Damning The Dam Protesters

On the evening of May 11, the front portion of a tanker containing 11,000 litres of diesel, on contract with NHPC, was set on fire in Thekeraguri village adjacent to NH 52, just past the Subansiri river bridge. This bridge lies in the district of Lakhimpur in Assam and is just 2-3 kms before the adjoining district of Dhemaji. Beyond the river on the left side a mountain range is visible which lies in Arunachal Pradesh. 

The same evening, a checkpost and protest camp at Ghagor was demolished. Ghagor lies on NH 52, few kilometres before the bridge. A road bifurcating on the left leads one directly to Gerukamukh (falling under Dhemaji district), which is the construction site and project headquarter of the 2,000 MW Lower Subansiri hydroelectric project on the Assam-Arunachal Pradesh border. The checkpost and the camp were jointly erected by 8 organisations protesting the construction of the dam in January 2012, after a massive people's movement to prevent the transportation of construction materials to Gerukamukh.

Ghagor on NH52, and the takeover of Prodeep Gogoi's dhaba opposite the checkpost and protest camp

On the night of May 11 and into the next morning, 14 men and women were beaten and arrested by the police for their alleged crime of setting fire to the tanker. A 13-year-old boy was slapped repeatedly on his head and detained for two hours. The next day, some more were beaten, dragged and arrested. By the morning of May 20, a total of 23 people were behind bars. It has been confirmed that the first 14 men and women have been booked under IPC 120 B (criminal conspiracy), 149 (unlawful assembly), 384 (extortion), 427 (mischief with damage to property) and 435 (mischief with fire). While the latter 3 charges are bailable offenses, section 120 B is a stringent one. The men and women arrested are either farmers, students or small-time businessmen, running shops or dhabas. 

Over the last few days, I have been meeting activists and local leaders of ethnic groups, families of those arrested, officials of NHPC, police personnel, as well as some of those behind bars. Even as I write about these encounters in chapters, the repression continues: 4 people who had undertaken to sit on a hunger strike on May 20 have been arrested on charges of violating Section 144 of CrPC. The next few reports are an attempt to articulate all that has been understood in the last few days of repression.

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Azad Hazarika runs a health club in North Lakhimpur town. He began to go for meetings that called for the people in Assam to protest the Lower Subansiri hydro power project. During the resistance in December 2011, when NHPC tried to get in a significant part of a turbine into the project site, he was among those who lay down on the street to protest the passage of any kind of construction material. Today, he informally functions as a significant link among the people in the movement, at times when news dissemination is the most crucial aspect of the struggle.

He says that there was an informal agreement between government officials and activists part of 8 joint organisations resisting the construction of the dam, that tankers with diesel would be allowed to reach the project site at Gerukamukh only once in 20 days. This diesel was necessary as basic fuel to maintain a certain level of electric supply in project site. Hazarika gave a background to the all the events that finally led to the tanker being torched: 

“The 8 organisations then formed a 'big dams construction materials blockade' camp at Ghagor on NH 52. At any given point of time, 4 boys would man the checkpost, checking the challans of vehicles that took the left turn towards the project site at Gerakamukh. Any vehicle that bore NHPC on its challan was sent back; any other private vehicle was  allowed to pass. The camp, a little ahead from the checkpost, had about 50 people staying day and night, since January 2012. 

CRPF personnel now occupy Prodeep Gogoi's dhaba

On May 11, the boys at the checkpost saw a tanker approaching that road. The driver said that the police had kept the challan with them. Before the boys could stop the vehicle, it sped away towards the project site. An urgent meeting was called for, and the some officials arrived at the point, along with a huge police force. I was informed about the meeting and rushed towards Ghagor – it is 35 kms away from North Lakhimpur. But I was surprised to see that NH 52 was now being patrolled by the police and CRPF, well beyond the checkpost at Ghagor. As some negotiations took place at the camp, about two other vehicles sped away. Soon the rumour spread that the tanker had been set on fire. Arbitrary arrests followed.

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The stretch from Ghagor to Gogamukh town square is about 8 kms. While heading towards Gogamukh from North Lakhimpur (the district headquarters of Lakhimpur), about 2 kms before Ghagor is the Boginodi police station. After Ghagor is the Chauldhowa police outpost, followed by a newly constructed all-bamboo camp of the 19 Assam Batallion, and then the police station of Gogamukh, which falls under Dhemaji district. The district borders are porous; police and CRPF personnel dot the entire stretch of 8 kms. Small CRPF camps – typical Assamese houses but with sand bags stacked up – are also visible.

Roopohi is a village after the Subansiri bridge, and about 3 kms away from NH 52. It has a predominant population of Mishing tribesmen. After some enquiry, we arrived at the residence of Anand (Babul) Mili. Like any other house structure of a Mishing family, this too is a chaang ghor – a house made entirely of bamboo on high stilts. Many young boys walk in with us – my guide for the day Purandar Mili (who is a local activist of TMPK or Takam Mishing Poring Kebang or All Mishing Students' Union) and I. Few minutes later, Babul walked in and said that he has been evading arrest since May 11. 

Thekeraguri is not too far away from Roopohi. The young men told me that many of them ran deep into the forests when the police and the CRPF was hunting for the people who could have possibly set the tanker on fire. Like the other activists in the region, Babul was convinced that the tanker was purposefully set on fire as an act of conspiracy to implicate the people associated with the anti-dam movement, and thus crumble the struggle.

“Why did the fire brigade arrive 2 hours late? Why didn't the police allow photographers to photograph the burning vehicle? Cops were standing about 200 metres away from the tanker, yet none of them came forward to assess the situation near the tanker. Besides, there is no clue about where could the tanker be headed – the driver could not produce any challan when he was asked for it at the checkpost. When he was asked about it, he had said that the cops had taken it from him. There is something surely fishy here,” said Babul, as he invited someone over the phone.

On what basis have the arrests been made? “Cops says that there was a digital camera in the tanker, which exposed the people who had set the tanker on fire!” Babul says angrily. 

Twenty-year-old Rajiv Saikia is a resident of Roopohi and has studied up to matriculation. He is on the run along with his friend Ritu Saikia. Both said that they were doing business as suppliers of various goods. Both of them have been on a bike, traversing through villages, begging for meals and a corner for their night's stay. “There is a businessman in our area who is close to the cops. That's how he is able to leak out information to us. He has informed us that the Boginodi police is on the lookout for 53 people. Among them are Debo Bhuyan, Deepak Neog, Pranab Saikia and I, along with Ritu and Rajiv. The same person has also informed us that the cops are picking boys from villages and promising them the job of homeguards,” said Babul. The recruitment of these boys are similar to the recruitment of special police officers (SPOs) in places like Dantewada in Chhattisgarh and Kalinganagar in Odisha.

On the run, from one village to another: Rajiv and Ritu

Nijom Mili walked in. He had a dignified look on his face, and it seemed tough to ask him tough questions. Like, did his son really take up the job to attack his own village folk? Mili ran a pharmacy shop until few months ago, when he met with an accident. Repeated visits to various doctors yielded no good health. “Finally, a doctor at AMC (Assam Medical College in Diburgarh) operated below my ear. I still d not know what was the need for the surgery. But it has taken me a long time to move around,” says Mili.

Mili's Graduate-educated son has taken up the job offered by the police, when he heard of the same from a relative. “They said that the job was like that of a homguard, but not exactly a homeguard,” he said.

“Did they say that he is being recruited to be a SPO?” I asked.

“Maybe. Something like that. But he was told that his job could be confirmed by the superintendent of police (SP) after 6 months.”

“What is his salary?”

“Rs 4,500.”

“Does he have a uniform yet? Are they giving the boys arms training?”

“He doesn't yet have a uniform. So far, they have been training the boys how to march left-right-left. As if he doesn't know which is left and right!” 

Mili's son had to apply for the job, then give an interview, followed by a training session for three days, and he was then selected. He now shuttles between Boginodi police station and Chauldhowa outpost, since the time he was recruited about 25 days ago. 

When a dam made us foes: Nijom Mili (left) and Babul Mili (right)

Babul said that these recruitments mean that the government would use these boys to spy on the village folk who are protesting the construction of the dam. Mili said that he did talk of such a possibility with his son, but so far, nothing like that had happened. “He was not among the police personnel who had beaten up the people in our and nearby villages when the tanker was set on fire,” Mili said.

Babul drew me a quick map about the region and we headed to meet the family of Gagan Bora in Na-Ali Gergeria village. The landscape was fresh green and brown bamboo-and-mud houses were scattered around. Colourful chaadors (worn by the women) and white gamosas (a type of towel or gamcha) were left to dry on the bamboo fences. Cows graze with no hurry. The thin ribbon road opened to an open area and a tiny shop. This shop is run by 27-year-old Gagan and his wife Ikharani. At their residence adjoining the shop are relatives visiting from nearby houses and taking care of Bora's two children – a daughter aged 3.5 years and a toddler son.

“My husband had gone to Silapathar (a village far away in Dhemaji district) on May 11 and returned only at about 10pm. On his way back, he heard about the tanker being set on fire. The next morning at about 8am, he went out to Na-Ali Tiniali (the T-junction at Na-Ali) to do some shopping for our shop. By 11.30am some boys came and told me that my husband had been beaten and arrested. I could not believe their words and thought it was someone else. But they knew that it was him who was arrested,” said Ikharani.

Waiting with my children..... Ikharani Bora

From that day on, said Ikharani, cops have been making rounds in the village every night. Young boys scamper into distant villages while women stay back. “Once the cops even wanted to hit me but I guess they did not do so when they saw I was with a child,” she says. She has visited Gagan just once in the jail and is unsure of the charges levied on him. “It is difficult to run the family without him. I got a neighbour to do some shopping for our shop. I just hope that KMSS is able to get a good lawyer to release him. He is innocent. Yes, he has been to meetings called in by the anti-dam groups, but he would never do such a thing,” she said.

Debo Nath's family resides in nearby Thekeraguri village. Close to this village was where the tanker was set on fire. The fear is palpable in the voice and words of Debo's sister Parismita, who is studying in the 12th grade. Debo is a student of Graduate-level Arts at Subansiri College, and also runs a shop nearby. He is the eldest of 5 siblings. He was in the shop on May 12 when he was arrested.

“Did Debo know that the tanker was burnt the previous the night before he was arrested?” I asked.

“We did hear something like that but we did not know anything. We heard that some people had been picked up the cops but Debo thought that it had got nothing to with him, which is why he went to the shop that day,” Parismita said.

“Do you have any idea why he could be arrested?” I asked.

“No,” she replied.

“Did Debo ever go to the camp at Ghagor?”

“No.”

“Did he attend any of the anti-dam movement meetings? There was a large meeting held in your village few months ago.”

“No.”

The only consistent emotion Debo Nath's sisters and aunt feel since his arrest, is fear.

“Was he associated with the anti-dam protests in any way?”

“No.”

“Have you heard of the dam coming up?”

“Yes.”

“Then have you heard of organisations like KMSS?”

“No.”

Her denials are hard to believe but understandable, under the current circumstances. 

Having explained to her that she would have to actively participate in the legal matters to get Debo released, we headed to Roopohi Baligaon-Bongali Basti, to meet Nabajyoti Kamang. He owns a piece of land in Roopohi and his two children studied there, under the guardianship of a neighbour. Nabajyoti later told us that he could not leave his own residence because he had a job with Bhimpura Junior College, and travelling daily from Roopohi would be tiring.

Getting to Roopohi Baligaon-Bongali Basti meant several chances of falling into black mud, next to roaming, hungry pigs. Many Mishing families rear pigs and a sudden rainfall in the region the previous night ensured a tough ride through the villages. It meant eye-soothing landscapes with river streams and ponds, as well as feet falling deep into the mud while navigating the bike.

Nabajyoti Kamang too lived in a chaang ghor, with many such houses in the same compound. Which presumably were inhabited by extended family members. His 13-year-old son Paban Singh steps down the rickety bamboo staircase to meet us. Paban cooked and studied and lived in the house in Roopohi with his younger sister. In the afternoon of May 12, he had gone to Na-Ali Tiniali to buy some chillies, when the police caught hold of him and beat him repeatedly in the back of his head. He kept quiet all the while he was being beaten by few cops and was then taken to the police station, where he was kept for 2 hours.

“I did not know of all this until late that night. The police waited for some people to arrive to sign on some papers, before my son could be left free. How could he possibly set fire to the tanker? He is just a small boy!” said Nabajyoti.

Nabajyoti said that he brought home Paban and his younger daughter the next morning. “Ever since I brought him home, he has been on the bed. He is not keen on eating either. There was no bleeding but I could feel that his head was swollen. A local doctor is treating him with herbs and Paban is slowly getting better.” 

I asked Nabajyoti if he was thinking of writing a complaint to the police. He joined his hands, almost as though he was begging. “I want to lead a simple life. I do not want to entangle my family with the police. I should be happy that they did not harm Paban to much – we can manage this. I know this has all got to do with the dam and the movement against it, but I don't want any harm for my family. We thank you that you have come to enquire about us but we do not want any more hassle,” he said. 

Nabajyoti expressed hope that situations would permit him to send Paban to the same school in Roopohi since it is a better one. The school in their resident village was almost non-existent. “But I have to work out something. I have a huge family. We all cannot shift to Roopohi because I have  my job here. My wife and daughters weave here. We have our pigs. Yet, I want a good education for Paban, but am afraid to send him to Roopohi again,” he said.

Paban Singh Kamang (slouching on the chair, wearing green shirt and blue pants) with his siblings, cousins, father and grandmother in their 'chaang ghor'

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The 14 arrested on May 11 and 12 are Bharat Sahu, Tarini Deka, Prodeep Gogoi, Juti Gogoi, Nitumoni Gogoi, Kalpana Gogoi, Gagan Bora, Bhanu Bhuyan, Debo Nath, Dipen Mudoi, Apul Nath, Aghuna Bhuyan, Lakheshwari Chutia and Pratibha Chutia. 

The local activists were specifically horrified in the way Prodeep Gogoi and his wife Juti were attacked by the police. Just opposite the camp at Ghagor, they ran a dhaba. They cooked food for the camp residents, albeit they were paid as per the price on the menu. Eyewitnesses say that they were both beaten and dragged on the street on the night of May 11, after the police had apprehended Gogoi's son Rupankar and his friend Bharat Sahu. Gogoi had charged the police when they had begun to attack the young boys, and that's when both Gogoi and his wife were attacked and finally arrested. Gogoi's hand was fractured; Bharat was also arrested while Rupankar fled to save his life. 

Rupankar Gogoi feels safe with his cousins, but he cannot spend much time with them

When I traversed across the villages that fell under the Chauldhowa Panchayat (the expanse of this Panchayat is very large), nobody knew the wherabouts of Rupankar. Upon reaching Gogoi's father's (Rupankar's paternal grandfather) house in Baasantipur, a cold indifference was felt. Only upon a lot of insistence and convincing that I wasn't sent by the police or the Assam government did they decide to “look out” for Rupankar. Few minutes later he arrived, along with another local activist. Twenty-year-old Rupankar was in a state of shock and fear after all that had happened. In the video below, he explains all that transpired on the night of May 11. He says how the police and the CRPF attacked him and Bharat Sahu; how the armed men even beat up the pigs that they were rearing in the vicinity of the dhaba, to such an extent that they pulled out the skin from the pig's hind side.

Like Gogoi's family which had established deep ties with the movement, Dipen Mudoi was actively participating in the protest by staying at the camp in Ghagor whenever he could. A resident of Katorisapori Bharatpur village, 35-year-old Dipen lived with the family of his elder brother. 

Several women were sitting together in the verandah of Mudoi's residence. One of them was his sister-in-law, Gitali. She explained how both Dipen, and his cousin Manoj Hazarika, were actively involved in the anti-dam movement. “Dipen runs a grocery shop near Na-ali Tiniali. Sometimes, when he would wind up from the shop earlier, he would go and spend some time at the camp in Ghagor or offer to screen the vehicles at the checkpost. On May 11, he didn't come home until 10pm. I did not latch the door from inside, assuming that he had been delayed for some reason. The next morning, we tried to reach him on his mobile but it was swtiched off. When he heard nothing from him until the afternoon of May 12, we began to ask around. That's when we were told that he had been arrested. We were worried, because at the same time we heard about the tanker being torched and several others also being arrested,” said Gitali.

Gitali and Manoj met him in the jail once and he confirmed that he was doing fine. “But he may not say that he was beaten even if we ask, lest we get worried,” said an old lady who was sitting with Gitali. She added, “He is a very quiet boy. Even if he was part of the movement, he would keep to himself. He would do only that was told to him; he would comfortably do anything that he was asked to do. I never saw him angry. It is unbelievable that he would torch a tanker – because I hear that he has been arrested for doing such a thing. He could never have done this. They are trapping him.”

Manoj took the photograph of Dipen Mudoi when he had gone to visit him in the jail

Dibakar Saikia's mother Ilashi too thinks that her son is being falsely implicated. She refuses to divulge further details, lest her son's case would worsen. The way Dibakar was arrested sounds familiar to the way human rights activist Dr Binayak Sen was arrested.

Saikia's residence is on NH 52 and just half a kilometre from the Subansiri bridge. It is unlike the houses visited so far. It is a large concrete structure, and neatly painted in pink. His mother Ilashi spoke to us in few words while cutting the betel nut. Saikia runs a stone crusher mill and had recently purchased a piece of land a little ahead of the erstwhile Ghagor camp, to further extend his business.

“Dibakar's papers for the purchase of the land was in place, and he was in touch with the District Collector for the same. On May 14, he got a call that the DC wanted to meet him in North Lakhimpur. When he went there, he was told that the DC did not call him at all! When he was on his journey back home, he got another call that the SP wanted to see him. When he reached the SP's office, he was arrested,” said his mother.

Was he actively involved in the anti-dam movement? “Look, we live very close to the river. If anything happened to the river, we would be among the first people to be affected. Some say that the dam would do us good, while we also hear about the threats. We are really confused about the dam. My son is just a businessman. He is not an activist,” she emphasised.

Another relative present during the conversation vehemently denied any possible association between Dibakar and any political or activist group. “He only does business and for that he meets many people. He is not aligned to any party or group,” he said.

When I requested Mrs Saikia for a photograph, she reiterated, “Please do not put me into any further trouble.”

"Please do not get us into further trouble": Dibakar Saikia's mother

Dibakar's wife wasn't present at the time of my visiting their residence; she had gone to meet some lawyers. I requested for her phone number so that I could later check on the progress of the case. When I dialled the number later that night, it turned out to be a wrong one. Clearly, the family was shaken with fear. And so was the rest of the region. It wasn't easy to meet people; many of them had several phone numbers of which some were unreachable. Like Bedanta Laskar, one of the key activists of KMSS said, “The government is hell bent on having the dam completed. It will crush all movement, any how. Even the best of police officers are today unrecognizable.”

When Rahim Chacha Says 'Laal Salaam'

[A shorter version of this beautiful encounter was published in Open magazine, Vol 04 Issue 17 dated April 24-30, 2012. Below is a detailed, more intimate version is below.]

A copy of 'New Age Weekly' is visible the moment we enter the room. It lies on the window sill, and the headline from an inside page 'Our Destination is Socialism' stands visible. A narrow bed with a clean white bedspread lies adjacent to the window. A large copper-coloured chariot – from the Mahabharata scene – rests on the sill too, with details about felicitation from IPTA (Indian People's Theatre Association). 

The top of an elongated wooden cupboard bears ground to an army of mementos from his days as an actor. On the wall is one sepia-toned photograph, as well as the certificate of honour of Padma Bhushan, signed by former President of India, APJ Abdul Kalam. The other wall has books authored by Engels, Eisenstein and others, whose pages are yellow and have gathered some dust. Next to it is a small shelf where bottles of syrups, and a bottle of Shower-to-Shower talcum powder, fight for space. 

Quintessential dialogues by Paresh Rawal stream out from a tiny television kept low, below the bookshelf. Then, the sound of a walker reminds us whom we have come to meet. First, the wrinkled face is visible, and then the completely bent-forward body of the man who made “Itna sannaataa kyun hai bhai” a famous dialogue.

He notices the visitors and smiles lightly, pushing the walker with a lot of strength, as visible in the strains of his arms. The green-red assembly of veins and arteries of the arm are clearly visibly behind the paper-thin white skin. In his spartan white khadi kurta and lungi, Avatar Kishan Hangal moves towards his bed and settles on it quickly. A man settles the pillows and cushions, and it is only about 5 minutes later that Hangal is now seemingly comfortably seated – in a position what seems to be a painful slouch. He pulls his soft blanket and asks us to bring our chairs nearer to him. Prakash Reddy, leader of Communist Party of India (CPI), introduces us. When he introduces me as a journalist, Hangal remarks in Hindi, “So many journalists have already written so much about me. What is left to write now? Anyway, ask. I will answer.”

My lips are sealed and eyes are moist. Who am I really to ask him anything? I was visiting him because I had learnt that he had recently renewed his membership with the CPI. I wanted to hear about his days as a 'Comrade', fighting the British as a young boy and then working towards a fair world order through theatre, and thus IPTA. But what “new” will I write? How do I ask about the stories behind the long winding wrinkles, the stories of nearly a century ago? Silence. I shift uncomfortably in the chair. “Ask. Pucho. Daro matt.”

I remember the reason why I was there. He turned 97 this February, and soon enough, he had renewed his membership with the CPI. I began to ask about his association with IPTA, and he begins. “I was a Communist ever since my days in Peshawar.” He realises that the IPTA chapter was far away from the time he became an adult. So he stares up into the tubelight, and begins to talk of Peshawar. I inch forward so that his feeble voice is later audible on my recorder, despite the whirring of the air-conditioner. I did not gather the courage to request it to be switched off.

But he notices it quickly, that I am concerned about the air-conditioner's noise. He asks, “Bandh karnaa hai kya?” I smile and refuse the offer. He turns back to look at the tubelight to scan through the rich fabric of memories.

“I came from an affluent family but that was also the time when we had to fight off the British. Bahut maar khaaya, bahut laathi khaaya, goliyaan bhi lagi (I was beaten up by batons and also was shot at). I began to take up tailoring for a living,” he says. The words seem unclear when he says it at first, and after saying it three times, and louder, do we understand 'tailoring'. He makes that effort to explain that what he knows he has mumbled for a moment. “I was a high-class tailor; a highly paid tailor. The movement was also going on. I joined the movement when I was just 20. I remember the day clearly when Bhagat Singh was arrested, I remember the day when they sentenced him to death, I remember the day when he was hanged to death. Pathans had cried that day. The Pathans had cried! Everyone walked on the streets chanting 'Bhagat Singh, Bhagat Singh'. Tab toh bass dimaag mein baith gayaa tha kii angrezon ko bhagaane hai (It was rooted deep in my mind that the British power had to be overthrown).”

Sentences are paused with a long silence or a short dry cough, before Comrade Hangal speaks again. It seems he has a lot to say, and there is a lot that cannot be just forgotten. He seems far from forgetting anything. From Peshawar, he moved to Karachi, sometime in the mid-1940s, and continued his tailoring work as well as his work in the freedom movement as a Party member. “I also read that you were jailed for three years during the movement,” I say, hoping to hear him speak about that chapter. “Haan, I was in jail for three years. When I was released, I was very happy. But they told me that I have to be tadipaar now. 'Tadipaar' samajhte ho na? I just had one day to leave Karachi with my wife and son. When we were moving, scores of Hindus moved with us. We couldn't understand how our mulk (motherland) was being divided. But we reached Mumbai...” again, the voice trails off. The long pauses seem to reflect the long years spent, which have surely often been summed in just a few sentences or conversations. The flood of memories rush in at their own will or when beckoned. 

Life began to move on: he continued tailoring for raees ('rich') clients. He continued his deep association with the Party. He was instrumental in making IPTA a formidable force of political action on the stage, and then he joined the Hindi film industry. Did he have any conversations about politics with the people with whom he worked in films? Comrade Hangal nods his head in disapproval. “Doing films was just work. I enjoyed my time in IPTA.” Before I could ask him any more questions from that chapter of his life which was about the glitter of Bollywood, he turns to face Comrade Reddy: “Arre yaar kuch toh bataao aajkal Party mein kya ho rahaa hai!” (Say something now about all that's happening in the Party!) 

Comrade Reddy gives him updates: “Patna ko toh laal kar diyaa iss baar... dus hazaar log aaye the.... (We coloured Patna red this time... 10,000 people had assembled).” Comrade Hangal listens with wide eyes and a wide smile. After a few minutes of updates, he says, “Chalo acchi baat hai.” He turns to me, to give the journalist an important piece of analytical information: “The Party has gone through several changes. It has made many mistakes too in the past, but the important thing is to learn from mistakes. It is going through a good phase now.” He straightens his back and tries to continue sitting up for us.

Hangal's son Vijay walks in and sits in a corner, as we continue to chat with his father. Comrade Hangal says politely, “I think this is enough for today? The boy will come any minute now to shave my beard. Lekin phir aana zaroor (But do come again).” But Comrade Hangal is already clean-shaven. Before we say our goodbyes, the rest of us want to now take photographs with Comrade Hangal, and surround him turn by turn. Comrade Hangal obliges with smiles. We urge Vijay saab to join in the photographs and he shyly refuses. Comrade Hangal then says, “I wish I could have given him an easier childhood. He and his mother suffered a lot due to my involvement in the andolan (movement). Even now, he has to look after me all the time. I feel bad for him.” Vijay saab says nothing. When photographs are clicked through tiny cameras and smart phones, Comrade Hangal wants to see each of them. “Flash nahi aaya. Phir se kheecho (The camera did not flash the light. Take another photograph).” And then he is happy to see them all. “Life is not just politics. This is also life,” Comrade Hangal laughs. 

The barber walks in. “Iskaa bhi kheecho photo! (Photograph him too!)” Comrade Hangal says, and then he is very pleased to see the photograph. “Please definitely make a copy and give him the photo. Please do not forget,” he urges. We walk out, and Vijay saab invites us into the facing flat of this old, dilapidating building in Santacruz east, where they have been living since the 1960s. The building is among the few of that disappearing breed in Mumbai, that have a leafy canopy over the balconies on three storeys. Vijay saab asks us if any of us enjoy poetry, and all of us unanimously reply in the affirmative. It is a Sunday evening and none of us seem to have anything more pressing. So we follow Vijay saab into his neat room and he pulls out plastic folders that contain papers. This is his poetry, and Vijay saab begins to recite them. Memories of moments now unattainable, the reminiscence of mother's touch and the desire for his wife's company (Comrade Hangal and Vijay saab are both widowers) are the subjects of his lyrical words in English. He says later, almost apologetically, that he prefers to write in English although he is fluent in Hindi.

Vijay saab is 74 years old, and has been taking care of his father since a decade. He was a photographer but long travels had begun to take a toll on his health. Besides, long days away from Mumbai meant a constant worry about his aging father. He says that few people visit them, although the father-son duo would both love the company of people.

We hear the click of the walker and Comrade Hangal walks in slowly, looking brighter. He decides to sit on a sofa and begins to inquire about each of us. He wants a detailed background – not just names. He listens intently and later jokes about a few tongue-twisting surnames. He then suddenly remembers that he had not worn his denture. Nevertheless, he continues to chat. This time, he is more upright in his seat.

It is time to leave, finally. As we greet him, he presses our palms, one by one, between his tough yet soft hands. After we all are done greeting, he says aloud, “Come again when you are not too busy. I will like it.”

One of us says “Laal Salaam Comrade!” Comrade Hangal smiles widely and raises his fist up and shakes it vigorously, saying “Laal Salaam, Laal Salaam!” He laughs, and then coughs vigourously.

Slogans As Songs, Songs As Slogans

(This article first appeared in The Times of India Crest edition, dated April 28, 2012)

Pakistani protest band Laal uses music and satire to take Marx to the masses.


When the Pakistani band Laal walked into Hard Rock Cafe Mumbai hours before their performance there, they were clear about what they wanted - a clean stage without many props. "It would be amazing if we could project the video of Dehshatgardi murdabad (Down with the perpetrators of mayhem) while we play live. That video says it all, " says Taimur Rahman, the man behind the music, videos and politics that makes Laal a progressive and rebellious band. After years of free performances for workers and peasants, singing the poetry of Faiz Ahmed Faiz, receiving hate mail but also thousands of internet hits - especially for Jhoot Ka Uncha Sar, which had an all-woman crew wearing moustaches to mock the system - the band recently toured India to launch their second album Utho Meri Duniya (My World, Wake Up).

"In a way, we follow Gramsci's position on warfare: using the little space available for dissent and pushing the boundaries to expand that space, " says Taimur. "Laal has been successful because we have managed to get our voice into the mainstream media. Even if we do not agree with the mainstream entirely, we can find a common ground. Strategy is the key. "

Taimur is accompanied by wife, Mahvash Waqar, who was a journalist with a news channel until November 2011 when the channel was pulled off the air. "I am jobless now but a fulltime singer for Laal, " Waqar smiles. Then, there is banker Haider Rahman, Taimur's cousin, who takes the place of third vocalist with his flute. Taimur, Mahvash and Haider have kept Laal alive, with sessions musicians joining them whenever there are funds available to pay them.
Taimur grew up in an environment where Marxism was part of the air he breathed - his father is a well-known Left-wing intellectual while his mother is a founding member of the Women's Action Forum. "I grew up listening to Bob Marley and songs of protest, so my path was an obvious one, " says the 36-year-old assistant professor of political science at Lahore University of Management Sciences (LUMS), who is also the General Secretary of Communist Mazdoor Kissan Party (Pakistan) and is associated with various trade unions and peasant organisations.

The band is excited by the impact of the Dehshatgardi murdabad video, a montage with a rock-and-roll feel to it, with the lyrics exposing the role of the US in supporting the early Taliban. Taimur wrote the song and directed the video. They got plenty of hate mail and comrades from the party advised Taimur to absent himself from public meetings for a while. "The state is more predictable;we know the triggers for state action. But the vigilante phenomenon from the last few years in Pakistan is much more dangerous, " says Taimur with a serious voice. A moment later, he loosens his shoulders and smiles, "But I cannot be talking of my little fears compared to what is happening in Karachi or north-west Pakistan. "

"We would shout and sing out slogans, and that was in a way our training. Our songs were slogans, and our slogans were songs, " he says. The video of Maine Unse Yeh Kahaa (I said to him. . . ) was shot outside his room and uploaded on Youtube. It was an overnight success and Laal was formally born in 2008. Geo TV released their first album, which was a huge hit.

"It seemed like the media was hunting for artistes and musicians who were ready to speak aloud, especially after the veil of Emergency and censorship by General Musharraf had disappeared, " says Taimur. "The media was ready to go beyond its role of reporting. Today, we do enjoy freedom of speech. The newspapers are doing their job. The surge of news channels has meant more space. We have taken up that one per cent space for free speech;taking up the 99 per cent space won't be long. "
When he is not practising with the band or lecturing at LUMS, Taimur conducts seminars on labour rights for workers and trade unions. Then, there are the free performances across the country, throughout the month. "Somehow we manage to do at least one concert a month to bring home some money, " says Waqar. They are only too aware of the big money that they could have made if they had a corporate sponsor. "But our mission is not to make money. We are very happy to do the free performances among peasants, " says Taimur. Recently, Laal toured through Europe and none of the performances, except for one, earned them anything. Whatever profit they possibly make is reinvested into making videos. The video Doob gaya was used to raise funds after the devastating floods of 2010.

Despite being an internet sensation, Taimur knows that the band's real stomping ground is at the grassroots level, where issues like growing religious extremism need to be tackled. "We should remember that without grassroots action, there is no other alternative. We made the video of Utho Meri Duniya during a rally of 10, 000 people. We sang with them using loudspeakers from the village mosque. Our work in the last 15 years has been with the grassroots;it is only now that we are doing albums. The one who doesn't go work with the grassroots will have his work only floating in the air, " concludes Taimur, with a 'Laal Salaam' instead of 'Khuda Hafiz'.

A Film With A Difference

 

(This article first appeared in The Hindu, dated January 28, 2012)

 

It took 14 years to make the 200-minute-long documentary “Jai Bhim Comrade” on Dalits. 

Director Anand Patwardhan explains why.

 

 

A still from the documentary.

 

 

On January 9, in the bylanes of Byculla's BIT Chawl, a documentary was premiered after sundown. A huge white screen ensured that people from the three-storeyed buildings nearby could also view the film. For over three hours Anand Patwardhan's “Jai Bhim Comrade” took us on a musical-historical journey. Beginning with the rousing voice of Vilas Ghogre, we move quickly to the police killings in Ramabai Nagar in 1997. Suddenly, the camera takes us inside Ghogre's home, where he scribbled his last words before committing suicide on the fifth day after the police firing. 

Why did the film take 14 years to make? “I wanted to continue filming till all the false cases against the people in the colony were removed, or until the police officers who had ordered the firing were sent to jail,” explains Patwardhan. The Ramabai Nagar case took its own natural course. Another thread was exploring the tension between caste and class. Patwardhan says, “Vilas was a Dalit who became a Marxist, but then chose to reassert his Dalit identity, by tying a blue scarf as he hung himself. I wanted to understand this seeming clash of identities. As Vilas was no more, I began filming others from his musical tradition. A few were Leftists like Vilas, others celebrated Dr. Ambedkar's life and message. I wanted to do justice to this whole spectrum.” 

A still from the documentary

The spectrum is broad indeed — from a proud song describing the Dalit who became a barrister, to those that recount the travails of migrant workers to the city; from lullabies based on the teachings of the Buddha, to naughty qawaalis that celebrated sexuality equally by men and women. Almost each song is juxtaposed with evocative visuals — claustrophobic slum-dwelling illustrated by a chicken coop; “My barrister husband is coming home” juxtaposed with visuals of men sweeping the streets. As Patwardhan points out, this is not an ethnographic film. “It is a record of the people and events I encountered. Many were not recognised as singers. Saraswati Bansode was a housewife. Shanta Bai Gadpaile's husband was a poet and she remembers his songs. The tradition is so strong that ordinary people just sang.” 

Many songs in the film narrate the game politicians have played with Dalits. In one instance, at an Ambedkar Jayanti function, small boys are dancing to the tune of “In the Mumbai... we are the Bhai..” from Bollywood's “Shootout At Lokhandwala”. Somehow the lyrics fit — Dalits have been used by the underworld, as well as political parties. 

Actual statistics higher

The mention of the Khairlanji incident was thus expected. “Official records show that two Dalits are raped and three killed daily. The actual statistics are higher. The film speaks of two other cases from Beed — a teacher murdered and a girl raped. So people cannot say that Khairlanji was a one-off incident which won't happen again. These incidents are part of our daily occurrence,” says Patwardhan. 

The fact that instead of addressing this, Dalit leaders are busy flirting with the Congress or with Hindutva, got the audience to acknowledge the movement's weak leadership today. Several of them, including Dr. Ambedkar's grandson Anandrao, felt that the documentary was a wake-up call. But what generated most outrage was the way in which Kabir Kala Manch (KKM) was forced by the police to go underground. 

Singers and poets

Patwardhan had met KKM in 2007 during a memorial meet at Ramabai Nagar. He followed these cultural activists and their families as they raised questions about the effects of a “development” that displaces the poor and Dalits alike. In June 2011, Sheetal Sathe and all the people from KKM had been pushed underground as they had been branded as Naxalites. “That's when I realised that I have to start showing this film. I want this country to understand who these singers and poets are so that people like Sheetal can come out in the open again and prove that they hadn't done anything wrong, anything more than speak up for the powerless,” says Patwardhan. 

The premiere on January 9 had its effect. Born out of the Dalit movement, the film was going back to the same people on the day when they remember Dalit Panther theatre activist Bhagwat Jadhav. A resident of BIT Chawl, Jadhav was killed during a rally in 1974, when Shiv Sena supporters dropped a grinding stone on his head. Since then, every year, his family conducts a memorial talk. There couldn't have been a better tribute this year than the premiere of “Jai Bhim Comrade”. 

A still from the documentary

“Basti screenings are a must. The intellectual class in India laps up and understands every political nuance of the developed world, but the reverse is not true. We like to be spoon-fed with over-simplified cliches, and that concession I have refused to make,” says Patwardhan, about his 200-minute-long documentary.

But tell him that this is his first documentary that has managed to get a Censor certificate without a major struggle, then he smiles, “Perhaps the democratic system is maturing? I think the upper castes know that they have been oppressing Dalits for thousands of years. If Dalits don't have a right to say ‘Gande Mataram', then who does?” 

Greeting 'Tashi Delek' in Mumbai

On November 12 last year, 25 people congregated in a Bandra flat to prepare and eat momo. This delicacy was the magnet that drew about 20 Tibetans living in Mumbai to come together and chatter in the language of their homeland – greeting each other with 'tashi delek'. The news of 11 monks immolating themselves in the Kirti Monastery in the Ngaba region of eastern Tibet seemed like a news from a distant land. Only, this was news about their own people.

This momo party was the only time when Tenzin Choedhar (26) saw so many Tibetans in Mumbai come together, in the 5 years that she has been living and working in the city. “Tibetan students in Delhi have the time and space to raise the issue of Tibet. Moreover, they are mostly living together as a community in the refugee camp. But Mumbai is the launchpad for our careers. There is a feeling of helplessness about our identity. But we aren't able to do much and hence have no other option but to move on with our own lives,” says Choedhar, who grew up in Delhi, far from the Tibetan refugee camp. She works at a MNC that does business in China and Taiwan. “I never engage in any political discussions with my colleagues, because I am not too clear of what I have to say.”

The story is a little different for Tenzin Methok, who had been accompanying her father to Mumbai every winter, selling sweaters in Parel. Raised at a boarding in Ooty, Methok came to Mumbai for her graduate studies. “People assumed I was from Nepal or Manipur. When I would correct them, they would have many questions about I was not living in my own country. I did not have clear answers myself, until I met Kallianpur jii,” says the petite girl, who now works with a HR firm in Powai.

Fifty-eight-year old CA Kallianpur has kept alive Friends of Tibet (FoT) since 2003 from his home in Bandra – the site for the momo party. An avid reader of military history, he prepares packages of articles on understanding Tibet better. These are posted to people, whose addresses he might have come across through lay visiting cards. “Most Mumbaikars do not know where Tibet is. After explaining the Geography, I tell people that Tibet's case for independence is clear under international law,” says Kallianpur. His residence has become the arrival lounge for Tibetans who wish to shape their career in Mumbai.

Bhutanese Kelly Dorji came to Mumbai to further his studies, and became a ramp model and actor. In 2008, he was invited by his aunt to join her in praying for Tibetans at a rally in Mumbai, during the Beijing Olympics. Dorji's grandmother and several other relatives are from Tibet. "I felt honoured when I was asked to say a few words to the large gathering there, which comprised mostly exiled Tibetan monks. I stood in prayer on Indian soil as a guest, praying for the people of Tibet. But I think Mumbai had the same reaction as most of India – after a fleeting glimpse, the page was turned to the latest scores in cricket!"

But 'career' no more means becoming a waiter or hairdresser. “Today, you will find many Tibetans taking up significant roles in large companies. They are well-educated, and have developed the confidence of doing much more than making the traditional noodles,” says Tibetan writer and activist Tenzin Tsundue, who lived in Mumbai for five years. He was one of the founding members of FoT in Mumbai in 1998, which organised a seven-day cultural Festival of Tibet in March 2000, across several venues in the city. It was in Mumbai where Tsundue nurtured his talent as a writer and poet, under the guidance of several noted poets of the time.

The momo party was Tsundue's idea. He knew that the Tibetans in Mumbai ought to be woven into a community. That was also the week when the Bollywood film 'Rockstar' was to be released. The Tibetans were thankful to filmmaker Imtiaz Ali for talking about Tibet and freedom, through a song. However, the Indian Censor Board dashed their hopes when it asked the filmmaker to blur 'Tibet' during a scene that carried a banner of 'Free Tibet'. Tsundue met the Board but brought back no happy results. The previous week, on November 4, 25-year-old Sherab Tsedor had set himself on fire outside the Chinese Embassy in New Delhi, in solidarity with the 11 monks who had immolated themselves. Alert cops managed to rush him to a hospital. Today, Tsedor updates his progress in healing on Facebook.

“Facebook is one of the best mediums for us in Mumbai to stay connected,” said Dolkar Tenzin. She created the 'Tibetan Mumbaikars' community page on Facebook, and updates it with news and events pertaining to Tibet. A few non-Tibetans are also part of this small online group of 72. Methok, on the other hand, says that she has become synonymous with being the contact person for any Tibetan who wants to step foot in Mumbai. “Some days, I have to bunk work to be at the programmes organised for Tibet. It was easier when I was a student at St Xavier's College,” she says.

The girls are joined by Pasang Tashi (25) who is hoping to take up a more active role in organising events and demonstrations. Pasang was separated from his parents at the age of three, when he was brought to live and study in Dharamsala. He completed his graduate studies in Bangalore and came to Mumbai in 2010. “I do not miss my family as I did not develop any bond with them. China did not allow me to know my family. Now, I can only try to get more people to know about us and stand by us in our freedom movement. We cannot lose committed people to self-immolations, which is a desperate step. The Kirti monastery has become an extreme prison, with no food or water being supplied to the devout monks inside,” Pasang explains.

Ask him if he remembers anything of his early years in Tibet, and he says, “My only memory of Tibet are the mountains, the grass all around, and our house which was a tent. All of that feels like a dream, as though I never lived it.” Much like the nomadic lifestyle of the resident Tibetans, and the ones in exile, Pasang lives in the office of the production house where he works.

Remembering those who self-immolated themselves for a free Tibet, for a better tomorrow -- at McLeod Ganj, Dharamsala, November 2011.  © Nitesh Mohanty

'Why Is Narendra Modi Afraid Of Sanjiv Bhatt?'

("I asked for water; not caste")

A mosaic in the backyard of Gandhi's Sabarmati Ashram in Ahmedabad. Is this the same Gujarat?

+++

[Sanjiv and Shweta Bhatt are caring hosts to their guests. The large and yet simple Bhatt residence oozes warmth from all corners. This home, that has nurtured this brave family to do what is right before might, leads me to understand them a little better. Over a cup of appropriately-spiced masala chai, I relax in their leafy terrace. Shweta Bhatt narrates to me her feelings and thoughts about the Gujarat that was once safe, her brave husband, and the sea of humanity that keeps her family afloat in these rough times. On the other hand, the suspended IPS officer who is in no hurry to get back to his office, always has a fixed answer with a smile: “Life is good.” The answer and the smile: neither of them are false. Here are Shweta's words, as she urges me to “tell the world the truth about Narendra Modi...”]

I have always been a housewife; I am a housewife still, and am happy to be one. Sanjiv and I both love our families a lot, and our family has always stood by us. We had a love marriage. We were preparing for the UPSC exams, but I did not go for the interview because we were in a steady relationship by then – why waste a seat when I wouldn't be in the Services? When Sanjiv had filled his form, he wrote “IPS”, “IPS”, “IPS” for the three options of choice of the Service. He was always in love with the force; he was in love with the uniform. So when he saw what had transpired in 2002, he was shocked. But more than anything else, he felt sorry for the force. The way the policemen had barged into our house showed us how they stripped away dignity and discipline from the uniform.

There is something special about the police uniform, or any other uniform for that manner. A man who wears even the driver's uniform transforms his behaviour. The uniform commands some respect. Similarly, any police officer would stand up to greet the lady-wife, even if she is the wife of one's junior officer.

But none of that respect for the uniform or the senior officer or for the lady-wife was to be seen, when 35 policemen barged into our house, without any prior intimation or without any search warrant. We realised that this was dictated and threatened to them, on the lines of “Go and abuse your senior officer.”

Sanjiv would discuss everything with me, so I knew what needed to be spoken or asked at the right time. When he decided to speak aloud, we knew that there would be repercussions. But we never dreamt that the police force could stoop to such low levels. When they came to my house, they began to dig through every item. Few of them would apologise for what they were doing, stating that they were under compulsion to conduct such a behaviour. I said nothing to them, because I knew that this was Modi's ways of harassing us, to break our morale. I never resisted what they were doing either. I told filmmaker Mahesh Bhatt, “I thought it was only in Hindi films that cops barge into people's homes and throw up clothes and everything around in their search operations. But we saw this happening with our own eyes, in our own home, by the same police force that Sanjiv loves.” मुझे अब तो इस फोर्स पर घिन आती है (I look down at the Force with disdain now). 

The IPS Officers' Association was lying defunct for several years, but then I heard that they had a meeting after many years, when Sanjiv was arrested. Some of Sanjiv's peers would call me up on my landline phone and ask me in whispers, “Can we do anything for you Shweta?” I would reply to them, “At least begin to talk a bit louder so that I can hear you clearly!” This is the level of fear among the officers.

Only one who lives in Gujarat can correctly define the word 'subversion'. Men from the IB (Intelligence Bureau) had begun to jot the phone numbers and car numbers of every visitor discreetly. I finally asked one of those constables to stop behaving like a thief in copying the car number plate. Now, they just thoroughly question the visitor.

We learnt that Special Public Prosecutor SV Raju was being paid Rs 1.5 crore to 'manage' the court proceedings, and on Fridays, he was being paid some more so that the remand would drag onto the next week. But it was heartening to see the media come to the courts daily, to watch the proceedings. When he was finally granted bail, everyone cheered aloud 'Singham'! This sudden fame and hero worship has been overwhelming, yet assuring us about what Sanjiv had done.

I am sure many more policemen would have much to talk about to, but not all have the courage to do so. They are bound by other restrictions. But then again, we have been fortunate to have found the support and strength from so many different directions. So far it has been believed that anyone who speaks against Modi is the enemy. But something changed this year. On Dusshera day, at several places across Gujarat, Modi was portrayed as the Raavan and Sanjiv was portrayed as Singham!

The protection that the Home Ministry is offering us is so weak – just three men, and only one of them with a gun. We do fear for our lives. One of the constables comes with us wherever we go. But now Sanjiv has to travel to Jamnagar for his cases, or even Delhi. He is also being invited at various fora across the country, wanting him to speak to eager audiences. He cannot say refuse such invitations because now it is our time to stand with them. He is the hope for many people today. They stood by us in what was our dark hour when Sanjiv was arrested. But all this travel means he is being watched all the time. The phones are tapped; his official phone number has been cancelled. These are Modi's ways of harassing anyone standing against him.

Sanjiv kept on insisting the SIT that he should be summoned to give his statements. But they ignored him because they knew that मोदी का पोल खुल जाएगा (Modi's secrets would be out). Why is Modi afraid of Sanjiv? Because Sanjiv has everything to say which Modi wants to hide.

What Modi did in 2002 was nothing short of a systematic and well-funded killing of Gujarat, which was once a truly prosperous and harmonious state. We never had a communal flare-up before Modi reign. BJP has changed that picture of Gujarat. There are flyovers being made in Kanpur; there are flyovers being made in Allahabad; there are flyovers being made in Ahmedabad. So why are just flyovers being deemed as development? There is no development in Gujarat; on the contrary, we are moving backwards.

Many have asked skeptically, why is Sanjiv speaking out now? Has he done it for Congress? My answer is this: there is something beyond politics, and that is one's one soul and conscience. Sanjiv is doing what he is doing for himself, and in doing so, to prevent any such communal flare-up ever again.

For all those 18 days when Sanjiv was in jail, my 75-year-old father, despite his ailing knees, would arrive here at 9 am each day, to be with me. People whom I had never known would just come home – they were people from different human rights groups, students from colleges, and others who had no group or organisation as their affiliation. I was buying up to 45 packets of milk everyday, for a constant supply of tea or nimboo paani to the visitors. That strength they offered was unbelievable. They knew that Sanjiv was doing the right thing.

Many many many people stood with candles every evening when Sanjiv was in jail. They would come and say, “We are with you.” We were at the mall the other day, and at least 12 people walked to our table and said to Sanjiv, “You are a brave man. We are proud of what you have done. We are with you.” Saniv and I wonder what it is that they mean by “We are with you.” We wonder if the people uttering those words would also know what they mean by that sentence. But we are happy to hear those words and are assured to know that people can see between right and wrong.

++++

Be it on the streets....

Or on the bus....

On a residential building's wall...

Or on the concrete fence of a beautiful garden....

Just remember: Modi Bhai Is Watching You. It isn't anymore surprising that 'Modi' rhymes with 'moti', which, in Gujarati means 'big'. Literally, Big Brother is Watching You, in Gujarat!

When Modi Bhai isn't watching you directly, he urges you to look up at the photograph of Hrithik Roshan, which in reality is the compulsion for you to check out the gymnasium that has been sponsored by the Hindu Saamrajya Sena (Hindu Imperial Army).

Note: all of the photographs above have been taken within a stretch of 300 metres. On another day in South Gujarat, when I had to change 8 buses, I greeted Modi on each bus as he waved to me from the bus's side panels.

Resistance to dam project grows in south Gujarat

People from 16 villages on the Gujarat-Maharashtra border have been demonstrating their resistance to the Par-Tapi-Narmada river interlinking project, another multi-dam project which is slated to submerge 3,572 hectares of forests and displace 25,000 people

It was noon and the sun could no longer hide behind the clouds. One by one, women trickled in to sit on the black tarpaulin laid under a cluster of bamboo trees. Behind them sat the men, in the shade. K P Sasi’s Gaon Chodab Nahi blared from loudspeakers nearby.

Finally, it was time for the meeting to begin. Anusuya Ben, who had travelled 20 km in a tempo, took the mike and began to sing a song she had composed specially for the event: “Paikhed gaamcha dam aamhi baandhoon denaar naahi” (“We won’t let the Paikhed dam be built”). The assembled crowd of around 200 joined her in song.

For the next two hours, Naragdhari village reverberated to the sound of loud, angry, determined speeches. Hot, thirsty and hungry, people from 16 villages on the Gujarat-Maharashtra border sat in the sun to show their collective disapproval of the Par-Tapi-Narmada river interlinking project. A month earlier, they had coloured their thumbs blue and stamped two memorandums to be sent to the Ministry of Tribal Affairs and the Ministry of Water Resources requesting that the mammoth river interlinking project aimed at supplying water to already-irrigated central Gujarat be shelved.

A few quick figures would best explain the significance of this meeting and other such congregations in the past: seven rivers, seven dams, seven reservoirs, a 401 km-long link canal, submergence of 3,572 hectares of forest land, displacement of 25,000 people, and cattle.

The project is part of the peninsular river development component, proposed in the 1970s. It comprises the building of seven reservoirs on the Par, Nar, Tapi, Purna, Ambica, Auranga and Khapri rivers, and a 401 km-long link canal connecting the reservoirs, to irrigate 1.88 lakh hectares in Bharuch and Vadodara districts which are already slated to be irrigated by the Sardar Sarovar dam waters. The feasibility reports prepared by the National Water Development Agency (NWDA) mention that the project will also generate 93 Mkwh of electricity; the end consumers are only vaguely mentioned. The human price to be paid has been calculated using census data from as far back as 1991: the displacement figure has been put at 14,832 people. Today, the number of people likely to be displaced easily stands at 25,000.

***

One day in 2010, men with large maps and measurement paraphernalia arrived in some of the villages and began taking measurements of the river and the soil. The men told the villagers they were from the irrigation department. “Ramesh called me up to tell me about the measurements being taken. I looked up the Internet and was shocked to find out about the river interlinking project. It was then that we realised that the NWDA had been discreetly conducting its surveys without informing the people about the project or its consequences,” says Michael Mazgaonkar, an activist based in Narmada district. Since that phone call, he and several others have been travelling to villages in Dharampur taluka, Valsad district. Everywhere they go they speak to people and sense their anger at not being consulted on the project.

Collective realisation of their possible submergence, and the subsequent anger, resulted in the formation of the Par-Purna Adivasi Sangathan comprising people from Gundiya, Khadki, Tutarkhed, Chikhalpada, Mohanakavchali, Satvakal and other villages and hamlets across Dharampur taluka.

The NWDA’s feasibility report says surveys could not be completed at sites where the Paikhed, Jheri, Kelwan and Mohankavchali dams are to be built “due to local resistance”. Surveys at other dam sites -- Chasmandva, Chikkar and Dabdar dams -- have been carried out by the Survey of India, entrusted either by the Government of India or the NWDA. “Water from the seven proposed reservoirs will take over part of the command area of the ongoing Sardar Sarovar Project, while irrigating small areas en route. This will save Sardar Sarovar Project (SSP) water which will be used to extend irrigation in the Saurashtra and Kutch region,” the report says.

But there are several loopholes in the report: apart from incomplete sub-surface geological and other surveys, there is no mention of the areas to be irrigated, or details of provision of drinking water to Vadodara municipal regions, or data on existing and future industries and their water requirements.

***

The Miyagam and Vadodara branches of the SSP currently supply water to Bharuch and Vadodara districts. These are regions that also support a large number of industrial estates and Special Economic Zones (SEZ). At the ‘Vibrant Gujarat: Global Investors Summit’, held three times during this decade, 69 and 38 MoUs were signed within Bharuch and Vadodara respectively, with a total investment of Rs 1,01,810 crore and Rs 14,414 crore respectively. These districts get their water from the SSP. Clearly, the surplus water to be brought from south Gujarat -- if the river interlinking project does manage to see the light of the day -- will be directed at materialising these bulky investments.

Based on the 2004-2005 price index, the project was cited to cost Rs 6,016 crore. The NWDA report puts the cost-benefit ratio at just 1:1.08 -- the usual ratio for approval is 1:1.5. The cost to people and the environment have not been factored in.

The catchment area is pristine forestland that falls in a seismic III zone. The NWDA mentions that the reservoirs will together submerge 7,559 hectares of land. This includes 3,572 hectares of forestland, and around 24 villages. The NDWA claims 51 villages will be partially submerged, although people in the area say their common understanding of the hilly terrain places the number much higher. Like any large dam project, this project too will be responsible for large-scale displacement of people and livestock.

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Over the past two years there have been several calls for solidarity, culminating in meetings and a massive rally earlier this year. The Par-Purna Adivasi Sangathan has passed at least five resolutions at the panchayat level.

In September, 1,500 residents of Gundiya, Khadki, Tutarkhed, Chikhalpada, Mohanakavchali, Satvakal and other villages in Dharampur taluka, Valsad district, assembled on the banks of the river Nar. By 11.45 am, the grey riverbed, as seen from the winding road leading down to the river, was dotted with colour. A stage built the previous day out of large rocks was the focus. One by one, the sarpanch of each village represented in the Sangathan spoke about why unity was important in protecting rivers, fields, livelihoods, homes, humans, cattle -- indeed all of their futures. “We are happy to come here together, but don’t take our photograph now. Take my photograph when I’m angry, when I’m crying,” said one woman who had walked for almost three hours to get to the meeting site. I asked her if she had come alone. “My whole village is here, my husband, children and grandchildren too. We all woke up early today to clean and cook so that we could be here on time.”

In another corner, a woman was breastfeeding her child. After a while both were still -- the child had fallen asleep, the young mother listened with rapt attention as the details of two memorandums were read out. They were addressed to V Kishore Chandra Deo (Minister of Tribal Affairs) and Pawan Kumar Bansal (Minister of Water Resources), offering scientific explanations as to why the proposed project would only spell doom for the region. The two-page letters detailed the illegal way in which the NWDA had been conducting surveys in several villages without any consultations with the gram sabha.

Besides issues like flood damage and increased river salinity that could be caused by the proposed project, questions are also being raised about the efficacy of the project at a time when the impact of the SSP is yet to be assessed, and the need for additional water clearly established.

Although around 6,500 people eventually signed the memorandums, Sujata Shah, who has been at the forefront of the struggle, believes the fragmented nature of resistance among various sections of the people will weaken the effort. “We need to set up committees in every village, and committees led by women too. While large meetings like this are essential, you have to take the lead in preventing this project from displacing you,” Shah explained at the meeting.

For now, people are contributing small sums of money to fuel the resistance. Anusuya Ben says: “I do not know what to do. My anger and fear about this project come across through my songs. I’m glad that these songs are becoming famous and people are singing them at every meeting. But finally, the sarkar should hear our pleas.”

(This article has first appeared on Infochange News & Features. View it here)