದುಕಲು ಬಯಸುತ್ತೇನೆ'

'હું નકલી જીવન જીવી શકતી નથી'

‘मंय दोहरा जिनगी गुजारे नइ सकंव’

‘हम झूठ के जिनगी ना जी सकीं’

‘பொய்யான வாழ்க்கை நான் வாழ முடியாது’

‘ভুৱা জীৱন এটা মই জীয়াব নোৱাৰোঁ’

‘ঝুটা একটা জীবন বাঁচতে পারব না’

Pomula Bheemavaram

01-_DSC8726-PB-Along_the_Majuli_silk_route.jpg

Deepika Kaman’s trained eye can distinguish between the almost identical looking male and female moths. “They look alike, but one is longer than the other. That is the male,” she says, pointing to the  brown and beige creatures with a wingspan of around 13 centimetres. “The short, thicker one is the female.”Deepika is a resident of Borun Chitadar Chuk village in Assam’s Majuli district and she started rearing eri silkmoths (Samia ricini) some three years ago. She learnt it from her mother and grandmother.Eri is a silk cultivated in the Brahmaputra valley of Assam and neighbouring Arunachal Pradesh, Manipur, Meghalaya and Nagaland. The Mising (also spelt Mishing) community has traditionally reared the silkworms and woven eri cloth for their own use, but silk weaving for commercial sale is a relatively new practice in the community.“Times have changed now,” says 28-year-old Deepika. “These days even young girls learn and practice silkworm rearing.”

To start rearing silkworms, people can either procure eggs from the Department of Sericulture in Majuli – which can cost around Rs. 400 a packet for some varieties – or get them from people in the village who are already engaged in the occupation. Deepika and her husband Udai usually do the latter since they get them for free. The couple do not keep more than three pairs of moths at a time since it means acquiring more era paat (castor leaves) to feed the hatched larvae. Since they do not have an era bari (plantation), they must forage for the leaves.“It’s a lot of work. It [castor leaves] can’t be cultivated on small patches of land. We would have to build a bamboo fence and ensure that the goats don’t plunder it,” she adds. The caterpillars are hearty eaters and it soon becomes difficult to source enough era leaves for them. “We even have to wake up and feed them at night. The more they eat, the more silk they produce.” Udai also mentions that they eat keseru (Heteropanax fragrans). But it’s one or the other: “They eat only one specific leaf in their lifetime excluding all others.”When they are ready to cocoon themselves, the poka polu (caterpillars) start crawling around looking for suitable places. They are kept on banana leaves and hay to await the transformation. “Once they start making the threads, they are visible only for the next two days or so. After that they disappear within the cocoon,” says Deepika.

The process of extracting silk fibres begins around 10 days after the start of the cocooning process. “If we keep them any longer than that, the caterpillar turns into a moth and flies away,” says Deepika.There are two ways of harvesting the silk: either wait till the metamorphosis is complete and the moth flies away leaving behind the fibres, or the traditional Mising practice which involves boiling the cocoon.Deepika says it is difficult to extract the fibre by hand unless the cocoon is boiled. It is quick to rot when the moth emerges. “While boiling, we keep checking them to see if they have softened up,” adds Udai. “It takes around half an hour over a fire.”The polu poka (caterpillar) is a delicacy, eaten after its extraction from the boiled cocoon. “It tastes like meat,” says Deepika. “It can be fried or eaten as patot diya [a dish where any vegetable, meat or fish is wrapped in banana leaf and smoked in the hearth].”The extracted fibres are washed, wrapped in a cloth and dried in the shade. The threads are then spun using a takuri or popy (a spindle). “It takes three to four days to make 250 grams of eri thread,” says Deepika who spins the thread after her daily household work is done. A traditional sador-mekhela (a two-piece dress) requires almost a kilogram of yarn.

The threads are white when first spun, but later, repeated washes turn them the distinctive yellowish colour of eri.“A metre of eri silk can be woven in a day if we start working in the morning and keep at it throughout the day,” she adds. The silk threads are also woven mixed with cotton thread. Deepika says the cloth is used in making shirts, saris and traditional dresses worn by the Assamese women. Saris are also being made with eri, a new trend. Despite new trends, maintaining a silk business is a lot of hard work. “It takes a lot of time to rear silkworms and then weave clothes,” says Deepika, who has taken a break from silk cultivation. With household chores, seasonal agricultural work and raising her four-year-old son, there is simply no time for it.

Jamini Payeng is a master weaver in her forties and is recognised by the Crafts Council of India. She has been weaving eri silk cloth for about a decade and is concerned about the waning interest in the craft. “These days, there are people among us who have never touched the loom. They can’t distinguish what is real eri. It has come to this.”While in Class 10, Jamini took a course on textiles and weaving. She practised for a couple of years before quitting to join college. After graduation, she joined a non-governmental organisation and began visiting villages in Majuli to observe traditional silk weaving.

“In the households where eri is reared, the children learn from their mothers,” says Jamini who is from Majuli. “I was not taught to do taat-bati [weave] or to spin a bobbin. I learned watching my mother do it.”She says most women were still wearing silk clothes they had made on their handloom, since casual machine-made clothes were not as abundantly available as they are today. Women dressed in sador-mekhela made of eri, nooni and muga silk. “The women would carry their takuri [spindle] everywhere they went.”Jamini was inspired. “I decided then that I will rear eri silkworms and teach other people how to do the same.” Currently, she trains about 25 women from Majuli in weaving and textiles. Her work is exhibited within the country and outside, including a <a href="https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/term/BIOG236123">piece</a> in the British Museum.&quot;The demand for eri clothes is high, but we make it using traditional methods,&quot; says Jamini. Elsewhere, eri cloth is also woven on machines; and silk from Bhagalpur in Bihar floods markets in Assam.For handmade items the price depends on the kinds of threads and techniques used as well as the intricacy of design. A handwoven eri stole with traditional designs can go for more than Rs. 3,500. The market price for a handwoven sador-mekhela starts around Rs. 8,000 and can go up to Rs. 15,000 to 20,000 in the local market.“Earlier, Assamese girls used to weave gamusa, rumal and pillow covers for their lovers and our Mising girls also wove galuk,” she says. Jamini believes if people don’t revive the traditional methods and pass them on to the next generation, this rich cultural heritage will disappear. “That’s why I have been doing it more or less however I can, taking it as a responsibility.”This story is supported by a fellowship from Mrinalini Mukherjee Foundation (MMF).

Along the Majuli silk route

প্ৰত্যাহ্বানৰ সন্মুখীন মাজুলীৰ পৰম্পৰাগত ৰেচম শিল্প

માજુલીના રેશમ માર્ગ પર

माजुली के कोसा के रद्दा मं

रेसम के करघा आ जामिनी-दीपिका के सपना

মাজুলির রেশম পথ ধরে

آسام کے ماجولی میں ریشم کی پیداوار

ਮਾਜੁਲੀ ਦੇ ਸਿਲਕ ਦੀ ਗੱਲ ਕਰਦਿਆਂ

మాజులీ పట్టు మార్గం వెంబడి…

மஜுலியின் பட்டுப் பாதையில்

ಮಜುಲಿಯ ಸಿಲ್ಕ್‌ ರೂಟ್‌ ಗುಂಟ ಒಂದು ಪ್ರಯಾಣ

ମଜୁଲି ସିଲ୍‌କ ରାସ୍ତାରେ

മജുലി സിൽക്ക് റൂട്ടിലൂടെ

रेशम का करघा और बुनकर का सपना

माजुलीचा रेशीम मार्ग

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

01-IMG_8907-PK-Hyperrealism_and_the_art_of_Sathyapriya.jpg

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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Working
class people treasure even worn-out sandals. The sandals of cargo loaders bear
dents and concave inner soles, while woodcutters&#39; chappals are riddled with
thorns. My own slippers I&#39;ve often patched up with safety pins to keep them
intact. 

Throughout
my travels across India, I&#39;ve consistently captured images of footwear, and I
have begun seeking these narratives in my photographs. Through the tales of
such footwear, my own journey also unfolds.

During
a recent work trip to Jajpur, Odisha, I had the chance to visit schools in
Barabanki and Puranamantira villages. When we would arrive, I was always
intrigued by the meticulously arranged footwear, placed outside the room where
people from Adivasi communities had gathered.

Initially, I did not pay much attention but after
three days into the journey I began to notice the worn-out sandals, some even
with holes in them.

My
own relationship with footwear is etched in my memory.  Back in my village, everyone purchased
V-strap slippers. When I was around 12 years old, in Madurai, these cost only
about 20 rupees, yet our families toiled hard to afford them as footwear held a
vital role in our lives.

Whenever
a new sandal model hit the market, one of the boys from our village would
acquire it, and the rest of us would borrow it from him, wearing them on
festivals, special occasions or trips out of town.

After
my trip to Jajpur I have become more observant of footwear around me. Certain
pairs of sandals have become associated with incidents from my past. I recall
instances when my classmates and I were reprimanded by our physical education
teacher for not wearing shoes.

Footwear
even influenced my photography, marking an important change. Oppressed
communities were denied access to footwear for a long time. Reflecting on this
fueled my re-evaluation of its significance. The thought seeded my work,
encouraging my goal of representing the struggle of working-class people and
their footwear that continues to toil day and night.

To walk a mile

ଚାଲିବାକୁ ଗୋଟିଏ ମାଇଲ୍‌

घिसल चप्पल मिहनत के निसानी बा

మైళ్ళ దూరాల నడకలో...

ദൂരങ്ങൾ താണ്ടാൻ

ਮਿਹਨਤਕਸ਼ਾਂ ਦੇ ਸੰਘਰਸ਼ ਦੀ ਕਹਾਣੀ ਕਹਿੰਦੀਆਂ ਚੱਪਲਾਂ

சற்று தூரம் நடக்க

ದೂರ ದಾರಿಯ ನಡೆಯಲು

चप्पलों में छिपी मेहनत की कहानी

কতটা পথ পেরোলে তবে…

पनही बतावय मिहनत के कहिनी

ক্ষয় যোৱা ছেন্দেলৰ আঁৰৰ কাহিনীবোৰ

محنت کی کہانی چپلوں کی زبانی

पायपीट

એક દડમજલ

Udupi

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“I can’t see
anything in my left eye. The bright light hurts. It&#39;s painful. Very painful. I
am living in such a challenging situation because of this” says Pramila Naskar,
a homemaker from Bangaon town in West Bengal’s South 24 Parganas district.
Pramila, in her early forties, is speaking to us at a weekly cornea clinic in the
Regional Institute of Ophthalmology, Kolkata, where she has come down for
treatment.



I could
easily empathise with Pramila Naskar. The more so as loss of sight even in one
eye is a terrifying prospect for a photographer. I had a corneal ulcer in my
left eye in 2007 and was on the verge of going blind. I was living overseas at
the time and had to fly back to India for treatment. For one and a half months,
I endured a torturous rehabilitation procedure before regaining full vision.
And yet, a decade and a half after recovery, I still harbour a fear of going
blind. I keep visualising how agonising it must be for a photographer to lose
his sight. 



Globally, according
to the World Health Organisation (WHO) &quot;<a href="https://www.who.int/news-room/fact-sheets/detail/blindness-and-visual-impairment#:~:text=Key%20 eefacts,are%20refractive%20errors%20and%20cataracts">at least 2.2
billion people</a> have a near or distant vision
impairment. In at least 1 billion – or almost half – of these cases, vision
impairment could have been prevented or has yet to be addressed…”



The second most common cause of blindness
worldwide, behind cataracts, is corneal diseases. The epidemiology of corneal
blindness is complex and includes a wide range of inflammatory and viral eye
conditions that result in corneal scarring, which eventually causes functional
blindness. Additionally, the frequency of corneal disease varies from country to
country.

A 2018 study
in the International Journal of Medical Science and Clinical Invention
estimated that India had approximately 6.8 million people with less than
6/60 vision in at least one eye due to corneal diseases; of these, about a
million had a bilateral involvement. Normally, 6/60 vision means a person can see at 6
metres what someone with normal vision could see from 60 metres away.



The study also expected that number could touch
10.6 million by 2020 – but no clear updates appear to be available. 



A <a href="https://journals.lww.com/ijo/fulltext/2023/71090/corneal_blindness_and_eye_banking__current.7.aspx">review
article</a> in the Indian Journal of Opthalmology says “Corneal
blindness (CB) in India is 1.2 million, which is 0.36 per cent of total blindness;
about 25,000 to 30,000 people are added every year.” The Regional Institute of
Ophthalmology (RIO) was founded in Kolkata Medical College in 1978. RIO has
experienced considerable growth under the stewardship of Prof. Asim Kumar
Ghosh, the institute&#39;s current director. The RIO&#39;s cornea clinic, held just
once a week, sees over 150 patients on just that single day. 



This clinic,
run by Dr. Ashis Majumdar and his associates, helps those who are most in need.
Dr. Ashish told me, referring to my own case, “though you had developed a
corneal ulcer from a fake contact lens solution, the term ’corneal blindness’
describes a variety of eye conditions that alter the transparency of the
cornea, leading to scarring and blindness. The leading causes of corneal blindness
include infectious causes, i.e., due to bacteria, viruses, fungi, and protozoa.
The most common predisposing factors are trauma, contact lens usage, or the use
of steroid medications. The various other diseases included are trachoma, and dry
eye disease.”



Niranjan
Mandal, in his mid-forties, was standing quietly in a corner of the RIO’s
cornea clinic. He had black glasses on. “The cornea of my left eye was damaged,”
he told me. “The pain is gone. But vision is still blurred. Doctor said, it
can&#39;t be recovered fully. I work as a labourer in a construction company and if
I can&#39;t see properly in both eyes, it will be tough for me to continue in the
same profession.” 



While
talking to Niranjan, I heard another doctor gently scolding a patient, Sheikh
Zahangir, in his late thirties: “Why did you discontinue treatment even after I
told you not to. Now you are dropping in here after 2 months. I am sorry to
say, you will never get back your full vision in your right eye”.



The same concern echoes in the voice of Dr.
Ashish. He says “on many occasions we have noticed, the eye could have been
saved if the patient was brought in on time. Recovering from corneal damage is
a long and tedious process and discontinuation in treatment can lead to
blindness.”

But there
are intractable factors behind patients being irregular in their visits to the
RIO. Take Narayan Sanyal, in his late fifties, who told us, “I live in a far-away
place [Khanakul] in Hooghly district. For me it&#39;s better to go to a local
doctor [ a quack] for check-ups. I know that doctor is not worthy but what to
do? I ignore the pain and keep working. If I come here, it costs me roughly 400
rupees each time. I can&#39;t afford that”. 



Pushparani
Devi from Pathorprotima block of South 24 Parganas, faces similar
difficulties. She has lived in a slum with her two children for the past 10 years
and works as a domestic help. She said “I made the mistake of ignoring the
redness in my left eye. And I went for a check-up with a local doctor. Then it
became serious. I had to stop working. Then I came here [RIO]. Thanks to the
doctors here, after 3 months of regular check-ups, I got back my vision. Now I
need surgery [a corneal transplant] to ensure full vision. So, I am waiting for
my date.”



The
operation called a cornea transplant involves removing all or part of a damaged
cornea and replacing it with healthy donor tissue. The terms keratoplasty and
corneal graft are frequently used to describe corneal transplants. It can be
used to cure serious infections or damage, improve vision, and alleviate
discomfort. Dr. Ashish, performs around 4 to 16 corneal transplants in a month.
It&#39;s a critical procedure which takes 45 minutes to 3 hours. Dr. Ashish says
“the success rate after transplant is very high. And patients easily go back to
their work. The problem is something else. There’s a supply and demand gap which
affects us. Families should come forward with eye donations.”  There&#39;s a huge demand-<a href="https://www.thehindu.com/news/cities/Visakhapatnam/need-to-bridge-the-huge-gap-in-eye-donation-and-requirement-in-the-country-says-expert/article67235581.ece">supply gap</a>
in Bengal as well as in India.  



RIO Director
Dr. Asim Ghosh has this message to give: “Please note that most people do not
require corneal transplant. Please do not ignore initial symptoms. Please check
your local ophthalmologist first. So many patients come to us and we feel bad
when we see them come in at the very last moment and ask us to save the eye. As
doctors it hurts us to see this.” 



Also, says
Dr. Ghosh, “make sure you have a healthy lifestyle. Keep a check on the sugar
level. Diabetes makes our treatment for cornea &amp; other eye related
disorders more complex.” 



“Back in the hospital corridor I meet Avarani
Chatterjee, in her early sixties. She clearly looked joyful: “Hello, I don&#39;t
have to come here again. Doctor said my eyes are fine. Now I can spend time
with my granddaughter and see my favourite serial on TV.”

Corneal diseases are coming into sight

புலப்படும் விழி வெண்படல நோய்

ଦୃଷ୍ଟିଶକ୍ତି ନଷ୍ଟ କରୁଛି କର୍ଣ୍ଣିଆ

ಬೆಳಕಿಗೆ ಬರುತ್ತಿವೆ ಕಾರ್ನಿಯಲ್‌ ಕಾಯಿಲೆಗಳು

કોર્નિયાના રોગો નજરે ચડી રહ્યા છે

कॉर्निया के बेमारी के उत्पात बढ़ रहल बा

পোহৰলৈ আহিব ধৰিছে কৰ্ণিয়াৰ ৰোগাক্ৰান্তৰ তথ্য

ক্রমশ নজরে আসছে কর্নিয়াজনিত রোগ

बढ़त हवय कार्निया के बीमारी

దృష్టిలోకి వస్తోన్న శుక్లపటల వ్యాధులు

ਕੋਰਨੀਆ ਦੀ ਬਿਮਾਰੀ ਦੀ ਦਸਤਕ

കോർണിയ രോഗങ്ങൾ ദൃശ്യമാവുന്നു

बेतहाशा बढ़ रही हैं कॉर्निया की बीमारियां

آنکھیں دکھاتی قرنیہ کی بیماریاں

01-PAL_1080-PK-Wayanad-water-soil-banks-and-bodies.jpg

I arrived on the fourth day; it was
nearly afternoon by the time I reached. 



On my journey from Chennai to Wayanad, I
passed areas teeming with volunteers. There were no buses, and I had to take
lifts from strangers. 



The place resembled a war zone with
ambulances moving in and out. People were busy searching for bodies with the
help of heavy machinery. Chooralmala, Attamala and Mundakkai towns were in
ruins -- no signs of habitable spaces. The residents&#39; lives were shattered, and
they couldn&#39;t even recognize the bodies of loved ones. 



The riverbanks were piled with debris
and dead bodies, so rescuers and family searching for bodies used sticks to
navigate the riverbanks and avoid sinking into the sand. My leg got stuck in
the sand. It was impossible to identify the bodies, only their fragments lay scattered
around. I have a deep connection to nature, but this experience terrified me. 



Due to the language barrier, I could only
be witness to the devastation. I held back from disturbing them. I had wanted
to come here earlier but ill health held me back.



I walked roughly three kilometres, following the
path of the flowing water. Houses lay buried in the ground, and some had
disappeared completely. Everywhere I saw volunteers searching for bodies. Even
the army were out conducting searches. I stayed for two days and during that
time no bodies were found, but the search continued relentlessly. Everyone was
working together, not giving up, sharing food and tea. The feeling of unity
surprised me.

When I spoke to some of the residents, they
mentioned a similar incident nearby Puthumala in August 8, 2019 where nearly 40
people died, and in 2021 where nearly 17 people died. This is the third time.
Around 430 people are estimated to have lost their lives, and 150 people were
missing. 



When I left on the last day, I was
informed that eight bodies were buried near Puthumala. Volunteers from all
religions (Hindu, Christian, Muslim and others) were present and all rituals
were observed. No one knew who the eight bodies belonged to but everyone prayed
together and buried them. 



There was no sound of weeping.  The rain continued to fall.



Why do such tragedies repeatedly occur here?
The entire area looked like a mixture of soil and rock which could be a reason
for the instability. While taking photos, I saw nothing but this mixture – not exactly
a mountain or just rock. 



The continuous rain was something
unprecedented for the area, and the unstable ground caved in with the rain
falling from one to five in the morning. Three landslides followed, at night. Every
building and school I saw reminded me of this. Speaking with volunteers I
realised that everyone was stuck there, even those conducting the search seemed
lost. And the people who live there…they may never fully recover.