The Dead Trees of Indrawati

5 am, June 11, Tuesday. At a time when the rest of the world is slowly, groggily rubbing its eyes and waking up, I am already up and ready. Today I would be visiting Padepadar, a Gram Panchayat in the neighbouring district Kalahandi's Thuamul Rampur Block. The birds have just begun to coo and the wind is blowing at a steady pace. It had been raining all through the night and now the clouds seem to have taken a break, thankfully. Not losing a moment, three more staff from Agragamee, a visitor and I pack into the waiting vehicle and set off on the 3 hour journey.

***

I feel grateful to be alive on a day as this. The erstwhile undivided Koraput region of Odisha is known for its resplendent beauty, the scenery is breathtaking at every point. The hills of the Eastern Ghats are coated in a shade of green that seems perennial and almost unreal. Maybe forty hills on one side forming a chain and about the same number on the other side. It looks like the flanks of two battle-bound armies have been made to square up to each other and the impasse is just creating all the electricity in the air. The sun still undecided on whether to make an appearance only reluctantly sheds light on the waking denizens. Somewhere in the distance, as the road curves and bends and rolls out hamlet after hill and hill after hamlet, one can hear the jingle of the bamboo-bells tied around the cattle's neck. The tribal must be herding his folk over some grassy slope, under these grey skies that threaten to burst any moment. At the same time, the fragile rain drops of previous night slowly fall and trickle to collect as tiny brooks between the gigantic rocks of the hills. Even the smooth roads present here seem to be an unnatural occurrence, an oddity compared to the back-breaking pothole-filled paths that I had earlier travelled on in the state. And in front of us, the tar path stretches in unending slopes and downs, snuggled tightly between the opposing hills and safely guarded by miles and miles of trees of either sides. I notice sometimes that it is mango, ripe with fruits hangings on every branch and sometimes it is the eucalyptus, tall, barren and moving to the wind. It all makes for a pleasant journey, a feast to the eyes and indeed provoking such bliss and contentment that can only be the effect of a spiritual transcendence.

As the hours pass, the villagers slowly peek out of their homes; some women already setting the firewood ready for cooking and the men lazily brushing their teeth with the twig of a neem tree. The car rolls on. On the hills now, we can spot patches of land cleared by the Adivasis, maybe to cultivate their mandia, kandul dal or other millets. These primitive tribal groups are forever at the mercy of their "Lords"- the Forest Department and the Sahukar, their local moneylender. I wonder if these cleared uplands have the grace and blessings of these powers for a bountiful harvest. Slowly and increasingly we can now see farmers, men and women, carrying their plough and shovel to begin another hard day's work. They seem not to have the leisure just to look around and take in the beautiful sight of the hills in the morning. Occupied with their own thoughts, they trickle in a file along the road. Where the roads end, they are already breaking the stones on the hill. Their movements are swift and agile, never losing balance or pace or intensity of work. It is something uniquely tribal, I have come to realize. Their sure-footing, a dignified sway of the hips and a reticent laugh, all these belong only to the people of the hills. Their settlements that dotted the lowlands typically mirrored the inhabitants. They were simple, austere because of poverty and joyous because they were at the lap of nature. Whatever their cares and worries, it went to sleep with them and the mornings and tomorrows were celebrated as gifts of living. It is between the houses of such Adivasis and their dangars, the uplands, that the Indrawati flows.

***

The Indrawati seems majestic even at the start, when one can just spot small lakes of water in the valleys, and she just grows in width and depth to an extent where the Indrawati is all that the eyes can see. Even the domineering hills have been pushed to the background, the river is the centre of this world. Reflecting the colours of the sky, the water is a greyish pale blue and away from the clouds a muddy colour of the rained down slopes. But the remarkable silence and calm of the waters somehow gave the warning of an imminent outburst. There were no villages around here, though some huts could be spotted on tops of the hills. An occasional catamaran or a plank of bamboos tied together was tethered to a stump on either banks of the river. The flanks of hills peered over these waters in an accusing stare, like the water mass was the cause of no human presence in that area. Maybe, I thought, the villagers had their own story. Suddenly, just out of nowhere logs of wood protruded from between the waters. And even more unexpected, Indrawati seemed to be littered with the top withered branches of trees. All stretched out and gaping, like the final moments of a drowning person. No movement, no sign of life, just the outstretched hands, silent and signaling an end. These were the dead trees of Indrawati.

The lowlands between the hills, washed away by the Indrawati River. Here, at the start of the diverted course, one can still see the remains of few dead trees. And far behind, hamlets that scampered up the hills.

***

Padepadar is a beautiful group of villages. It overlooks the Indrawati from the high hill tops and it has its own schools, ration shop and Panchayat office. One of the hamlets in Padepadar is Amtapas. We reached the hamlet and saw it end the same street where it started. Amtapas was an inhabitation of just eight households. Seeing us, the outsiders arrive, the tribal families stepped out with curiosity and offered us a seat in their verandahs. I had no idea what to expect out of our conversation with them and just went about making small talk hoping to build on that. To call what was to follow melancholic would be injustice to Amtapas' people.

This Amtapas was only a recent settlement. What originally was the Amtapas village was a larger hamlet with thirty seven households and each of the families having large landholdings of atleast 15-30 acres. Soba Dei Nayak, a woman in her 60s proudly remarked, "We only had to go the markets to get kerosene oil. We used to cultivate everything else. " Now these villagers hardly have any land to their names and go to the higher reaches of the hills to collect firewood or break stones for a living! Why? The government decided to set up the Upper-Indrawati Hydro Electric Project that forcibly displaced nearly 40 such hamlets in that region. As Soba puts it, they  "were younger and did not know much. The Government promised us electricity and employment. How could we refuse?" And so they had to give up their land for good. Some of the Class 1 land fetched Rs 3000 per acre and Class 2 land fetched Rs 1500 per acre by compensation. The households were also promised a compensation amount of rs 35000 for every family, but no land or title deed in return. "We (father and six brothers) bought some 3 acres of land over here higher up and set up our houses", Guru Nayak, Soba's son continued. But the money they had was hardly enough and they ended up selling their goats too at Rs 15000 each. Still indignant about their condition, Guru stated, "We still have not got our compensation. And no electricity!"

Soba Dei Nayak (in pink, behind) the matriarch of the tribal clan at Amtapas, her children and grandchildren. All of them are unemployed, do not have any assets to their name.

The Upper Indrawati Hydro-electric Power Project, now functioning for over 15 years supplies electricity to places as far as Rourkela's steel city, other places in Odisha apart from a major portion to the neighbouring state, Andhra Pradesh. The trees of the river were the places where Amtapas and other villages once inhabited, crops and all. Sonu, Guru's brother further languishes, "Since we do not have any land in our name now we are encroachers here. The firewood and stones that we take from the hills to sell at the market hardly fetches us Rs 500 per trip. That too after hours of strenous work. The forest department officials, highly unkind and rude, choose to stop us whenever they want and fine us for selling 'illegal' forest produce. The fine is nearly three times. We can never never tell when they will catch and harass us; it is very shameful. We have stopped selling even these. Now we struggle to make money, to earn our two morsel of food everyday." Only 10% of the originally displaced population has been compensated thus far. The schools are atleast 5 kilometres away; the rocky soil of the slopes is unsuitable for cultivation and there are no tamarind, mahua or tuber crops that they can market. Soba indifferently admits, "sarkar ne bahut asuvidha kar diya." The government has caused much inconvenience.

***

I was expecting the same story from the residents of Pukijal when we trooped in there after Amtapas. It was a larger village of nearly 75 households. Pukijal too is a recent establishment, with families from many hamlets of the displaced region setting up houses together on the hill. The experiences narrated here are similar. "If you do not agree to move your families, your village will be flooded anyway', thus the officers threatened us", Baro Majhi narrated. So they packed up and moved out. Those of whom received any compensation found it hard to find a bank, start an account and deposit the money. They were the 'illiterate, wretched' tribal people. Spurious offers were made by middlemen who boasted of "connections in Bhubaneswar (the state capital)" and demanded a cut of nearly 25% of the money involved. Somehow, good sense prevailed over these tribals and they did not fall prey to such traps. Gurubari Majhi, the head of a women's group in Pukijal lamented, "We do not even have drinking water facilities here. We cannot farm. We do not have electricity. We can only do coolie (labour). It is better that we migrate." And she just gave a picture of where all the men, women and youth have migrated to- Kerala, Tamil Nadu, Andhra Pradesh and some cities in Odisha.

Gurubari Majhi, Mahila Mandal leader at Pukijal, says that they are ready to face any wrath from the government only to obtain a piece of land in their names and restore their livelihoods.

There are only two people in the village who have passed their 10th grade and hardly a handful of primary graduates. Sushant Kumar Nayak, a 10th pass lad complained, "In 2009 a team of electricity department officers visited us from Bhubaneswar. They told 'it is in the name of your river and your project that the rest of Odisha lights up, don't you have electricity?'. We retorted, 'forget electricity, we do not even have an electric pole in our village.'" The other villagers jointly murmured a  yes and some of them raised a demand for a primary health clinic and tubewell for drinking water amongst other concerns. We could only silently nod at their plight. The elders still wallow in their thoughts about their erstwhile home and fondly remember its fertile soil and their happier days. They were pushed into this harsh reality by a government that lured them with false promises. They had beaten the path to various offices in the state- Revenue Divisional Commisioner (Behrampur), Rehabilitation Officer (Indrawati Project) and Chief Secretary (Bhubaneshwar). Their soles wore out and their voices cracked, but they did not get their due compensation.

Chandra Majhi, a man in his 40s, now heads the villagers in petitioning for their land and forest rights. The Forest Rights Act of 2006, he said, gave them some hope of reclaiming their lands and starting cultivation somewhere. But all their hopes were dashed. Pending from 2008, over 40 applications from their village, sit on the Sub-Collector's desk collecting dust and snarled in red-tape. Five years is a good time to beat the fighting spirit of these tribal people, what with the arrogant attitude of the officers and costly trips to the offices. But the villagers of Pukijal have shown commendable strength and renewed vigour to push for their land and their rights. The representatives of the village, as we were speaking to them, planned to go an indefinite strike in front of the Sub-Collector’s office till their petitions were looked into.

***

Soon it was evening and we were on our way out of Padepadar. But we were making a pit-stop at Mukhigoda, we had to. It was the place of the Hydro-electric power station. The gigantic pipelines that lay across the slopes and the electric grid that seemed to tower into the low mist seemed overwhelming. Inside the power station, the size and speed of the turbines, the torrent force of Indrawati's water and the omnipresent and omnipotent current left me gaping. Brilliant engineering marvels they might be, and to a certain extent a display of the strength of scientific progress. The Upper-Indrawati Hydro-electric Project is now functioning at hardly one-third of the capacity it was promised to be. Can, like how the turbines are turned off, the people of the displaced villages get back to their 'homes'? Can the irony of lighting places thousands of kilometres away when the neighbours cringe in darkness be wiped away? Can the promises of employment, drinking water and medical facilities ever see the daylight??

A section of the grid and the massive pipelines that bring Indrawati's waters to the power house at Mukhigoda.

Now the Jaipatna ranges of mountains bear down on us on our way back. It is nightfall already. Where it had rained during the day, we find the same waters trickling down to join the Indrawati. The tribal villagers were wearily beating back to their villages, still in their single file, still sure-footed and still swaying their hips. The cattle move in their herd, bamboo bells clunking all the way. The hills shrouded in their mist looked like cloaked spectators squatting to witness this daily spectacle. I wonder if these hills saw the trees being washed away, and all those villages? I wonder if the hills will ever see these villagers resettled and rehabilitated? I knew even as the night encroached upon us that the images of the dead trees would haunt my thoughts for days to come. Unlike Pukijal, Amtapas did not even put up a fight. They hardly had any emotions left, somehow succumbing to the vagaries of fate. Their mouths opened in silence, and an outstretched arm begged from the government. These people, too, are the dead trees of Indrawati.