What I saw in Kalahandi ..

The Tree

(Lermuhi's Tamarind Tree, Lanjigarh Block, Kalahandi District)

The tree is an institution here. It is so huge, gigantic and imposing, it has become a revered member of the society. The spawning canopy that bears the fruits and the seeds are the very symbols of fertility that the society aspires to possess. The resolute trunk with its many boroughs that host the naughty children playing hide-and-seek, has wrinkles that speak of witnessing a hundred seasons. When people mill around the tree to discuss the day's events, the tree becomes the mainstay of their rapidly changing lives. The tree is admired, protected and worshipped. The tree is an institution here.

24/10/2013

**********

How many green?

How many shades of green

Out there, have you seen?

The fluorescent green of the grass with dew

And the bottle green of those shoots bamboo?

The light green of an unripe mango

Or the paddy green that is nearly yellow?

A wispy shade of the silver oaks,

The velvet of the wet moss?

Maybe a dark green of the shady peepal

Or a shade orange tinged before autumn fell?

How many shades of green

You, yes you, have seen?

The green of the mountains so dark

From afar it is but a shade of black?

Or the green of a pear bright

On the top it is nearly white?

There is also a green that is blue,

The waters know it is true.

Indeed there is a Mad Painter unseen,

Else, tell me, how is there so many green?

22/10/2013

The Perks Of Being A Country Fellow

It was one of those afternoons last week, when it weighed on me that it has been over a year of living in the villages. As it happens, living in a village entitles one to enjoying many leisure afternoons, unlike much in the city when lunch to evening means just another session of the same old work. And as it is in the Ghats here, the afternoons are typically serene and gives one the choicest of moments to savour the many wandering thoughts of the idle mind. Sometimes, the thoughts wrap themselves in colourful expressions and that is how, I am told, that most of these farmers' songs come about. After a hard morning's work, while they rest under the shade of some tree by their field, ruminating on maybe the beauty of nature, or the struggles of the poor or just the amount of salt in their food. Yes, I have heard all such songs.

That is when it hit me, there have been several experiences in the last one year that have been unique to the village and in that, promising a novelty of lifestyle and habits. So counting them one afternoon after another (yes, there have been quite a lot of those post-lunch sessions!) I came up with this. And look how different life has been!

Peace: Not once in the past year, did I land up late at work or a village meeting because of traffic, late breakfast or mundane such things. There could be two reasons for that. One, the timings are flexible. Like how a farmer knows no Sunday and turns up at his field everyday, there is no scheduled time for visiting a village. It is either dawn, morning, noon, afternoon, dusk or night. There is no hassle to rush through activities. There is a definite rhythm in the work though. Conversations are not hurried, each one speaks to be understood and listens to understand. There is no time limit to what one wishes to do. How much quality that adds to life! Second reason, there is simply no traffic! Or "breakfast", in the conventional sense of the word. Of course, there are a couple of cars and bikes that whizz past you on the lonely road, but nobody is beeping horns on a bumper-to-bumper highway. There are only two meals a day, one when you set off to work and the other before you go to sleep. There is no concept of rushing out the door with a stuffed parantha. There is definitely no concept of rushing through a meal. You take one, you feel grateful for it. 

Gratitude: There are enough people to look out for you the whole while. Be it when you are precariously hanging by an overcrowded tempo or just lost in a sudden downpour by some old run down building. There is somebody ready to hold your bag, somebody to wait with you until the rain stops. And to think of it, somebody else, who would have thankfully brought in the clothes that you hung out to dry. Can't think of a neighbour who would do that in Chennai! And definitely, the whole world awaits to share its meals with you. Be it the immensely filling half a litre of lassi in Haryana or the half a cup of extremely bitter-sweet black tea of Odisha, I have never been left famished anywhere. And it is definitely not about impersonal meals at cafetaria, or walking away on a rainy day without a care for those left behind. It was just this feeling that during all my travels, stays and interactions I did not once feel that I was alone or a stranger. Ironically, something that I have felt many times in the over-crowded metropolises. Even if people of many colours, dresses and languages fit into a city, it is only because the rest are indifferent to your uniqueness. It takes a rural life to understand, how big the arms of the world are, ready to embrace you as you are.

Trust: In the city, our lives grow independent- we have individualised everything and fiercely protect what is considered the "private space". Everybody strives to carve a "me-time", a "me-place" and a "my-people". In the process, it has grown increasingly difficult to trust in the other person. To trust that they have your wellbeing in mind. To trust that they will be capable of doing a job assigned to them. To trust that they will bring no harm to "your" time, space and people. In my time in rural India, I have hitch-hiked, I have talked to random people on the roads, in the markets, revealing a lot of personal details. Just as they did, too. I can not imagine any interaction in the city that has been both short-termed and personal in nature, because we  no longer trust the other person's intentions. With trust, a whole baggage of insecurity, fear and anxiety can be thrown out the window. Living becomes, simple, easier and harmonious.

It is so easy to get a conversation going in the villages. Everybody is forthright and simple in their talk.
Just the last week a random stranger after a 5-min conversation while walking on the road said, "What do I have to give to you and what do you have to give to me? Nothing. We might as well enjoy the few words that we speak."

Austerity: Really, extravagance is a characteristic of the city. There are rich landlords here, too. But they are an exception. Simplicity is the natural lifestyle of the villagers. Nobody here bothers to see if a dress has been repeated once already in a span of a week. There is hardly any demand for a gym or a beauty parlour or spa. The best of clothes, jewellery and food is reserved only for marriages and festivals. The concept of parties and "hanging out" are added complexities of an urbane lifestyle. Though most of the lifestyle choices in a city come from societal pressures, it is indeed possible to cut down on excesses. I have managed a whole year with about 10 sets of clothes, no weekend at the movie theatres and definitely no pasta/pizza/cappuccinos. That would have been unimaginable a year ago, but I sure did it. My other items of regular use only consist of a bare minimum of books, stationery and toiletries. My entire living can be packed in 3 bags! And to think of all the unused, unwanted and ostentatious purchases that lie in a locked wardrobe at home, I wonder if I really need them all?

Awareness: The zombie-like routine of my city life was discarded from the very first day. Everyday seemed so new and unique, that it was impossible to go through it with practiced nonchalance. There was so much abundance in nature- the birds, the insects, the dawn, the dusk, the rivers and the hills- it would have been a shame to ignore them. My sight and hearing, smell and touch all of it has been sharpened just by gauging the various patterns, designs and symmetries of the environment around. The city never inspired an opening-up of this sort. Though I am sure, I could see, hear, touch and taste a new city when I return. This new 'consciousness', if you may, has had spillover effects too. I am minutely aware of the time that I spend waking, the (value of the) resources that I utilise in a day and the non-verbal signs while talking. Trust me, this can change the entire way of looking at one's life.

I have written several times that the birds and insects abound the villages. There is so much to look around and enjoy. But it is an art indeed to be observant of the smaller beings, but no less magnificent creatures themselves. Like a spider. I have spent several moments fascinated and awe-inspired by the dexterity and persistence of a spider in spinning its web.
Or the common blue terrestrial kingfisher (in pic). Often found perched in solitude, keenly eyeing a target somewhere. A silent witness to the Grand Scheme of Things.

Would I have found these values, not activities, in the city? Yes. In their own unique ways, all these virtues could be imbibed in an urban lifestyle too. However, there are several materialistic impediments that hamper such holistic living in a city. To beat them all would be a challenge worth undertaking. Just that my rural exposure has carved these valuables into an indelible relief on my character. Now if I could just treasure and keep them alive throughout my life….until then I am the better for savouring my silent and blissful afternoons!

Of What Consequence?

It has not been a week yet, since the death sentence was pronounced as punishment for the perpetrators of the brutal gang-rape and murder of the December 2012 case. While much of the nation confused in its categorization of retribution and justice, falsely rejoiced the fact that "justice has been done" for the departed soul, a few of us still lamented that this was hardly any start. Retribution is a punishment meted by law for the crime. Justice on the other hand, should have been a condition where no crime would have prevailed. The difference has a consequence. I will tell you why.

WATCH THIS- We won't speak out. It's our fault. (Image from internet)

I live now, just for an inconsequential period of six months, in a dark, remote corner of the country- Kashipur, Orissa. A place that should have gained popularity for its stellar beauty, now ignominiously known for its anti-mining agitations. A place that should have seen flourishing success of the tribal arts and crafts, now lamenting the wanton criminalisation of the same innocent tribal people. The nearest police station is 3 kilometres away. It is also situated quite close to a jail. A prison that was constructed with funds meant for tribal development. Did you note the poetic justice here? The government allocates funds for tribal development, also imposes non-bail able warrants for absolutely no offence or dissent and then puts the same tribal population behind the bars of the tribal development infrastructure- the jail. Can somebody suggest to the same government that these tribal people can do with better facilities for education and health, water and sanitation, livelihood and agriculture??

I speak now, to for an inconsequential audience of friends and family, who mostly come from a background that has hardly suffered the lack of economic development. Myself, included. We have access to schools, hospitals, internet cafes and even enough coffee day cafes that we never be deprived of such facilities in our whole lifetime. We will never be asking ourselves the question, "If I died would that be of any consequence? Would the authorities sit up and take notice?" There would be surely someone to at least issue us a death certificate. I will tell you who has not. A teenage girl who was found raped and murdered, about 30 kilometres away from my village, last evening. Her body was dumped by the side of a path, with her hands mutilated. Her body was left to rot until the police picked it up two nights later, by when the worst accounts report that wild scavengers had gorged her face.

I question now, knowing well that it would be inconsequential within a given period of time. There will be enough scams, political upheavals, T-20 wins and Bollywood breakups to make us forget why I ask them now and for whom. When stories of rape filtered in from Delhi and Mumbai and Kolkata, the entire nation sat up and took notice. Oddly, they were all instances of gang-rape, what about the others in the metropolises who were raped by (JUST?!) one savage beast? What about the gang-rapes happening in the towns and villages of our country? Can those journalists cover the attrocities that happen beyond there luxurious urban centres? And definitely, who is going to take action against the perpetrator of the rape of this 16yr old girl from Renga? Yeah, where is Renga? Renga village is in Kashipur Block. Kashipur Block is in Rayagada District. Rayagada is in Orissa. So remote, that telephone networks fail us. Just like how roads fails us here. Just like how electricity fails us here. Just like how the Goddamned Government fails us here.

But this is only representation what is reported. The rapes that go unreported are many. And even of those reported, conviction rates vary from 8% to 23%. Only the North-east, especially Manipur and Mizoram see above 50% conviction rates for rape cases. (Source: Google)

I point now, at that government that is the very personification of the inconsequential.  Most of us (thankfully, hopefully and fortunately) come from families, societies where we may have escaped the trauma of molestation. But there exists a huge, uncounted, unreported (and sadly, uncared for) population of women, children, and even the aged who have been victims of molestations of various degrees and various kinds. To recount statistics from the web reports would shock and leave no warmth in the human body. Cold news breaks on my twitter feed that a 12 year old rape victim committed suicide in Jharkhand 3 days ago. For a 12 year old to not just go through the excruciating pain of rape but to contemplate and commit suicide- what pits has our society come to?! And when I ask this question time and again, I am met with the same rhetoric of parents and upbringing to moralize and sermonize the perverse male. WHY? I will tell you. Because the government has no role in safeguarding its women and children, and even men, for that matter. Because, rather than repair the systemic faults, we will all have the courage and patience to sit through at least another 25 years, when the whole new generation would have been brought up with a better and holistic mindset. Because we can expect every one of the living Indians in another 25 years to not have a single perverse and violent thought. Because we simply do not know/care about what happens in those godforsaken corners of the country.

Graphic, though it maybe. Does anything move our hearts as much as The Brutal?! (Image from internet)

I mock now, the inconsequential measures of a stupid country. Women-only banks, did they prevent my sister from getting raped and murdered in Renga? The half-hearted acceptance of the Verma committee report and the absolutely unworthy Ordinance of six months ago, did they help to prevent the photojournalist from Mumbai being raped? The fully covering clothes, the Khap Panchayats, the admonishing mothers, the moral police of the Senas, the curfew-dropping fathers- I laugh at you all. Infants are being raped in this country. There is so much toxic, vile and malice in some minds here, it could tear apart any idea of a secure existence. When the CRPF and the military comb these hills for Naxal presence, do they see these elements too? With so much of State force around, a girl bled to death by the path last evening. How her parents must be aching now? How she would have cried for mercy? How it terrifies me now...

I outrage now, fully aware that I AM INCONSEQUENTIAL to the milieu of voices that are already outraging, against rape. I outrage against the pathetic state of the policing in the country. Four lakh and twenty thousand vacant seats were yet to be filled in the entire police forces as of December 2012. The national average of police personnel deployed for one lakh people is a pathetic 137. States like UP and West Bengal languish at 92 and 94 respectively! Even if the posts were filled, how hostile do the police treat persons who come to register complaints. I shudder to think of it. Months ago, just over a casual conversation a police man roughly remarked to me in Haryana, "How can we stop rape? Do the rapists call us and inform us before the act?!" His snigger triggered venom in my system. I had enough bile to spit on him and point out that it is precisely because he and his brethren slept (or whiled away time) during duty hours, the creepy man preys on the passing woman. But I didn't, I couldn't. I outrage against the many governments which have not had the capacity to reform its police force, who not only reek in patriarchal bias, but also accept accountability of nothing!

I hurt now, from the multiple inconsequential rape reports that have come to my notice in over all the years of my conscious being. This colossal pain, shock and numbness cannot translate into anything but my helplessness and a timid prayer to never meet such a fate. Or a fiery demand to have the grit to fight such scumbags. The same helplessness with which my rural peers reluctantly give up on their dreams to study further or work far away from home. For they know that they could meet the same fate as the girl on Park Street, in the private bus or at Shakti Mills. When peril lurks in the dark (literally for there are no road lamps here, not even roads to begin with), in the dense forests, where even the loudest screams would fall short of a trembling whisper, no police, no leader, no journalist is going to come to save her. Why, they would even say that it is not their duty to save her. Something inside me died yesterday, to know that nearby somewhere a soul was crushed, her dreams shattered and a valiant battle was lost.

You tell me now, does this have a consequence??

(September 20th, 2013)

Reports of rapes abound our newspapers everyday. Hardly any of them translate to meaningful debates or actions. An outrage, a protest, some condemning remarks by the leaders. Is that all? NO! We shouldn't stop at that. There needs to be a systemic change. Make it a votebank issue, make it an issue amongst your peers, make it an issue with your local elected representative. Don't let your discontent, anger and/or fear muffle your voice to become inconsequential.

WATCH OUT.

A Road Like This

  There is a road, after the fields and the huts.

The road was there even from the hamlets, but the sun had cracked its surface and the rain had dug its holes.

Between these hills, when you chance upon this road, it is a pleasant surprise.

After the stench of poverty and the dirt of the underprivileged, the road arrives.

By the sides of this road, there are mango trees and mango trees.

Call them mango giants. They join their heads at the top. Conspiring, wisely, I think.

Their branches, like outstretched hands link through the length of the road.

When the road happens to you, you enter a new world.

The thick burly trunks of these mango giants secure your fragile dreams.

The gentle green of the leaves ripple with your laughter.

Every step on the road, the stones beneath murmur about your presence.

When the sun peeks to see what is happening beneath the mango canopy,

It sees naughty children clinging by the branches.

At the start of the road, everything else stops.

Even those raindrops rest on the branches, not falling to the ground.

So protected is this road, that little tribal angels come here to rest.

The hills beyond, smile benign, a little sly about their well kept secret- this road.

Twenty trees on either sides look at this road, like the proud parents of a tarred track.

When the mangoes fall in summer, it awakens the naughty spirits of the nearby hamlets.

The wind that travels past this road carries its stories to the grandparent of the tribes.

The road is beautiful, the secret so starts. The stones still gleam from the goodness of the world.

Those outsiders who gaped at the black beat, so shaded and green, sniffed the scent of the ripe mangoes.

The road gets seasoned with every visit.

The mango trees grow older with every season.

Yet when you walk on this road, the stories don't intrude your solitude.

One this road, you are the regal traveller. The trees know this.

This is that path of silent bliss.

In hindsight (much much later than when the above passage was written):

There is immense breathtaking beauty in Orissa. Somehow the compelling stories of disappointments and tragedies are miraculously cured by the stoic hills and the inanimate trees. All sorrows are latched to the passing wind. And maybe that is why it rains so heavy over here. The wind had to unburden itself of the many stories of false promises and stolen happiness.

It is not exaggerated or exotic, it is a spirit that is deeply tribal. To forget all miseries and live for the joy of the day. And perhaps, my hundred days here have helped me silently latch on to that resilient aspect of living in the remote, uncared parts of the country.

For all the complaints about an unwilling government, almost like a step-parent ill-treating a child in its foster care, there are enough reports to show how ultimately these tribal people have won their battles. Or succumbed courageously in their fight, to just claim their rights. Yet, as the tolerant Mother Earth bears the weight of all the world's troubles, these people too dismiss their problems and toil everyday with an innocent smile. How, I wonder, how?

And why did I have to write about a road? There are moments in one's life, where everything seems like an afterthought, when everything is relegated either to the far past or the unseen future. This road is a place like that. It is a small patch on the road to Chandragiri from Kashipur, but it seems to be a patch from another world.

Where the pressing troubles of land displacement, poverty, unemployment, migration, food scarcity and disease seem like mere myths riddling the human world. Not unlike the crystal waters of the pristine Himalayas that are promised to us in a water bottle. This road just pushed all that I had known about Orissa to a distant place.

Incidents of violent repressions, noisy factories mining their wealth out of these gentle hills, deaths that claimed children who did not have much to eat, the terrorised victims of mosquitoes and Maoists, electricity projects that propelled thousands into darkness- all of the stories of the tribal people were kicked to the oblivion. For every time I passed by this road, the world seemed to be at peace. Just the silent coo of the bird and the gentle wind nudging the sides. And that, ultimately is what the tribal spirit actually is. Just to stay for the present, in the secure folds of Nature. 

Vedanta: We don't want ya!

Why is the Vedanta-ousting verdict of these nondescript villages important? How does it matter that few tribal families, more so, ones that are completely robbed off any access to good infrastructure,  saying no to a mining deal that might cost the state government and the London based company a total sum of Rs 50,000 crores? Is it the proverbial David versus Goliath parallel that makes these Gram Sabha resolutions a watershed moment in the history of tribal development? Who can deny the chance that Vedanta Alumina Limited might find other ways to sneak back into the Niyamgiri Hills, complete with the cunning connivance of corrupt bureaucrats and an apathetic government? Does the country have lessons to learn from how voting adults-  merely 11, 16, 20 odd in numbers in every sitting- can keep away a massive multi-national corporation? Well, these questions have their answers in perspective to the history of "industrial development" in this region- which is what this post is about. But before all of that, let us take a moment and hear it.

 BAM!!

That is the sweet sound of victory of a democracy, and a few other assorted principles that have been enshrined in our Constitution. Like welfare, equality, and such big words.

The 11 village level meetings of voting adults- the Gram Sabha- in the districts of Kalahandi and Rayagada have managed to find their way to the front pages of newspapers, despite the hullabaloo of arch-rival actors hugging, sundry politicians mouthing insane remarks on various national issues, an overseas 5-0 win against Zimbabwe in cricket and the all-important decision on the creation of Telangana.  All these reports showed the Dongria-Kondh tribals triumphant after the Gram Sabhas, fierily quoting that their god is the Niyam Raja, the Hills. And who would give up their God, their livelihood, their home and their all for the highly suspicious promises of electricity, water, employment and health facilities? Stay one day in these tribal areas, and you will agree with me, when I vehemently say no one would! It has been just over 3 months for me working in the same two districts of Rayagada and Kalahandi. How much the tribal population depends on these hills, is close to how much the urban population derives from electricity. We would be grounded to a standstill in the absence of the resources that support our living. Further, the tribes folk revere the hills, the streams and the Mother Earth. These are the Supreme forces of their culture, above all material pursuits like money, clothes, food and good health. That is why the modest and humble David was ready to take on the Goliath. It was an uphill task, pun unintended.

The same two districts have faced problems in the recent past because of land acquisition and displacement of the Scheduled Tribe populations for the Upper Indrawati Power Project (Kalahandi, Government initiative) and the Utkal Alumina Limited (Rayagada, Aditya Birla and partners' mining initiative). The Indrawati river's course was changed and along with the lives of hundreds of families that earlier lived on its plains. Here the Government shed its altruist, paternal baggage to become the tormentors of the people. But far more compelling is the chronicle of the struggle of the Kashipur Block's residents against the UAL project. Where just not the government, but a few more corporate bodies, the police forces and local leaders turned against the very people whom they promised all good health, employment and electricity.

The last decade of industrial development in these areas is replete with instance of violence, tension and oppression. The Baphlimali hills of Kashipur, just like the Niyamgiri range, has rich content of bauxite and it attracted investments from the UAL team. Odisha has an estimated 2000 million tonnes of bauxite ore out of the national reserve of 3000 million tonnes. The state begs for companies like Aditya Birla and Vedanta Alumina to stack cash piles against these very hills. However, when the hills are dug open and refineries and factories are set up, it does not happen in no man's land.

Bhagrijhola's huts. In the background the chimney of the UAL factory, that puffs day in and day out. Not to mention the slag, the red mud that gets dumped right by the fields of the village.

In my first month here, I visited Bhagrijhola, a tribal hamlet that was oddly situated right by the UAL factory. Stories from December 2000 came back as I drove past the factory, other villages and reached Bhagrijhola. When the government and UAL tried to move the villagers to give up their land for the aluminium factory, the villagers of over 3 Gram Panchayats in that area sat in protest and firmly objected against the move. It was December the 15th. Five thousand villagers had gathered from Hadigoda, Gorakhpur, Kucheipadar, Kendukhunti and nearby areas in solidarity with the residents of Bhagrijhola and Maikanch. It was also the same day that a "Sarva-daliya baithak" was organised in the area- an all party meet of representatives from Biju Janta Dal, Bharatiya Janta Party, Congress and Bahujan Samaj Party. Under the aegis of the UAL leaders, the local MLAs and MPs, the bureaucrats, this meeting was convened to coax the villagers into giving away their land. Time stretched, the conditions grew hostile and it soon became December the 16th. It was a scene of 5000 peaceful protesters against 40-50 powerful leaders. Seeing no progress, two platoons of police arrived from nowhere and charged at the protesting group. They lathi-charged at anybody in their sight- women, children and the elderly. As would follow such brutality, the men were enraged and pelted stones and sticks at the police. And then, the police fired.

Three bullets took away the lives of Damodar (45), Raghunath (18) and Abhilash (30)- all from the Jhodia tribes. The former two came from the village of Bhagrijhola and the latter from Maikanch. Soon the violence proved effective and the crowd ran helter-skelter back to their villages. Thus a population of 5000 people fell victim to the brutal force of just 2 platoons of police forces. Though the UAL team had begun surveying the land and preparing to set up the factory from 1996-97, the process of land acquisition gained steam only in 2000. Local leaders, lured the villagers with false promises of constant electricity, good jobs in the factory and adequate resttlement and rehabilitation. Many of the palli sabhas and gram sabhas refused to be bought by such incentives. Right after the incident of firing, fear creeped into the minds of even the daring. At the village meetings of Kendukhunti and Ramibeda, apart from the presiding officials of the Panchayat Institutions, an entire police force stood as mute spectators. Given the recent past, nobody had the guts to stand up and oppose the proposal. Therefore, village after village yielded to the influenced decisions at the Gram Sabha. Yet, as it is today, Kucheipadar, Maikanch and Bhagrijhola stand as oddities within the complex of the factory. They did not budge from their stand. Resolute in the names of Damodar, Raghunath and Abhilash, their huts and fields lie juxtaposed to the towering, smoke-billowing factory that came up in 2004-05.

The monstrous factory that was set up by 2004-05. It easily belittles the small hamlets and the fields that lay by it. Just how it belittled the democratic rights of the villagers when it came up.

In Bhagrijhola, the scene is partly grim. Though they have borne the effect of their choice with a growing indifference, the pain is clearly visible. Not only did they lose their brethren, they live in darkness even as the factory lights up every evening like a Diwali wonder. No electricity, no drinking water, no employment. Once the construction of the factory premises is complete, there will not even be a passage to the village. Now cars and vehicles can get to the village only because one boundary of the factory is still under construction. Once completed, the village will be isolated from the rest of the Block, residing within the factory area, however unyielding to the land demands of that very factory. The only other way out of the village is by foot or cycle, an additional 3 kilometres. The ward member from Hadigoda Gram Panchayat, Vishwanath Jhodia, cannot contain his bitterness when he complains, "The Company is the winner. Even if we said yes, we would have faced the same plight. Now what is the use of our land here, when it is polluted by the wastes from the factory?!" That clearly summed up the entire situation. Whether with or against the factory, whether displaced or rooted- the government, factory, bureaucracy and police had all teamed against the villagers. The villagers be damned if did or did not. Five kilometres away, at Maikanch, stand three small structures on a hillock and a bullet-like pillar that say "Stop Mining" and bear the names of the home-grown martyrs. Who else remembers them anymore?

The memorial in the names of Abhilash, Damodar and Raghunath on top of the hillock in Maikanch.

The three smaller structures that now stand for the sacrifice of the three men, who were none but innocents protesting against the forced land grab and displacement.

And today, to see all these villagers of Rayagada and Kalahandi vehemently opposing the setting up of the Lanjigarh refinery, there is indeed a ray of hope. The region has borne the brunt of biased decisions, state sponsored violence and systemic oppression all in the name of tribal development. For the Supreme Court to actually stand by these Gram Sabha resolutions and for the entire state machinery to support it makes a world of difference to the Panchayati Raj system. True development cannot be imposed on the tribal people. Their progress can come hand-in-hand while preserving their customs and traditions. The Panchayats Extension to the Scheduled Areas (PESA) act of 1996, guarantees them the right to maintain their socio-religious structures, decide for themselves what they do with the resources within their village periphery and continue with accepted educational and administrative systems. This environmental referendum is a precedent for the bottom-up approach towards development and planning. It is the coming-of-age example for a growing and participatory democracy. So let it sink in, it's the people's victory. BAM!

PS- Even as I write this, Vedanta has approached the Odisha government to consider its proposal for mining laterite from the same area. Laterite is another minor constituent in the processing of aluminium. The Goliath is preparing for war again.  

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.

Jungle Jottings

I have been here in Odisha for over a month now. Six months earlier and for the same period, I found myself on the fringes of the Indian desert. In between, for a brief period, I was travelling in the Himalayas. My home lies on the coast. And now, I am firmly parked in the Eastern Ghats of India. The rolling hills, uplands that seem to be carpeted in green velvet and some of them bald, with few pointy and thick trees peeking at odd spots make for magnificent viewing. Especially going along the curvy roads, where the mist regularly kisses the earth. The woods, in all shades of green, are a sight to behold. The train that brought me from Bhubaneshwar to here, Kashipur in Rayagada district, traverses the pleasant landscape, almost dream like- the hills, the mist and tribal hamlets dotting the low lands- with a ryhtmic chug-chug-chug of the wheels.

A Panoramic view of the Eastern Ghats, the red soil of the levelled fields and  a gathering of rain clouds one evening.

I must be grateful to be in India, for I wonder which other country in the world boasts of all the kinds of topography and climate that India has. It has made me further sensitive to the different kinds of reality that prevails in each of these places, absolutely unique and indigenous to its surroundings. And hence, the many cultures and its people. However, living here in Kashipur in extremely close contact with nature, bang in the middle of a man-made jungle, I can reflect maximum on the many ironies of how Culture and Nature have changed over time. Which is more permanent and which is more transient, which is dynamic and which is rigid, which nourishes us and which perishes with us? None of these are strictly what the philosophies- both ancient and modern- prescribe to be the right sides to take on a debate, and definitely what has struck me in 45 days (maybe the last 8 months, even) would never match up to the centuries-old treatises on these topics. However this is MY fundamental finding and that is how I will deal with it: Life is what life is, in a jungle.

Gates to the Agragamee campus, shrouded by trees. The jungle here has all the kinds of plants and trees- bamboo, pine, sal, fir, moango, jackfruit, tapioca, lavender, hibiscus, rose, coffee, black pepper, banana, silver oaks, eucalyptus, whatnot!!

I was struggling for many many days to put my thoughts into coherent expressions about how to describe the place that I am in and the people around me; indeed many waking hours during rainy days seemed to have had no better pursuit! Then the realisation dawned on me that this jungle- green and hearty, is both the analogy and anti-thesis to that jungle- grey and gritty. Nature's jungle and Human's jungle. The jungle that I now reside in, in Kashipur is a clearer reflection of a slightly perverse entity, ie, the cities that I have lived in and been to. Chennai, Mumbai, Delhi, Kolkata, Bangalore, Nagpur, Ahmedabad, younameit. There is simply no better point of comparison and similarity than a jungle and a city, more so a metropolis.

The trees here, some planted ages ago and the others naturally born out of pollination, are in many ways like the constructs in a city.  Not all the buildings in the cities are planned and constructed based on a blue-print. Some erupt just out of the blue, like the slums or an even unaesthetic skyscraper that is the result of vast accumulations of money. But just as the anti-thesis must exist- there is simply nothing unaesthetic about a tree in Nature's jungle. They are all brown and green of different shades, why many of them might be degenerating too, but they are useful to the last fibre of the root. I am not sure if I can say the same about all urban constructs- nonetheless we find them of all shapes, shades and materials. Perched on top of most of these thick canopies, here, are some beautiful and exquisite birds, whose patterns and voices and flight seem to be a definite masterstroke in all of Creation. Perched on the roofs of the concrete jungle one is sure to find, yet another carrier of equisite sound and vision- the dish antennae of cable TVs. Masterstroke of which entertainment company, is a matter of market statistics, that I have no interest in. The abundance of a moist earth and stones and pebbles, make for interesting floorscape, even the weeds and the flourishing grasscover seem to have a purpose here. In Chennai, all the buildings have tarred roads that lead up to them. Interesting patterns of broken pavements, uncovered manholes and open gutters seem to have all the reasons for being present in their condition. Where remains any patch of soil un-concreted, complaints and applications have been registered with the Municipal authorities to correct the situation as soon as possible. 'Son of the soil', anybody, really?

The uplands, referred to as 'Dangars' behind the jungle. At the foot of these hills, one can find terraced cultivation of rice, barley, millets and few other lentils.

Here water flows in a stream beyond the trees, sometimes clear, sometimes muddy from the rains. But everyday, the inmates- both human and wild- religiously visit the channel to bathe, wash, drink and maybe gather a little fish. Water is a scarcity in almost all the cities of our country. Clear, potable water is a luxury that only 40% of Indians enjoy. What remains of the rivers Mithi, Hooghly, Yamuna and Kooum is everybody's stinking exhibit. Not to mention the other big rivers that have borne the brunt of what we call 'civilization'. A black line of drainage and sewer cuts across our metropolis, like an omen screaming for attention. We ignore it, we will see our cities degenerate. Even the animals here have the sense not to pee in the same water they drink. Why the urban development permits it, I have no idea! Water, done. Earth, trees, birds, done. Hmmm, next maybe I must consider the food. The trees and plants here provide them all- fruits, vegetables, roots, leaves, lentils, spices, coffee, tea. It just for the "external" inputs of salt and rice that the campus residents shop. Nonetheless, even these come from the nearby tribal villages that produce them. Not far away from the hills. Let us for a moment consider what we eat in the city. Probably procured from the choicest supermarkets or health stores, (the nearby grocer's, too) tinned, canned, packaged, bottled, polished, processed, fermented, whatnot- fresh and "natural" food is really an urban myth. These are not one's lifestyle choices that I am blaming, but a systemic failure in not being able to both produce and consume a healthy diet. As much the farmers' burden as it is the consumers'. And this is for those who eat. Starving are millions, both urban and rural, women and men, aged and young. Nature's jungle produces enough for all, REALLY! What has our "development" and scientific and economic "progress" done to feed a nation? I am bewildered looking at where civilization has brought us.

I will tell you what we really eat in the cities- we feed on materialist acquisitions. That's right! For families that can't afford meals, cable TV is a priority, fancy clothes a necessity and mobile phones a status symbol. For families that eat well, bigger pay packages, comfortable furniture and luxurious vehicles are compulsive pursuits. Does it fill stomachs? I do not know. Which brings me to the last and most dominant part of the jungles- animals and then, evolved animals. Someone has to be king, someone has to slave, someone has to produce, that is how the jungles work. Nature's. Someone has to cheat, someone has to prey, someone has to slog, that is how jungles work. Nature's? No! We are beasts of our own will. Insensitive to what surrounds us and indignant in our instincts. If not, Culture would have never moved far from Nature and the Jungle would always be a happy place. Like how it is in Kashipur. There is plenty for all, a sustainable way to ensure that the resources are replenished, nothing is on the verge of extinction and every thing- living and non-living is valued for its existence. The city is completely the anti-thesis of this jungle. In Delhi nothing is ever enough, in Mumbai it is impossible to find a resource that is sustainable, Bangalore is increasingly losing its green cover and Kolkata hardly values its humans, least its animals. If a snake enters our rooms, the tribal people here know how to capture it and release it back into the wild. They never kill it if it doesn't pose any danger. If a cow strays on the road on a highway, (not its mistake), it is mercilessly run over or hit! Does such a jungle have a culture, I doubt.

True culture is something that arises from within Nature; it is pure, simple and humble.

Our cities, man-made concrete jungles are showcases of extravagance, complexities and arrogance. Between the trees, birds, plants, animals and insects here I am rediscovering the real joys of life. Which is to live simply and take it easy. Carbon credits, river purification projects, "organic food", etc are nothing but unwanted corrective measures that culture has assumed to return to nature. It is further damning that all these are but half-hearted efforts and none authentic or sustainable. Maybe, maybe, if we didn't steer away from the original laws of the jungle. Is it a question of values, evolution, priorities? Definitely. More so collectively, than individually. Day becomes night becomes day, the animals, evolved or not, fight to survive. Atleast in my jungle, when there is no electricity for hours at an end, there are thousands of fireflies to light up my evenings. Ah! Life is what life is, in a jungle.

A far view of the jungle campus. All the birds, insects and animals that abound the campus co-exist in perfect harmony.

Prayaan: A journey to Ladakh and Within (Part 3)

The silent waters of Pangong on a cloudy morning. (courtesy- Akanksha Srivastava)

Really calm and still waters. The colour of the lake reflecting a shade of the grey sky. The sky was overcast that Sunday morning, a remainder of the mild snowfall that had occurred the previous night. Steady winds could not depress the groups of tourists into their tents, many of them were out walking by the roads along the lake- the engineering marvel of the Border Roads Organisation to reach places and points where there is no human presence otherwise. The sun is constantly playing peek-a-boo, and with its shine teasing the water to display the many shades of blue that Pangong Lake is known for. The barren and harsh mountains surrounding the lake and the gloomy weather notwithstanding, there is an amazing sense of serenity in this place. A couple of gulls from behind the far mountains close in steadily. Their beaks and eyes focused intensely, they just grow from tiny to big, majestic creatures that swiftly spread their curved white wings and swoop down into the waters to join a few of their friends. The waters ripple. After a couple of minutes everything is still- the water, the birds, the sky and the mountains.

Just to sit on the odd, jutting and bigger rocks for a few minutes, completely basking in the silence, despite the many tourists moving about the other side of the banks, Pangong Lake is a meditative zone indeed. Of the 130 km of the lake area, only 40 km lie on the Indian side and the rest with China. Just to remind us of the fact, some non-offensive firing happens on the other bank of the Indian side. Some smoke and the flock of brown headed gulls take flight.

Somebody flicks a flat stone across the surface, it skips once, twice, thrice and sinks into the massive lake somewhere. The ripples track its movement and silently drown with the stone. Silence again. Still, serene and surrendered.

Thr flight of a brown headed gull over Pangong's waters. (courtesy- Angarayan Sundarakalatharan)

****

Technically, that Sunday was the only holiday in our travelling workshop- Prayaan. The Saturday afternoon before setting off to Pangong Lake, a 6 hour journey from Leh Town, we visited the Ladakhi Women Travel Company. It was started by the young Thimlis Chorol in 2009. She did not want to go back to her village after schooling and remain her father's farmhand. So she chose to come out and start the travelling company that now arranges treks and home-stays in the villages across Ladakh's different valleys. In three years' time she had 15 women working with her on the initiative; though the company caters to male clients, it primarily focuses on employing women as trek guides and travel planners for the tourists. She pointed out how Ladakh was losing its charm because all the people who came there were "tourists" and not travellers. Everybody had a schedule and a list of places to go and see and be in, no group of people just wanted to experience Ladakh at a leisurely pace. It was quite challenging at the start, Chorol said, to start and manage a company employing just women. "In Ladakh, biggest challenge is everybody wants a government job!" Understanding that context because of our previous interactions at SECMOL, Nang and Umla villages, we could truly see why Thimlis Chorol was an everyday revolution- she was breaking many stereotypes!

At Pangong Lake looking at all the tourists, who were piling in one evening and scooting off the next morning, just like us, clicking a few photographs to register their footprints at yet another travel destination; it sunk in what a refreshing change in attitude Chorol was. To stay with the villagers, to employ women, to experience Ladakh as a traveller.

But what followed on the couple of days after the contemplative break at Pangong Lake was a full fledged attempt at understanding and helping PAGIR in making Ladakh an equal-for-all society. People's Action Group for Inclusion and Rights (PAGIR) was started in 2006-7 by Mr Mohd. Iqbal. A person with multiple disabilities himself, Iqbal's whole intention on starting PAGIR was to advocate for an equal society for all Persons With Disability (PWD) and push the local government to implement its schemes and policies effectively to benefit the same group of people. It was heartening to see the hope and enthusiasm in PAGIR's work to create a difference, if possible in all sectors- education, health, social welfare, tourism, livelihoods-, for PWDs in the villages of its outreach area. In 2010, PAGIR also launched the Himalaya on Wheels- a tourism initiative to Travel Another India.  As with previous experiences in rural India and few others in the cities, I could only imagine how challenging it would be for this group of people to fight for their rights and inclusion. Our visit to Stok only made it evident.

It was a village like any other in Ladakh. Small brick and mud houses, poplar and apple trees, overseeing Mountains and the bright, clear sky. Five of us trooped past the barking dog at the gate and climbed the weathered down staircase to meet Mr Rigzin and Ms Stanzin. Both were residents of Stok and beneficiaries of PAGIR; but their heart-rending stories of personal difficulties and challenges threw us completely off-guard. Rigzin had lost both his legs in childhood and he stoically admitted to have never travelled beyond the confines of his village, ever. Earlier he used to help his father run a small shop, but competition from another resident forced him to shut down the shop. Now his father, mother, sister and brother-in-law provide for his needs through whatever they make of their living. And there was Stanzin, who was affected from Polio. Her husband deserted her with two children and all the help she gets from the government, like Rigzin, is a meagre Rs 400 per month as pension. That is less than 10 USD at the going rate and how does  one manage to not only look after oneself, but manage two children with that paltry amount?! It was hard battling overwhelming emotions of empathy, and anger, looking at the sad eyes of Rigzin. And how easy I have continued living a life without bothering to make a little space for PWD! All of us have had those momentary thoughts that advocate for equal accessibility to all, but what after that?! My questions were taken up at the Department for Social Welfare and Justice, Ladakh District, the next day. Two of us, from the five met the Deputy Director, Ms Tsering who seemed all motherly and concerned about the issues of PWD. But nothing more. When we asked pertinent questions about the reservations in jobs, accessibility and completion of correct data of disability forms, maybe an increase in the pension and definitely health camps at frequent intervals, ambiguous answers, passing the buck and plain apathy met us. This was the altruist, paternalistic Welfare State that our forefathers dreamt of and the one that we beget! The same response met all our other friends from the Departments of Education, Public Works, Health and Tourism. It forces me to doubt the intentions of such governments. It would take immense resilience of a PWD travelling across the harsh terrains of Kashmir only to be knocked down like this and yet, try again, with hope to get something  out of the Government!

Ms Stanzin (Left) and Mr Rigzin (Right) of Stok village narrating their difficulties in coping with their individual disability. However, what I find as the biggest disability is the apathy of the government in ensuring the implementation of schemes and policies benefitting PWD.

PAGIR was not the only organisation that seemed to be doing more for Ladakh than the Government. We had the chance to interact with Mr Jigmet Wangchuk, the Director, at Snow Leopard Conservancy and Himalayan Homestay Program (SLC). Started by his father, Rigme Wangchuk in 2002, the NGO has been doing phenomenal work in preserving the snow leopard and at the same time augmenting the incomes of the villagers in those valleys with the Homestay program. Their modest, but immensely valuable collection of photographs, sightings, pug-marks and other specimen samples of not only the snow leopard but also the Blue Sheep, Himalayan Wild Fox and few rare birds of the region is a remarkable step to maintain the eco-system of a fragile zone intact. By creating the Homestay rotation system and the Conservation linkage funds- where all the villagers will take turns to host homestays and contribute to the conservancy- they have made the residents of Marka and Sham Valley partners and stakeholders in the process. Something that the Ministries of Environment and Forests and Tourism must definitely take up as their own tasks- to conserve the wildlife of the place as well as generate income through tourism for places that have no livelihood options during winter.  Browsing through SLC's souveniers and wildlife 'museum', my mind rushed to graceful flight of the gulls at Pangong. What a sight that was! It will take dedicated efforts of an entire civilization to keep such winged friends in their habitat….

Mr Jigmet Wangchuk, director SLC. He has had an inspiring and enthralling journey of preserving the wildlife and promoting livelihoods in Ladakh's mountains.

On the way to and from Pangong Lake lies a village called Tangtse, far away from the rest of the civilization in by Ladakh's standards of remoteness. I had first heard its name from Chuskit, a student who hailed from Tangtse, at SECMOL. She had described how far and unconnected the village was, way beyond the army checkpost at Chang La too. This village however seemed to be well electrified, not just from the grid, but a lot of solar panels lined the roofs as well. It must have been one terrific effort to reach such a nondescript place, I had thought then. On the last day of our stay, we got know how. It is a projetc village of LEDeG. The Ladakh Ecological Development Group (LEDeG) in collaboration with the Indian Army had installed a solar plant in the village, a project worth 1 million Euros. LEDeG, our last NGO visit, was started with an objective to provide and promote eco-friendly and sustainable livelihoods for Ladakh's residents. They are involved in several initiatives including few micro-hydel power projects, creating and building eco-friendly, solar heated buildings and processing of agricultural produce. They provided livelihood options to women SHGs by marketing their Pashmina wool products, seabuck thorn cosmetics and Apricot jam/squash, etc. LEDeG are hence pioneers in Ladakh creating many "green jobs". With a visit to their apricot processing warehouse, our workshop in Ladakh came to an end.

A bird's eye view of the Leh town and adjoining villages. Poplar trees dominate the vegetation, just as the mountains dominate the skyline. 

*****

"… and right now, the sun is bright, the air is cool, my head is clear, there's a whole day ahead of us, we're almost to the mountains, it's a good day to be alive. It's this thinner air that does it. You always feel like this when you start getting into higher altitudes."

Buddhist flags adorn the skyline near the Shanti Stupa in Leh. The beautiful Himalayas are the omnipresent wonders of the district.

It is true that there is a stillness, an inner calm and a opportunity to introspect that only mountain spaces can provide. If two completely opposite words can be juxtaposed- like barren and beautiful- it befits a place like Ladakh alone. Prayaan had pushed me on to some planes of thought that I had ignorantly missed earlier. A narrow perspective of even rural issues, I had limited my thinking only to the problems and lifestyles of the villages in the plains, coasts and deserts. Why I never thought of the mountains, I do not know. A prejudice when shattered, perhaps, offers a greater learning than to learn something afresh. Hence, when exposed to the  travails of Ladakh's mountain rural communities in terms of  climate, livelihoods, education, ecology and whatnot- there was a cloudburst of new questions, thinking and learning. Through the sweeping roads of the mountainside, along the curves of River Indus, across the brown rocky terrains, amidst the lean towering Poplars, beneath the gigantic bright blue umbrella- there was all the time in the world to unlearn and relearn. That perhaps is the biggest learning- the necessity to constantly unlearn.

As long as that, everyday is a good day to be alive!

Panorama of the Pangong Lake, just as the sun peeped for a small bit. The iridescent colours of the lake- myriad shades of blue and green and occasional grey- was a sight to behold. (Courtesy- Akanksha Srivastava)