OF LIVING IN RURAL INDIA
It was during the winter in 1982. I was in Anand, a small, sleepy town of Gujarat in western India then, and probably, a small, sleepy town still. I had come to appear for an interview, on clearing the written admission test for the Institute of Rural Management - Anand (IRMA), which offered a Post-graduate Diploma in Rural Management (PGDRM). The sight of the lush green campus enthused me, coming from a dry and dusty city of Ahmedabad. The interview panel consisted of 5 members of faculty. One of them, the only lady on the panel, was Rajeshwari Rao. She started off with her first question, “What do you know of life in rural India”? Now that was a tough question. I had never seen rural India before. All my knowledge of life in a village was based on my once-in-two-years sojourn to my native Kerala in south India. But then, villages in Kerala are not quite like villages in other parts of the country. Or so I thought ! My other source of information on villages was thanks to Bollywood, with films “Mera Gaon, Mera Desh” and I thought villages were probably full of beautiful belles with those enticing back-less cholis (blouses) or dacoits with rifles riding on horses, where there were endless fairs around temples and where everyone wore colourful dresses. But then obviously, that was not the answer that I could give Rajeshwari Rao, much as I wanted to get admission to IRMA. So I said something that I thought was pretty innocent and straightforward, “Oh ! Life in the rural India ? Well, it is about cocks crowing in the morning and cows mooing, where there are beautiful mud huts and a nice pond”. I am not joking. That’s exactly what I said – just cannot imagine that I said it then, so naïve was I in my understanding of rural India, at a time when I was hoping to get into rural management !

Now I suppose that must be the type of answer that many of the potential candidates gave, or would have given, and still possibly give, year after year. Which is why, during our time, there was a 2-day village orientation visit. But then, this visit was to a village in Kheda district, one of the most prosperous districts of India with very high levels of agriculture and milk production, dominated by the enterprising Patel community. We didn’t really get to understand rural India, but yes, we did get to see the co-operative milk society function, which had a larger than life presence. Even the local buses and shops were willing to trade in the coupons issued by the milk co-operatives in lieu of change, for shortage of small change was quite common. The women, to the disappointment of many of us guys, were not as gorgeous as the Asha Parekhs and the Rekhas who normally played the roles of village damsels with great aplomb in many a Bollywood films. But then, of course, we did see some beautiful women ! Soon after, we were shown ‘Manthan’, a film almost like a documentary made on the success of the White Revolution through the dairy co-operatives that made India one of the leading producers of milk and dairy products. Now that film provided some real insights into life in rural India. It was not the gorgeous women-dacoits on horses-village fairs formula film. It was about solidarity at the community level, about the resolve of women and about how village communities were capable enough to bring in an economic revolution. We now felt better informed.

But then, the real education on life in rural India came a few months later when, in December 1983, the entire batch of about 60 students trooped to various parts of the country in small groups of 4-6 students to spend 2 months in a rural area. It was all quite exciting. We had formed groups amongst ourselves based on common interest and friendship that had been developed over the past 5 months. The group that I was in, wanted to go to Madhya Pradesh. We had a choice of Jabalpur and Raipur districts. We opted for Raipur, which then was part of M.P. It was an enjoyable 36 hours train journey by Howrah Express from Ahmedabad to Raipur. The group consisted of Shankar, Ashutosh, Apoorva, Sudhir and myself. We also had a sixth member, Pradeep Gantayat, who had made it clear to us fairly early on that he just wanted to get into a group but then we should not expect him to be actually part of our group. He was more keen to spend time with his friends in Nagpur, provided we covered up for him. That was okay by us since he was never an integral part of our group. And we needed a sixth guy anyway so that we could be evenly split in groups of 2 to spend time in 3 different villages of Tilda block of Raipur, about 60 kms from the district headquarters. The logistics support was to come from the Raipur Milk Union, who has fixed up basic staying and food arrangements for us in the 3 villages – Tarashiv, Kesda and Bhilodi.

The first two days in Raipur were quite exciting. Five guys in their early twenties in a new city (so what if it was Raipur ?). We started exploring the popular hang-out joints which included the ubiquitous India Coffee House with turbaned waiters in white starched dresses and a couple of theatres. The mode of transport was cycle rickshaw. It was difficult for us to fit into one rickshaw. So it was “ek mein teen, ek mein do” (3 in one, 2 in the other). In a way, it was good. It helped in bargaining, since we needed 2 rickshaws. Accounting systems to account for the money we were to spend on common items were devised, based on some basic cost accounting principles heavy loaded in favour of cost apportioning . Sudhir was to maintain accounts, which suited most of us.

We were still quite excited when a couple of days later, we headed to our respective villages. Sudhir and Shankar were to stay in Kesda, Ashu (poor Ashu, he was alone, but then he really didn’t mind) was in Bhilodi. Further down, past the block headquarters of Tilda, was Tarashiv, where Apoorva and I were to stay. It was almost afternoon when we reached our village. Crisp dry winter winds blew, the effect of which was toned down by the afternoon sun. As we got out of the jeep, we took a quick look around. This looked like a real village. Not like the semi-urban look of Kerala villages. Not the prosperous look like the villages of Kheda. A dusty one kilometer path led us from the main road (which an apology of a road, just wide enough to let a truck pass, for which all the rest coming from the other direction had to jump off the road, literally, a few feet away and below to avoid a collision). It was not a large village. There were 50-60 houses, many of them thatched. The better looking ones had rounded tiles made locally of earth and heated in a local kiln, supported by a mesh of bamboo poles.

Our first stop in the village was the dairy co-operative, housed in a dingy one room measuring barely 10 feet by 8 feet. A small wooden table, a steel almirah, four folding chairs and an assortment of measuring vessels was what the co-operative had, a far cry from the pucca two-storey building measuring about 2000 square feet that we had seen in Kheda. As true beneficiaries of the White Revolution that was instrumental in giving birth to IRMA, we asked a few quick questions. Milk collection was a measely 20 litres per day, which was considered good, as it could drop down to 10 at times. 20 litres was respectable enough, for it meant one full can.

The next stop was our home, our home that was to be for the next one month. It belonged to the young secretary of the milk co-operative, Somu, who lived in the house with his parents, his wife and his two children. Our home, or to put it more plainly, the room, was just as big, or probably a shade smaller, than the office of the milk co-operative. It had no windows. It had a door which had to be fastened by a chain that was hooked on to….well, a hook on the wall. The door had vertical fissures in it, big enough to let the outside sunlight come in when it was closed – which was useful, for the room had no window. There was a similar door on the other side of the room, but that opened out to the courtyard of Somu’s house. In the corner of the courtyard right outside the rear door of our ‘home’ was the barn where their two bullocks and two cows (a nice couple of bovine couples !) lived. They had been strategically placed behind the rear door of our room, I thought, for it provided them with the support when their foreheads were itchy. Except that it always gave us an eerie feeling that someday they would kick or hit the door open and trample over us. There was only one cot which was a traditional rope cot with wooden frames, just big enough for one person to sleep. The other person had to sleep on the floor. Initially, Apoorva and I took turns at sleeping on the cot, but then he decided that his life was too precious to be trampled under the hoofs of a naive cow or a bullock !

The day time was okay. There was enough sunlight, thanks to the gaps on our door. It gave us the privacy we wanted, because we could close the door and yet ensure that there was enough light in the room. The cows and the bullocks didn’t bother us in the day. You see, they had their own sense of decency and were loathe to disturb our afternoon siesta. But then, having granted us that liberty, they would then be liberal in their snorts and farts, grunting with satisfaction every time they urinated loudly or lay their dung. The only other noise they would make was when they shuffled impatiently, kicking with their hooves to keep the flies and mosquitoes away. But I am sure they never meant to disturb us. They were far too innocent for that. But Apoorva would not buy that theory. You see, he had always been brought up in a big city. It was Bombay initially and then Ahmedabad. And before that, he also had a brief London stint. He could barely make out the difference between a cow and a bullock. I was more empowered with my knowledge of cows and bullocks, having seen them at my grand parents place during my summer vacations in Kerala. But the only thing I found difficult to accept and where I joined ranks with Apoorva was the strange smell in our room. It was a mixture of the body smell of the animals, the dung and urine, the hay and an assortment of cattlefeed and of wet earth – partly because we had an earthen floor and partly because of the dampness of the barn behind. So much so that even we started smelling like them, meaning, our bovine friends !