Wednesday, 23 June 2010

How Much Would You Sell Your Mother For?

It is 6 am on a Monday (June 21) and she has just finished sweeping the floor. She offers me a cup of strong tea as we sit under the shade of a large tree, we talk about food. Soon, she will have to run to the fields – not to work, but to see the huge bulldozers coming and leveling her land. The previous day was rather a relaxed one for her and other villagers, as being a Sunday, there was no work on the farms by the authorities.

We were talking about food. Every McDonald’s outlet, at least in the Indian cities, has a four-foot tall bin, to throw the waste food. Despite having a refrigerator, almost every urban household throws food into the bin. I tell her this, and she is shocked, but a moment later explains this phenomenon to me. “I know why they do this – because people in the cities do not grow their own food. They just buy it. We farmers tend to every plant that we grow on our fields. It would be an exaggeration if I said that this is the reason why we relish our food. But yes, because we have slogged ourselves while growing the food, we can never throw it. But it seems like people in the cities eat steel and money,” she laughs.

"Aren't we fighting for our God, for our Mother?"

There are no words or arguments to defend what she accused the urban folk of. Before I could conjure up some more words, she touched the ground and added, “This land is my mother. She has given me food, water and clean air. When I die, she will take me back into her womb. Tell me, would you be willing to sell this mother? And if so, then at what price? We have asked this question each time an officer comes in a big car to convince us to give up our land. He has no reply. But we just help with an answer since he goes mute: ‘Let us know the price at which you will sell your mother. We will then think about the price you can quote, but no, we will not sell her.’ The government says that these steel plants are being made for our development. Forget jobs; not even a needle will come to us from these plants! Do they think humans can survive on iron and steel? Perhaps they can! After all aren’t the city folk always hungry for money?” I lower my head upon hearing the stark truth.

I try to change the topic and ask her about the movement. She says that earlier people would be scared upon seeing a policeman. “Ever since the crossfire on January 2, 2006, took place, we have never retreated. We now look at the cops as piece of dirt. God has given us that strength to fight back – after all aren’t we fighting for our God?”


I realize that I too need to find a place from where I could file reports of all that I see, hear, smell, feel. But when I propose this idea to Rabi, he is defiant. “The cops come to level the fields from 8 am to 12 noon. You just cannot go in front of them. The goons are drunk; the cops will catch you and label you a Maoist.” I argue with him that I need to see for myself what is happening, but he explains patiently. “See, you need to walk a minimum of 3 kms to the main road to take a bus to Jajpur Road, where you will find cyber cafes. But you cannot go there – it is unsafe. Some of our young boys have gone there, but they have returned – what do you do when there are 300 cops?” Around 12 noon, I begin to walk towards the main road. I revel in the cool breeze thanks to an early morning shower, while the green grass on either side of the rough patch of road makes me want to lie down and look up at the clouds. But the euphoria comes to a sudden halt when I see three men carrying bows and arrows, sitting under a tree.

“Johar,” I greet them. They eye me suspiciously, but I rush my words to tell them what I do and where I have been staying in their village. I sit next to them to strike up a conversation, simply because their tools fascinate me no end. They don’t tell me their names, but warn me against going ahead. “Madam, it will be best that you don’t go ahead today. There are too many goons who are mostly drunk.” I try to tell him that I want to see exactly what he doesn’t want me to face, but I understand his apprehensions – as an outsider who may get into trouble, it would be unnecessary burden on them to try and rescue me. For the first time, I begin to sense the nauseating feeling of not being able to move about freely in one’s own land. I know that I would get out sooner or later, but the men, women and children have since long been under such a house arrest.

"This is our parampara."

I am on the verge of breaking down, for, despite having traveled this far without any assurance that my words would be read and the voice of the voiceless would be heard, I was not allowed to see for myself what was happening. I sigh aloud and the men smile. I ask one of them about his bow and arrow. He tells me he is on ‘patrol duty’ till the time the cops continue with their leveling work. “I will be here till the time they are gone. I can see them from here.” I cannot see anything. The heart sees what the eyes cannot see. “Every night, every youth from every household is out with his bows and arrows. We make these at home. This is part of our ‘parampara’. We have to stand on guard for our own land because the cops come in the middle of the night along with goons, from other villages too. Besides, our villagers who have accepted the rehab packages by Tata live in their transit camps and are made to wear khaki. So from a distance, it would obviously seem like a huge police force,” he explains.

“But what about the promised jobs?” I ask, and by now, some women – axes in their hands – too return from the direction of the main road. I learn that they were near the site where the land was being leveled, as they wanted to see the way in which their own Mother was being rendered infertile. I ask them again if I could go, but they tell me to stay put. I try not to think about my itchy feet and turn to the thread of conversation. “They did promise jobs to some of the people who went with them. But the job contract is only for six years. We would get the job of a sweeper or watchman. What happens after six years? There is no mention about that! And by then, we would have lost our land and livelihood, emptied our pockets of the compensation amount, and then we would lose our sanity. They think they can buy us off. But we will fight,” he says, lifting his bow and arrow.
Divide, Kill and Rule

I walk back dejected but Rabi, who is back from his own fields and meeting other people in the villages, tells me that he would make me happy in the evening. We go to Champakoyla village which now has just 20 families. Ten families were ‘displaced’ by Tata, one by one. Earlier in the day, the fields of the people in this village were leveled, while three houses were bulldozed. When we reach the picturesque village, the men show no sign of dejection. They are busy playing a game of cards. Rabi waits for them to put a neat closure to the game. I whisper in jest, “They are doing something important. They would not want to be disturbed.” He smiled and replied, “They are extremely upset. They wouldn’t have been playing cards at 5pm – they would have been returning home from their fields.” The heart sees what the eyes cannot see.

Searching for the last straw of grass amid the black sand and slug.

I am introduced to Sonia Tiria, leader of Bisthapi Birodhi Jan Manch (BBJM) in that village. His wife Diyugi (32) was shot in her waist during the January 2, 2006, firing. He remarried a year later so that his two children – now aged 12 and 10 – could be taken care of by a mother. He tells me that post the firing, the 10 families marched along with Tata. One of the families is that of his own brother. “Tata and its money divided our family. It is rather sad to see my own brother Pradhan and his children taking up arms against us,” he says, as he points out to the broken house of his brother. Beyond the rubble lay the grave of his deceased wife.

The villagers offer to show me the bust of Ramchandra Jamunda, who was killed along with Diyugi on that fateful day. In all, two people became martyrs on that winter morning. They want me to see the spot where the firing took place, and we walk about 500 metres. I meet a 40-something lady, who, I ma told, is the midwife of the village. She tells me in Hoo language, which is translated to Hindi by the men, that several women have died during delivery due to complications. “The health centre is 10 kms away. There is no way, other than the bicycle, upon which a woman in her labour can be carried. Nobody in this village has a motorbike. Life here indeed is in accordance to the will of God,” one man translates her words for me.

Sonia shows me a house that stood erect the same morning, but was now in rubble. “What about those cows?” I ask. “These belonged to the owner of the house. Of course Tata doesn’t offer a shed for the animals of those who give up their land and accept their rehab package.”

Your God, My God

We arrives near a tiny lake, next to which is a stone pillar built in the memory of the 15 martyrs. There is a wave of tranquility – the Hoos believe that the souls of the deceased bless the living on their path. They tell me that more than 25 platoons of police had arrived on Jnaury 2, 2006, and they stood near the lake and fired. Bullets from INSAS rifles, as well as rubber bullets, hit people even 3 kms away.

As we walk back after having paid our obeisance to the pillar, I ask the people, “Aren’t you fighting a losing battle?” One of elder men walks rushes ahead to tell me his amalogy. “The five Pandavas fought with 100 Kauravas. But the Pandavas had the Gods with them. But it doesn’t seem like God is on our side, at this moment.” Defying his pessimistic view, another said, “But we have faith in the law. Someday, it will hear us out. We have to die anyway. But we will die fighting for our land. We don’t want to use our bows and arrows either to fight – we use them to hunt animals, not people. We hope we don’t have to use them on people. We reach a patch of land – about 100 sq. metres – which is akin to a forest. One man points out, “You know Madam, this tiny forest provides us with everything we need. But the government says that Maoists inhabit this forest! Even a tiger would find this space tiny! But while the government makes such tall claims, Tata officers often go around this forest!”

“That is some company’s tower and its God. This is the people’s tower and our God.”

It is moonlit night and hence we don’t miss the electricity. Rabi continues the meeting with all the people from the village, while I am introduced to three teenage cousins – Padmini, Janki and Sushmita Jamunda. Each of the three girls lives in a hostel in Jajpur Road and is in their 12th grade, studying Science. Each of them wants to become a doctor. Janki, the extrovert among the three, tells me after some time, “If we become doctors, we would be the first doctors in this village and for the villages adjoining ours,” she says with a certain pride, and I shower my words of encouragement. She then goes on, with inputs from her sisters: “We do have a medical centre in Dhangadi, which is 10 kms away. But ever since the clampdown by Tata’s goons, it has been really difficult to get there for treatment. Some of our villagers have had to state that they come from some different village, whose land is not in the process of being acquired by Tata. That’s how they have managed to save themselves.”

We talk about festivals and food, but they want to know how big is Mumbai. I don’t do a good job of it: “Do go there once and make some money, but do not forget to return to your roots. Because if you continue to live there, your heart will turn into a stone. Your village needs you,” they understand my point. Janki replies, “Yes, we know what you are saying Didi. Look that side – the entire sky has become orange because of the light from the steel plants. That is hardly 2 kms away from here. Yet, we don’t have electricity in this village. We used to have a clear stream, but the water is now polluted because effluents from the steel plants have been released into it.” She takes a deep breath before saying aloud, “Where there is the adivasi, there is the jungle, the water, the clean air. We take only little from the nature, and companies grab even that!”

Rabi and I ride back around 8 pm. The moon above lights up the rickety road for us. At one point, we see about thirty people under a huge tree. “They are people from Bamiagonth village. They have been sleeping outside ever since May 28 this year, to stay on alert if we are attacked. Only the very old stay indoors. But toddlers and their mothers too stay awake through the night in shifts. This is the way we patrol and protect ourselves,” Rabi says with pride.


  1. Nice job PB! Perhaps some Singur-formula needs to be 'imported' and handed over to the 'Hoo" people so that they can ward off the Tata's and live in peace.

  2. Beautiful work. Keep your spirit... It really made me cry by knowing the hard truth. I don't know how much inhuman we civilized people can be that we are ready to do anything just for the sake of money and that too by those who have ample in their kitty. I really don't know what to comment as I feels myself to be an equal culprit of the happenings in the society as I am not doing anything to improve the condition in the society. I wish you my best wishes for continuing the good work.

  3. Hii SR,
    Perhaps what we immediately need to do is to uncover the mask of being benign that Tata wears. The urban need to see this.

    Thanks for those words and I am glad that reality, for a change, moved someone to tears. Don;t comment anything - for now, just spread the word around far and wide and let people know what is happening. Somtime later, take the bag and make your own trip to see the truth with your own eyes. I am glad you can see part of it through my eyes and words! :-)

  4. I love your style of writing. It gets the message across very effectively. I'm also quite impressed by your dedication to this cause. Keep up the good work.

  5. Priyanka!

    Wow, you have so much wisdom for someone so young.

    wonderful...all the best to you on this incredible journey.

  6. For the first time ever I come across a blog and a post so genuine and honest in this 'electric jungle'. I'm from the village, village is all I know of India as, so what you wrote here is not hard for me to digest but actually very satisfying to know that someone from the 'concrete jungle' is still not absolutely lost in the crowd and chatters.

    Thank you.

  7. Connie, wisdom comes not without much pain.

    Sadho, kind words like yours keep me going. It is bloody hell frustrating to see what I have seen, rendering me feel impotent for not being able to do much. My words, are perhaps, my only tools.