RAMYABAI LEADS A REVOLUTION

The forests were thick and green. The view was indeed breathtaking. Small hamlets dotted the landscape. They were really small, rarely more than about 20 houses. In many cases, there were just 3-4 families in a hamlet. It was in one such hamlet in the Ambikapur district of Chattisgarh (then, a part of the central Indian state of Madhya Pradesh) that I met a group of women in late 1994. These were ordinary women from the Korva (tribal) community. But in a sense, they were not so ordinary, if one looked at what they had done to usher in a process of change in their communities.

Conflict had become a way of life for the many adivasi (indigenous) families living in this area. And their conflict was with those who are meant to protect the people, maintain law and order and to safeguard the country’s rich natural resource. These families were invariably at the receiving end, the victims, and in most cases, for no fault of theirs. The perpetrators were the officials, particularly at the lower level, of the revenue department (which maintained the local land records), the forest department (whose job was to conserve the forests) and the police.

According to these families, they had been living in these forests for as long as they could remember. They were born in these forests. They recollect their parents and other elders talking about how these forests as their homes and they as the original inhabitants of these forests. They considered themselves to be the children of these forests. The forests sustained them. It provided them with fruits, roots, leaves, twigs, wood and more importantly, gave them the naturally distilled rainwater for drinking, which flowed through the several small streams. Many of the elders recollected that some of them had lived in the earlier days as one or two families, moving from place to place, cultivating small patches of land.

Little did they realize that the forests did not belong to them. Long ago, the British had passed laws for the government to control the forest resources, which continued to be followed by the post-Independence, democratically elected governments. The forest policies of the government were geared more to conserve the forests rather than to also consider the livelihoods of those who lived traditionally in the forests and were entirely dependent on these forest for their living. In the eyes of the forest department, these adivasis were encroachers on lands on which the government had absolute control.

But their problem just did not end there. Subsequent governments had provided these families with small patches of land, which were considered as ‘revenue’ land. Which meant, they could live there, and even cultivate small patches of land (even if it hardly yielded anything) to barely eke out a living. But again, unknown to them, these lands had not been effectively converted from being categorized as ‘forest’ lands to ‘revenue’ lands. The forest department obviously therefore did not recognize the rights of these adivasis, the original dwellers of the forests, to live there. There were, according to the forest department, encroachers, who were a threat to the forest and the environment! This was something these people could never understand. “How could we ever kill our parents?” they would ask rather innocently. “Likewise, how can we harm the forests, for they are like our parents”! This apparently did not go down well with the forest department. The result was that they were constantly harassed, threatened with eviction and were forced to live an insecure existence. But the officials were also clever. They would never really want these adivasis to go away. How else could they get the constant supplies of food, fresh chicken, the intoxicating mahua (a flower commonly found in the local forests) brew? How else could they force the women to clean their dwellings, do the household work that would please their wives and also use these women to satisfy their baser instincts ?

A chance meeting with Anil and Utpala sometime in the mid-eighties provided them with a beacon of hope. Anil and Utpala were social workers (or activists, as they were generally referred to). They had seen the poor adivasis being exploited. Even the police seemed to be hand in glove with the revenue officials and the forest officials, who wanted to always extract their pound of flesh from these poor families. After all, their area of operation was in the remote forest villages, far away from the eyes of their higher ups. And they were confident that these naïve villagers would never ever muster the courage to complain against them! The fundamental issue that these activists found out was about the improper documentation of their lands, which meant that there was no clarity on who owned how much or who owned which plot of land. It was also not clear if these lands were indeed revenue lands (in which case, these families staying there and cultivating the lands would be legal) or whether they were forest lands (in which case, occupation and cultivation by the villagers would be illegal).

During one of their sojourns through the forests to familiarize themselves with the local issues, the couple reached Bichchalghati, a small hamlet nestling deep in the Ambikapur forests. Initially, the people were a bit surprised to see two strangers coming to their villagers. They were also scared. The only thing they had come to learn about outsiders was that they were exploiters. What have these two come for, they wondered. It did take some effort on the part of Anil and Utpala to build an initial layer of confidence. They tried to explain to them what they intended to do. They wanted to study the local problems, and with the local people, they wanted to work on lasting solutions. They believed that no solution was possible without the people themselves taking initiative and their task was basically to facilitate this process of people coming together and fighting for their rights.

As their visits increased, a certain rapport was built. Confidence grew. There was a very perceptible sense of excitement, especially among the women. The men were cautious. “It all sounds fine to us, but then, these babus (officials) are our mai-baap (literally meaning parents, but here, meant to imply ‘benefactors’) . Fighting for our rights would mean fighting against these babus. They will retaliate. How will we withstand that”, they often questioned, when there were spirited discussions about confronting the local officials and demanding their legitimate rights. And they knew it very well. Most of them had at least one experience of physical harassment by either the forest officials or the local police. Some had been jailed on charges they were not clear about ! Some of them were even beaten up for cutting trees on the biding of the local contractor, who also happened to be a very influential local politician. Certainly, enough was enough. They knew that their lives were fraught with risks, that harassment was a common feature and that they would always be insecure.

Enough, was definitely enough, for the women too. Their problems were similar in many ways. They too had suffered at the hands of these officials. They were often taunted and beaten up when they had begged for mercy for their husbands and sons. After a hard day’s work, they had, on several occasions, been forced to cook an elaborate meal for one of the local officials, who would also insist that they slaughter their hens which they so preciously had preserved for a special event – a marriage, a festival or for a religious offering. And worse, many of them had been used, abused, their modesty outraged. How could they ever forget the ignominy of the days and nights they were forcibly taken away to the official’s quarters or rest house, only to be subjected to the worst forms of humiliation? Something made them realize that it was now time to act. They had taken it all, lying down. And they had got to a point of ‘just no more’!

Dilbar, one of the most vocal women, was the first to respond. “Yes”, she said with a steely determination, “yes, we must fight. We have suffered enough. We need to realize that we too are human beings. We too need to be treated with dignity. So what if we are adivasis? We aren’t animals! If we all come together and stand solidly behind each other, nobody can bring us any harm”. Her determination seemed justified. What she said may have seemed a utopian dream at that point in time, but it certainly got the brains of the women ticking. For once, they were willing to throw caution to the winds, much to their husbands’ dismay!

Thus began a slow process. The women realized that their strength lay in their numbers. One day, when one of them went to the forests to collect firewood, the forest guard tried to misbehave with her. But she managed to escape and came running to the village. If it had been an earlier time, this incident would have gone unnoticed. At the most, she might have confided in a few women she was close to. But this time, when she narrated the incident to some of the women, they got together in no time. There were 15-20 of them. “We can’t allow him to escape this time. Let’s go and get him”, said Ramyabai, one of the women. Being familiar with the forests, these women tracked him in no time and confronted him.

The forest guard was unapologetic. Though he had been taken aback by the aggression of the women that he had not seen before when he indulged in such a behaviour, he had no inkling of what was in store. His unrelenting attitude angered the women further. One of them had a rope tied around her waist, which was meant to tie the firewood she was supposed to collect. She promptly took out the rope and with the help of the other women, literally ‘handcuffed’ him, took him to the nearest forest post and handed him over to the forest guard’s boss, the ranger. “Mind you, this is a warning”, Ramyabai said menacingly, “don’t try it ever again”. The ranger was taken by complete surprise. He blurted out a quick apology on behalf of his subordinate and asked the women to disperse. That day, they realized that they had achieved something!

But more was yet to come. While they did tackle such individual cases one by one, they were also aware that their confrontation with the forest officials was going to escalate, for there would be retaliation from their side too. After all, the forest officials were more powerful and influential. The women prepared themselves mentally for the worst. Meanwhile, to ensure that there was some security to their livelihoods, they started a savings programme, pinching out a bit from their meager earnings. Of course, it was not easy. It meant sacrificing on some of their immediate requirements. They also started collecting a small community fund. They were aware that at some point in time, they may have to travel to the district headquarters to meet higher level officials. They were also considering in terms of collecting enough money to engage a lawyer if one of them or their men folk was arrested. It was a small beginning, but then, it had to start somewhere.

One of their constant concerns was about the confusion around the land on which they had built their simple huts with thatched roofs. They just could not understand why they were always threatened with eviction, when apparently, they did not come in anybody’s way. Earlier, they could ward off the threat with inducements like the local brew or chicken, or even, in extreme cases, allowing one of the women to serve the officials. But now, they had resolved to claim their rights. There was also a problem regarding their land. The forest officials had always insisted that it was their (read, forest) land and that they had no right to cultivate those lands, that it was illegal and hence subject to eviction. They had earlier experiences when their standing crop was mercilessly burnt down by the forest officials, just days before the harvest, which meant a long season of near starvation! They had gone to the local tehsildar’s (the revenue official at the sub-district level) office to seek clarification, as repeated assurances of their patwari (the village level revenue official responsible for land records and issuing various certificates, to whom they had to pay small sums of money from time to time to lend their lands a semblance of legality !) did not yield any result. The tehsildar had initially said that he could nothing about it, but then soon, changed his statement and said that well, he could ‘explore’ ways, but at a cost. It had meant that each of the families had to shell out Rs. 100 or so for this purpose. As one could imagine, nothing happened. The forest officials continued to threaten them with eviction and destruction of their standing crops. Ultimately, their fate would determine what happened to them, they comforted themselves.

But on discovering the potential of their collective strength, the women had decided to do something about it, though they were not clear what! The time for the test of their determination was to come soon. One day, they heard the sound of a jeep approaching their village. It was not difficult to figure out to whom the jeep belonged. As the jeep screeched to halt, a dozen or so men in khakhi, all forest department lower level staffers, got off. The senior most among them, an official they had not met before, led the team. The people heard him being referred to as ‘Rana sahib (name changed)’. He surveyed the motley crowd of men, women and children, about 50 or so in all, who had come out of their huts. “What is the matter, sahib”, one of the men asked meekly. Something was not right, he mused. There was perceptible tension in the air. They had seen and even confronted these officials in ones and twos, but never had they seen such a large team in their village. And some of them were armed, something they did not attempt to undermine. “Get out of your huts, you creeps”, Rana shouted to them in general. “You have been told several times that this land does not belong to you. It belongs to us. Enough time has been given. It’s time you move now. Take your belongings and get out, right now”, he growled. He was a no-nonsense type! “But sahib, where can we go now? It’s almost evening. We know no other place where we can live. We have been living here for years and have not caused any trouble. Why can’t we live here?”, one of men asked, very respectfully. “There are small children, old people, pregnant women. Moreover, we have our farms here. Where else can we go and earn a living”, he continued to plead.

The officer seemed amused. There was a wicked smile at the corner of his mouth. He came close to Lakha, who had been performing the role of a spokesperson for the group. As he towered over Lakha’s frail figure, he said, “You should have thought about it earlier. Unfortunately, of late, you guys have been thinking more about how to corner us and defame us. Some of you, I believe, were also planning to do up to the district level to complain about us. You think we are going to take all this lying down, especially when you have been living here at our mercy”?

The men were visibly scared. There was an uneasy calm. Rana looked around and surveyed the hamlet. There were all mud huts. It wouldn’t take too long to demolish these. And the crowd here was pretty manageable too. Rana had a reputation of being ruthless, which these villagers were aware of. He wanted to climb up the hierarchy pretty fast. He knew exactly how to get into the good books of his superiors and the local elite. He had been hearing complaints from his subordinates that these villagers were getting too ‘hot’ to handle. Apparently, they had formed a ‘sangathan’ (association) ! The local elite too were not too happy with what was happening. Many of them had migrated from West Bengal several years ago. They could smell a revolution round the corner, which was quite ominous. “Nip it in the bud”, they would say.

As Rana contemplated his next move, Ramyabai stepped forward, pushing her way through the men who were standing a little ahead of the women (as would normally be expected). “Sahib, we have done no wrong. We have been living here peacefully. What makes you want us to be evicted? Whose orders are you carrying out”? she asked, sternly, yet with restraint in her voice. Her eyes were burning. She could feel the palpitations in her heart. She could not understand where she got the strength to speak out so openly. But she was conscious of the fact that the other women would stand by her. Before Rana could muster a response, the other women chorused, “Yes, she is right. Why should we move? This is our land and we will continue to live here”, they said.

Rana was livid. He certainly did not have a reputation for tolerance. And here he was, being challenged by the adivasis, who till yesterday, used to dance to his tunes! As he felt a rush of blood through his temples, one of the men pleaded, “Sahib, don’t listen to her. I beg forgiveness. And I plead that you be considerate enough to allow us to stay here”. This time around, it was Ramyabai’s turn to get angry. She had not bargained for this, from the men of her community. They could at least have shut up, instead of weakening their resolve ! “No”, she asserted, ”we are not begging for mercy. We are demanding our right to live here”.

That was it. Rana caught hold of Ramyabai’s hair in a fit of rage and pushed her away with a force that sent her stumbling all the way to where the rest of the women were standing. As she fell to the ground, she looked up to the women and as if on cue, they all surged forward and surounded Rana. “How dare you treat us like this?” they shouted. “What makes you think you can do anything to us”?

“Get going, you guys! What are you waiting for? Throw the stuff out of their homes and break down their huts. Fast !” Rana barked. He had sensed trouble. But he was equally determined to get his job done. The uniformed men went berserk. Moving from house to house, they systematically broke the fences, and with the butt of their rifles, they brought down the mud walls of the adivasi dwellings. They anyway hardly had anything in their homes, but whatever little they stumbled upon, they broke or destroyed mercilessly. There was absolute pandemonium. While some were trying to stop the men from doing further damage and even pleading mercy, some were trying to retrieve or save their frugal belongings. The men in uniform had no mercy. Even the earthen bins used to store grains were destroyed and stamped upon. Some of them even went to the extent of setting fire to the thatch to hasten the destruction.

As the rampaging team receded with loud threats of further harm if they did not move out of their habitation, the villagers turned around to look at the settlement where their simple little huts once stood. All that was left was debris all around. Pots and pans were all over the place. Clothes were strewn. There were small mounds of grain which were destroyed or spilled all over. Smoke emitted from some houses which had been set on fire. It was a sad spectacle. Years of labour and toil had simply been destroyed in the madness that lasted just a few minutes – and for no fault of theirs.

As they sat around, frustrated and humiliated, the only thought that seemed to cross their minds was what would happen next. Would the men come back and cause further damage? Would they also call the police to get them arrested if they physically did not move from there? But the women seemed to be in a different mood. Yes, they were frustrated, yes they felt humiliated, but no, they certainly did not feel diffident or hopeless. They were down, but not out! They knew that their strength lay in their solidarity and were determined to use it to the maximum.

Once again, it was Ramyabai who said, “Let’s not sit around, brooding about our fate. It’s time for us to unite and fight”. The other women nodded. “But it’s you who caused it”, one of the men said. “What makes you say so”, she shot back. “If only you had not been so defiant, we could have been let off with some bribes or chicken or liquor. But now, everything is lost. Do you still want to bring further damage to us”? they asked. “You may say what you want”, she continued. “But let me tell you, it’s time to fight. If we don’t, these guys will get back at us”, she said. “What do you want us to do”, the men asked. “We will go to the district headquarters and file a complaint with the district level officer”, she said. “With the help of Anil and Utpala, we will talk to the journalists and ask them to write about the unfair treatment meted out to us. We can also go and stage a dharna (demonstration) in front of the Collector’s office, demanding justice”, she said.

The men were quiet. Some of them were clearly cynical. “You think you can do all these? Do you think you can meet the higher-ups? What makes you think they will be better than these fellows? And won’t it cost us money to go to the district headquarters and meet other people ? And the time that it will take, when we could as well earn some money instead”? they posed. But not all men felt that way. Some of them could see reason. Yes, it meant time, it meant money. Yes, it gave them no guarantee that the reception they would get at the district level would be encouraging. But then, what was the harm in trying? Try they must. “Our women are determined and clear on what they want to do. So, I think it is important we support them instead of being skeptical”, they said. Once of them was Lakha.

What happened then was truly amazing, but not easy. Over the next one month, they made several visits to the district headquarters. With Anil and Utpala’s help, they met several influential people – from their local Member of Parliament and Member of Legislative Assembly to the District Collector and the District Forest Officer, from lawyers to journalists. Confrontation was fine, they knew. But then confrontation without a critical support base would be meaningless. They had to build allies. They had to know who would support their cause. They had to publicise their cause so that others like them wouldn’t face the same fate. They had to keep up the pressure. One message that the women always gave to the men was, “We will be ahead in this struggle. All we need is your backing. Whether it is a dharna or a yatra (march), we will be in the forefront. All said and done, even the police will not be comfortable reigning blows on us, but they may not hesitate to kick you guys at the slightest pretext. The higher up officials may abuse you, but chances are, they may listen to us. Anyway, whatever happens, we will not buckle. If it means going to the jail, we are prepared. But just don’t give up”.

As a strategy, it was perfect. Dharnas, yatras and gheraos (picketing) were resorted to. But never once did any of them indulge in any form of violence. Protests and demonstrations were peaceful. Slogans and songs to build solidarity among themselves emerged. There was a strong bonding, especially since people from the neighbouring villages also joined the cause, for they could be the victims of tomorrow !

Obviously, with such well orchestrated action, things could not be hidden further. Articles kept appearing in the local media about how the adivasis were being harassed. The Collector and the Superintendent of Police, both of whom happened to be extremely considerate and sympathetic to the cause of the poor adivasis, called for further details and explanations. Between them, they also put pressure on the District Forest Officer to act. Even the local MLA, under pressure, was forced to act since elections were not too far away !

After several days of applying pressure, the Collector called them for a meeting to settle the dispute. The Superintendent of Police, the District Forest Officer and several lower level officials were present. The DFO tendered an unconditional apology and assured them that such actions would not be repeated. The Collector also assured them that some public works would be sanctioned for the village so that it could provide additional employment and income for the families and help them recover their loss. He also assured them to look into possibilities of compensating them monetarily for the loss incurred.

It was a significant landmark for the villagers and especially for the women. There was a certain realization and confidence in themselves that emerged. Suddenly, they realized that they need not always be on the receiving end. They could also influence the way things happened at the local level. It was this realization that led them to lobby on various other issues. They lobbied actively with the revenue department to get legitimate pattas (title deeds) for their lands, subsequent to a government notification that allowed regularization of pattas (for lands that had been occupied by the tribals before October 1980, when the Government’s Forest Conversation Policy came into force). At times of drought, they managed to negotiate with the district and block officials to get public works sanctioned for their village. They ensured that the education and health facilities functioned well. It was not just about their rights that they worked on. They realized that they also had a responsibility to co-operate, participate and be engaged, to support government programmes meant for their welfare. And through all these, it was women like Ramyabai who led from the front, literally!

RITUALS - INAUGURATIONS !!!

The housing programme of Reaching the Unreached (RTU - where I worked for 4 1/2 years in the Southern Indian state of Tamil Nadu) was very popular. A specialist team of masons and carpenters had, over a period of time, been trained from among the local population. Every year, about 300 houses were built for people from the economically weaker sections. There was an elaborate process of selection of families to ensure that the programme was well targeted. Women headed households (who were either widows or deserted women), old aged and those with disabilities got preference. Most of the houses were constructed on plots of land that had been allocated to the landless, while some were on lands that had been bought or previously owned by these families. A community meeting preceded the process of identifying individual families. Once this process was over, there was a meeting to plan the layout of the village so that the houses were constructed in neat rows, which meant of course that some families had to let go a portion of their land to make way for a small path in between rows of houses. Once the construction was over, it had almost become mandatory for them to plant a coconut tree. “A coconut tree is as dear to us as a son”, some of them would say.

What marked any housing programme in a village was the inauguration of the construction work and then, the inauguration of the newly built settlement. These rituals could compete with any of the local festivities (that were numerous, anyway !) in terms of the enthusiasm of the people, the colour, the gaiety and fervour. Costs for hosting these functions was through community contribution. The inauguration of the construction work was a quieter occasion though. Calenders were pored through to identify the ‘auspicious’ time, which was critical for such occasions. ‘Rahu kaalam’ (the inauspicious periods in a day as per the Hindu calender) was consciously avoided. The village would have an air of expectation. Walking through haphazard rows of thatched hutments with ‘kolam’ (floral patterns in white commonly laid in front of homes on the ground) decorations as signs of welcome all along, we would be escorted to one of the spots where, in a matter of four weeks, a brand new house would stand ! That place, the chosen place, would be cleaned up. All the required implements and materials would be there – a spade, a bucket of water, kumkum (vermillion), chandan (sandal), a traditional brass lamp, agarbatti (incense sticks), coconuts, lemon, camphor, matchbox…….No inauguration would be complete without Bro. Kimpton being there (who would then negotiate to ensure that there are not blaring loudspeakers to which he was truly allergic).

The inauguration would start with the lighting of the lamp and the agarbattis, lighting the camphor on top of a coconut which then would be held by a senior member of the construction team (and someone who was comfortable with the sequence and performance of the ritual) and swayed in a clockwise direction, facing the east, as was appropriate. That done, it was time to break the coconut on the spade, sprinkle its water around, moist the hard earth with some more sprinkling of water and then calling upon one of the senior members from the community (which normally would mean an able bodied elder or ‘thalaivar’) to take the spade, invoke the blessings of the gods who may then confer upon this community peace and joy in the new settlement. There would normally be a spontaneous round of applause once the spade comes hitting the earth making a deep dent depending upon how softened the earth was and how hard the blow was, the applause mostly being sustained by a crowd of excited children, who would by then have realized that the time for them to attack the packs of boiled candies that Bro. Kimpton would religiously bring with him on such occasions, was drawing excitingly near ! The women meanwhile would simultaneously go into ululating. In some cases though, in case of those communities not used to applauding, it would require a clarion call by one of the elders (Enna, kaiyye thattunguda .......c'mon guys, applaud !) who would call out loudly and exhort his ilk to follow suit. Ofcourse, it was entirely another matter that the applause would continue till such time the same elder called it to a halt ! By then, the kids would have got dangerously near to the tray in which lay the packets of colourful boiled candies, looking very inviting in the morning sun. Barely would the first candy have dropped out of the now torn packet, than the kids would pounce as if on cue to grab their share of the goodie. What then came were the tiny glasses of sugary tea or tender coconuts, depending upon what was available and the biscuits, which would most likely find its way back to the bunch of excited children !

The construction work for a village would take roughly four weeks. The programme was so well orchestrated through experience that the five teams of masons and five teams of carpenters moved around from house to house in a predetermined sequence, before which, the community would have sorted out tricky issues of alignment of houses, laying out the common path and digging the foundation. Bricks, tiles, cement, sand, wood, lime, nails and the rest all seem to come in right in time when they are required, which often made me wonder why such things don’t happen in the big cities where these and many other resources can be accessed so much faster and better ! And that too without sophisticated management tools like PERT charts or GANNT charts !!! All the men and women at work were from the local villages. About 1,500 people benefited directly from these works every year(which also included those from the brick kilns, owning bullock carts, the whitewashers etc).

One of the masonary contractor teams was headed by a woman, who got into the job when her husband who managed one such team died suddenly. She had, in a very short period, very skillfully slipped into her husband’s role, establishing her command over the rough and tough bunch of masons and carpenters, all men and thus felling a male bastion. Rajamma was her name. Not once did the fact that she was a woman, came in the way of her effectiveness and her ability to deliver quality work on time ! That probably prompted some other women to come forth and be trained as masons, which was yet again, a male bastion !

Coming back to the work, the neat row of white houses measuring about 200 square feet each with the beautiful earth coloured Managalore tiles and blue doors and window seemed to spring up as if from nowhere and would become the envy of the passers by who would stop, turn around, to look at this beautiful settlement that came up to replace the barely livable huts. And, there was also a community hall and a threshing floor. The community hall was normally open from all sides with neat little pillars holding up the Mangalore tiled roof. That would become the venue of several meetings, functions, marriages, games and be the centre of the community’s life. The threshing floor was basically a raised platform that would cater to the needs of the families to dry their paddy.

The inauguration of the housing settlement, that is, once the entire work was over, was a time of great rejoicing. It was popularly referred to as ‘paal kaachal’ (boiling the milk), a ritual considered auspicious and mandatory in many parts of south India before one moves into a new house. Communities would try to be as creative as possible in putting up a ‘good show’. Invariably, the loudspeaker on this instance, could not be ignored. It was a very important part of the ceremonies to enable the ‘VIPs’ make their two-bit speeches (which Bro. Kimpton was averse to…I mean, even the speeches. Many a time, it used to be a straight and simple ‘vanakkam’ which meant ‘greetings’, the Tamil equivalent of ‘namaskar’, followed by a ‘nandri’ which meant 'thank you'). Almost all the houses would have the welcoming kolam in front of their houses, sometimes colourful, but mostly in intricate patterns of white. The lanes would be decorated with rows of leaves strung to strings or with banana leaves bunches together. Banana leaves were an important of the function. These too were considered as auspicious.

The communities took these functions, especially the one to mark the completion of the construction work, very seriously. Though nothing was specifically designated, there was a pattern in the way responsibilities were designated. The men did the collection of money, buying of gifts (yes, there would be small gifts too....more about it later), and generally deciding the sequence of events including the spot where the function would be held and in some cases, the house where a ‘symbolic’ paal kaachal would be held. (It was not because the women couldn’t do it or were not interested in. It’s just that they didn’t have the time. The men had the time a little more liberally allotted to them for reasons that are well known !). The women would ensure that the ‘content’ part of the ritual was taken care of. Kolams had to be organized. A check had to be kept on all the puja materials – the kumkum, chandan, flowers, coconuts, bananas, coconut leaves, coconuts etc. And yes ! They had to ensure that their best sari was well in shape to be worn on that special occasion which would mark their entry into their new home !

The youth’s activities were generally centred around logistics. The mike set guy had to be co-ordinated. They had to ensure that this guy brings with him the cassettes of the latest film songs that were a rage at that point in time. There had to ensure that there were a few songs which were picturised on specific rituals in the Tamil films, to get in that very special flavour of the occasion. And then, when the guests had come and were seated, they had to break open the soda bottles by pushing the marble that was stuck to the neck of the soda bottle to keep the gas intact, resulting in a conspicuous ‘whoooossh’ sound of the escaping gas. Or had to ensure that there were enough bottles of ‘colour’ (the local term used for a range of spurious soft drinks available aplenty in the country side at extremely affordable rates, packaged on the lines of Mirinda and Pepsi, sometimes, in the same Mirinda and Pepsi bottles that were surreptitiously bought over by these mini bottling plants) were available. The popular choice among the ‘guests’ (which was more to politely avoid being treated to sodas and ‘colours’ of suspect quality) was tender coconuts – in which case those from the village, who loved these sodas and bottles of ‘colours’, would generously treat them to these fizzy drinks. There would be some snacky items too. Glucose biscuits which could easily pass off as ‘Parle Glucose Biscuits’ but which, on closer scrutiny, would actually be something as close as ‘Parel’ biscuits or some such name to build in a brand identity were pretty common. And so was some local 'mixture' (a tasty, savoury snack), which was usually very tasty.

Identification of the guests to be invited was also an elaborate process that required a series of community level discussions. There would be usual suspects from RTU. Bro. Kimpton was a must. Many inaugurations were put off by a few days, or even a few weeks, to ensure that he was around (which he normally was, except in May when he would spend a couple of weeks in Kodaikanal on his retreat). Bro. Kimpton, the ‘Berther’ or the ‘ayya’ for the communities, was an absolute must, for they also had a strong conviction in the power of his blessings which would, from their perspective, enable them to live happily ever after. I would normally slip in by default as the assistant director of RTU. And then there were those from the housing department led by Lourduswamy, the dynamic and efficient person who excelled in high quality and timely completion of activities. And then, there were heads of many other departments. Ilango and James who looked after education and health programmes would normally be invited to all such functions since they were an integral part of the team. And so would Rani and Manoba whose mobile clinics had endeared them to those in the surrounding villages.

This was the easier part. The more difficult part was the other invitees, which normally depended on who could potentially contribute to the village development. These were the days preceding the panchayati raj system. So, the other invitees would or could include the local Member of the Legislative Assembly, MLA (if the village tended to support the part s/he represented – they barely thought of inviting the MP as s/he was too distanced from their daily lives). If the MLA was from a party that the village was not supportive of, they would call the local, usually the block level, president of the concerned political party. And then there would be those from the block – the Block Development Officer and his entourage. Getting someone from the district level did not figure high in the priority, though RTU, on a few occasions, did use its contacts to get the District Collector or his/her deputy when requested by the hosting community.

These functions were usually held in the mornings. The arrival of the guests was greeting with the beating of the drums by traditional drummers. As if on cue, some of the more enthusiastic youth would get into an impromptu dance (tappankoothu, as they would locally refer to, meaning a casual, joyful way of dancing) and soon, they would be joined by some of their seniors who may have prepared themselves well (a little too well, at times) in advance by gulping in a couple of glasses of the local brew so that they could drop their inhibitions and get into a swinging mood, literally ! The drummers and the dancers would then escort the guests to the place where the function would be held, in some cases, under a small ‘pandal’ or shamiana. As the guests approached the venue of the function, the mike-set-guy ( a critical technocrat on such occasions) would get active by first blowing into the mike or snapping in front of it, with the mandatory ‘1-2-3 mike testing’ repeated usually 3 times, just to ensure that the mike is up and functioning to amplify the greetings of the guests. The women, in their bright sarees, would have collected as a group nearer to the venue and would ululate excitedly with a great deal of merriment, heightened by the fragrance of the fresh jasmine and ‘kanakambaram’ flowers. With their long tresses well oiled and tied in a knot and their bright stone studded nose rings shining brightly in the morning sun, they contrasted in colour to their less soberly dressed male counterparts who normally wore white shirts and dhotis, except for the youth who would be in brighter coloured shirts and lungis. The men’s dhotis were not all white though. A close look would reveal the ‘karai’ or the coloured lines that ran along the horizontal length of the dhoti, and a closer look could reveal their party preferences. The Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam supporters would prefer wearing dhotis with the party’s red and black lines along the borders of their dhotis. Those supporting the Anna Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam (that broke away from the DMK) would have the same red and black coloured lines on the borders of their dhotis, but with a line of white separating the two. The Congress supporters would wear dhotis with the Indian tricolour along their dhoti borders – saffron, white and green. Some men would make their party affiliations more obvious by draping themselves in a shawl that reflected their party colours or casually placing a small cotton towel on their shoulders which had their party colours.

Coming back to the women, they would now get ready to perform an important function, that of performing the ‘arati’ the traditional form of welcome. It normally was done with a plate of water in which vermillion was mixed with a bit of raw rice, leaves and other auspicious items . Holding it in front of their guests, they would moved it in around in a clockwise action, take a bit of the solution and apply it on the guests’ forehead, and then pour it horizontally in front of the guests for them to step over it. This symbolized protection from evil spirits. I noticed that this was quite different from the north Indian form of arti which required a lighted lamp and which then would continue to be held by the women escorting the guests.

Once the guests were seated at the assigned places (in most cases, the chairs and tables were thanks to the local school !), small plates of kumkum and chandan would be passed around for the guests to apply on their foreheads. Small garlands of welcome would usually follow. And then, one of the village elders would make his way to the mike to formally announce the commencement of ceremonies.

Usually, it started with a prayer song, again, usually sung by children. A bunch of excited kids would make their way to the mike, wearing their best clothes and with neatly combed hair, most of them with a bit of holy ash on their forehead. With wide grins, they would take their position in front of the mike, wave to their parents and friends in the crowd. And then, they would get dead serious. Eyes closed and their faces a picture of concentration, they would start singing the prayers. Suddenly, everything around would be quiet except for the prayer singing. As soon as this was over, the hustle and bustle would begin. People wanting to sit closer to the dais, young chaps running around organizing the eats, and kids pushing through the spaces to make their presence felt among the adults. The first speech by the village elder would normally have a long salutation process which would start something like ‘The respectful and honourable Bro. Kimpton who has devoted his lives to working for the poor and bringing hope to many, many poor people for over several years........’, if translated literally and followed by similar adulatory references to the block officials (some of whom may be visiting the village for the first time in their current tenure). This was followed by the guests being welcomed, one by one, with that gift that I was referring to. In most cases, it was a light shawl or a bath towel. As the names of the guests were announced, someone would come up with the shawl or the towel, open it up and wrap it respectively around the shoulders of the guest. In most cases, most of these shawls or towels were returned to the village once the function was over. But shawl or towel, the compere would invariably refer to this piece of cloth as ‘ponnadai’ which roughly meant the ‘golden shawl’. Next, the guests would be invited to cut the ribbon and perform the related functions which would signify the actual inauguration of the housing settlement. And then, the speeches of the guests which mercifully would be short, except when one of the invited block officials with a great love for his voice would seize the opportunity to publicise his achievements and that of the block he worked in !

Finally, there would be a vote of thanks. But what would mark some of these inaugurations as special was women with new born children running up to Bro. Kimpton (and rarely the other guests !) with a request to bless the child and name him or her. Inspite of being a Britisher, Bro. Kimpton had a vast repository of names that would seem appropriate. A beautiful girl child, for instance, would be named ‘Alageshwari’ or the goddess of beauty. A first born male child would normally be named as ‘Murugan’ or ‘Arumugam’, the other names of Lord Karthikeya, the son of Lord Shiva and Goddess Parvati, who rode on a peacock and whose most popular abode, the Palani Hill, was close to where we worked.

Much more celebration would follow, especially after we and other guests left. The mike sets would continue blaring, more loudly then. There would be meat distributed. Alcohol would flow freely. The frenzied celebrations would continue late into the night after the 'formal inauguration' - and why not ? It was celebrating their move into a more dignified surroundings that they were truly proud of !

THE TALE OF THREE BROTHERS

This should have been the tale of five brothers, much like the mythological Pandavas (except that they had two sisters too). They even had a step-brother (like Karna, the half-brother of the Pandavas). But here, I will restrict it to three of them. The trio had a lot in common – all the three are very outgoing, extremely warm and helpful, caring, love children and music. Each one of them have very special skills. The eldest, Ilango, can write plays, choreograph and compose folk songs. The next in line, Ramesh, is quite an all-rounder, adept at electric repairing, carpentry, plumbing, driving and many other skills. Sundar, the youngest, is more similar to Ramesh and is probably as good as Ramesh in most of the skills, except that he can also handle computers quite well. All the three barely had a proper formal education beyond their 10^th class. Ilango, being more academically inclined, pursued his studies intermittently through evening classes and distance education, to eventually obtain a Masters degree. Ilango is in his early fifties, Ramesh in his early forties and Sundar is just turning to be 40 this year. All the three are married and have children. Ilango is now a grandfather. So, what’s the story of their lives ?

Ilango, being the oldest, still has vivid memories of their childhood. Theirs was a riches-to-rags story. Ilango’s father, R, was a widower who married Ilango’s mother a few years after the death of his first wife, from whom he had a son. Ilango’s sister preceded him in coming to this world. He was followed by four brothers and a sister. Sundar was the youngest of the lot.

Their father, R, was quite a well known person in Madurai. He was very active in the then flourishing Tamil theatre, before Tamil cinema snuffed out competition from the theatre. His father wrote plays and directed them, many of which ran to packed houses. His father, a strong Congress supporter, was also known as a speech writer for prominent Tamil Congressmen in the 1940’s and 1950’s. Ilango remembers that his huge house, symbolic of their prosperity, was always filled with people from the fields of theatre and politics. His mother had a tough time in extending hospitality to all those who came to meet his father. As his father’s popularity increased, he was also asked to be the scriptwriter for a Tamil film. They led quite an extravagant lifestyle. Food and clothing was aplenty and never a cause for concern. Though from a goldsmith family, many of whom had thriving businesses, Ilango’s father did not consider taking up his traditional occupation, for what he did gave him a lot of satisfaction, fame and popularity.

Things changed all of a sudden with the demise of Ilango’s father. Life came to standstill for this family. His mother, who had spent most of her time within the four walls of the house, looking after a large family and the numerous guests, was at crossroads. Bringing up seven of her own children and a stepson for someone who had no formal education and who had no experience of managing money was a huge uphill task. Soon on hearing about his father’s demise, Ilango remembers people queuing up asking for the loans they claimed they had extended to his father. It was impossible for a widow to stave them off. With the help of some family friends, she sold the house and most of their material possessions to pay off the family debts, while trying to reconstruct life for the family. Sundar and Ramesh barely remember those days. Ilango himself had just then stepped into his adolescence.

The following years were marked with struggle for survival. Even with plenty of family friends and relatives around, the going was not easy, for when it came to money, there was not much help that was forthcoming. Their mother did a variety of odd jobs and errands to keep the family from starvation. She also tried her hand at petty businesses. Ilango started working as a helper in some shops that one of his father’s friends was familiar with. Between him and his mother, they ensured that the younger siblings went to school.

But the struggle for survival was taking its toll on Ilango’s mother’s health. She became increasingly weak with constant attacks of fever and cough. She started losing weight. Eventually, she was diagnosed as suffering from the dreaded tuberculosis. With hardly any money for good medical treatment, she was admitted to the district government hospital in Madurai. She could not hold on for long. Ilango was eighteen when his mother died and Sundar, the youngest was only six. Arranging a decent cremation was itself a huge task. The owner of the rented house they lived in refused to let them bring his mother’s dead body inside the house for the last rites. They finally had to take her body to a family friend’s house with great difficulty. The years of struggle and his mother’s illness meant that they were left with hardly any material possession, having had to sell most of their meagre possessions to survive. A little bit of cash and tiny pieces of gold ornaments that their mother had carefully kept aside had come in handy for their elder sister’s marriage. The burden of taking care of his four younger brothers and a sister was now squarely on Ilango’s frail shoulders. Determined though he was to ensure that his siblings could continue their education, he was quite overwhelmed by the challenge.

As he looked around for opportunities, he came across Boys’ Village, a home for orphaned and destitute children in Madurai district. Ilango got his younger brothers admitted as boarders in the village. That was a great relief. All children from the boys’ village went to the local government school, which meant that his brothers could continue with their education. When they grew older, they would graduate to Boys’ Town, where, in addition to their formal education, they could also get a formal training in various vocational skills that would ensure that they could identify appropriate livelihood options. Ilango himself managed to find himself the job of a typist in the Boys’ Town and with that earning, he could take care of his sister (who would eventually qualify as a teacher). Ramesh and Sundar learnt various skills – carpentry, electric wiring, lathe machinery etc., adept as they were with their hands. Ilango, in addition to his typing, got involved with the programmes. His love for children meant that he would often spend time teaching the children, playing with them and engaging them with various hobbies, music and singing being his favourite.

Ilango continued to develop himself. He got seriously involved with education programmes. He read voraciously to develop insights into child psychology and other dimensions of education. He enrolled himself for various training opportunities that came his way, which Boys’ Town was willing to sponsor. When Bro. Kimpton set up Reaching the Unreached (RTU) as an independent organisation, moving away from his base in Boys’ Village in the early eighties, Ilango joined him and helped him with various administrative functions. He moved on to initiate RTU’s education programmes and eventually headed the department, which, in a decade’s time, provided quality education to over 2,000 children, in addition to imparting vocational skills to adolescent girls and boys. Some of the vocations included the more modern ones such as screen printing and computers. All this time, Ilango continued to enrich his academic base, enrolled himself for various distance education courses and obtained a Masters in Sociology.

Ilango’s brothers chartered their own course. Ramesh joined one of the local contractors and worked as an electrician, plumber, motor mechanic and carpenter, all rolled in one. His cheerful disposition, his deft skills and his athleticism made him a very popular person. He was especially popular with the children in the foster homes which he would often visit to check on maintenance works. Like Ilango, he too was very fond of children and had a very special way of getting along with them. Moreover, he was a good singer and could play percussion instruments quite well and that ensured that he was always there to participate in various entertainment programmes (which invariably would be co-ordinated or conceived by Ilango, who would anyway be at the forefront). His dedication and commitment, and his sense of discipline were noticed. He was soon heading RTU’s maintenance department, supervising the work of several technicians to ensure that the sprawling RTU campus, the staff houses, the foster homes, the many schools, the worksheds and other parts of the campus were fully functional.

Sundar was the proverbial black sheep of the family. As the youngest, he also probably took liberty. Having been orphaned at the age of six and with not much of disciplining early in his life, he tended to be wayward. He always had a tendency of not taking life seriously in general – which meant that he did not concentrate on his studies, nor did he pay much attention to relationships. He was, like Ramesh, very adept at picking up skills though. And like Ilango and Ramesh, he was intrinsically a warm, loving and caring person. However, his waywardness put him in the wrong company. His late teens and his early twenties saw him leading a risky life, engaging in street fights, drinking at will and blowing away his earnings on movies, food and other forms of indulgence. He had a small job working in a unit that made steel cupboards. But the work was irregular. I believe there were times when he was out of work and went without proper food for several days. Though he worked in Madurai, I used to meet him often when he would come to visit Ilango and Ramesh in RTU.

In mid-1993, we moved to Delhi. The same year, in winter, he came to visit us in Delhi. It was meant to be a fortnight’s stay. He apparently missed us and wanted to spend some time with us. While he was with us, I learnt that he had been out of work for quite some time. Frustrated in his attempt to find some work, he decided to take a break. He came to Delhi with some cash that he borrowed from a friend, in the hope that on returning to Madurai, he would find a job and pay him back. Hearing that, I asked him to stay back in Delhi, assuring him that we would find a way to pay his friend back. Instead, I asked him to learn driving and learn Hindi. In three months’ time, I was supposed to set up Actionaid’s regional office for Madhya Pradesh in Bhopal. I was hopeful that I could find something useful for him to do there. Sundar was a quick learner. He learnt Hindi. Moving around Delhi on his own boosted his confidence (he had never been beyond any south Indian state earlier). And he learnt driving too. When we moved to Bhopal in April 1994, he came with us. He was, in many ways, my Man Friday. There was a lot of work involved in setting up a new office. He did an excellent job of supporting Prahlad, our Administrative Assistant. In no time, he had explored Bhopal’s roads and could take us anywhere, largely due to Prahlad’s constant guidance. But more importantly, he started taking interest in Actionaid’s work and development work in general. Often, he would sit in various meetings and workshops, trying to understand what development work meant. Often, he asked many pertinent questions. And when he got time, he would also try his hand at the computer (something that I didn’t encourage him at that stage, honestly, fearing that our only PC could break down if not handled well).

A year later, I thought it was time for him to move. He was becoming too dependent on us, which was not healthy for him. That was the time my colleague Tom, who headed Actionaid’s Chennai regional office, was looking for someone like Sundar. We discussed and agreed that Sundar could move to Chennai. In addition to his being trained for the job, it could, in the long run, be beneficial to Sundar too considering that he hailed from Tamil Nadu. And it would also mean that he could start living independently.

Sundar made his mark in Chennai. He was quite popular with the team. He gradually began engaging himself with mainstream development work. That was the time when Actionaid had manage to rope in prominent Tamil filmstars (Suhasini, Revathy, Manorama) to do a film on panchayati raj (political decentralisation) that required lot of outdoor shooting. A film buff to the core, Sundar enjoyed this phase and very enthusiastically worked with the film technicians. All the time, he continued to explore ways to improve himself. He had mastered basic computer operations and became quite adept at surfing the net. He enrolled for a course and learnt the basics of computer hardware, enough for him to start assembling PCs on his own and selling it ! But the highpoint of his career, I think, came when he was asked to get involved in Actionaid’s programmes for the homeless in Chennai and working with commercial sex workers’ of Chennai to enable them explore other livelihood options. It meant late nights and lot of additional work. It meant lot of local travel. It meant rushing people to hospitals or negotiating with the local police. That’s where probably the challenges he faced earlier on in life, came in handy. These were not situations that deterred him. In fact, he relished these opportunities. When I met him at the World Social Forum in Mumbai in January 2004, he was a proud man. He introduced me to a group of sex workers with whom he had been working. He proudly showed the bank pass books these women were maintaining and explained the various processes he was engaged in rehabilitating these sex workers. The women too were very happy about all that Sundar had done and there was a certain bonding. Sundar had arrived, truly arrived !

A-LA INSPIRATION

Working in Surendranagar district was always a challenge for us in AKRSP, especially in the mid to late eighties when, as an organization, we were still in the process of establishing ourselves and our credibility. Most of the staff were new and most in their early to mid twenties. There were some on secondment from the Gujarat state government. As expected, work ethics and work culture was drastically different between these two groups. These were the early days of ‘participation’ when Robert Chambers ( widely considered to be the guru of participatory approaches) had stared propounding the ‘rapid rural appraisal’ (or the popularly known RRA) techniques, but this did not resonate much with our government colleagues.

There were several other challenges. A deeply entrenched feudal culture dominated by the powerful Darbar community meant that initiating social mobilization processes was quite a challenge in itself. Tensions between the Koli Patels (a so-called backward caste / class group generally agriculturists and labourers) and the Rabari (also backward caste/class and traditional cattleherds) communities, especially over cattle grazing and the use of public lands was a contentious issue. Surendranagar was also one of the most drought prone districts of India. While I was with AKPSP, I witnessed one of the worst droughts the district had seen, the drought of 1987, which has followed two previous years of droughts, consecutively.

It was in this backdrop that we had made our first forays into Thoriyali, a village near the Sayala, the block headquarters. Though I can’t recollect the exact reasons why we went there, I vaguely recall that it had to do with the rather creditable performance of the village milk co-operative, something that one of my colleagues who came from the land of Amul (or the Anand Milk Union Limited, a district level federation of village milk co-operatives, which, through its successful processing and production facilities, became well known as the AMUL brand for milk and milk products and considered a success story globally in co-operative organisation of village level producers) and had a background of working with the National Dairy Development Board (NDDB), took a fancy for. My own background of having studied rural management in the neighbouring IRMA campus too attracted me to look at the milk co-operative. Those days, the District Rural Development Agency (popularly known as the DRDA) had a scheme of providing financial assistance to milk co-operatives to develop a portion of public lands as a fodder farm, if the local panchayat (local level governance unit) was willing and depending upon its feasibility such as quality of land, availability of water etc. For a drought prone district, with a large population of the cattleherd communities or Maldharis as they were locally known (consisting of two sub-communities, i.e. the Rabaris and the Bharvads) and hence, a heavy dependence on livestock as a primary or secondary source of livelihood, combined with deep-rooted traditional beliefs of caring for cattle (and especially the cows), developing a fodder farm that would enable the local families access green fodder throughout the year at reasonable rates was an attractive proposition. Thoriyali was recommended as one of the villages where a good fodder farm could develop as it had the essential pre-requisites – good land, potential water sources and a functioning milk co-operative. AKRSP agreed to put in supplementary support in form of bridge financing and technical support and help the co-operative society manage the farm in the initial stages.

Our initial interactions were, as expected, with the village leaders. As a Rabari dominated village, the elders were from this community. Among the Rabaris too, one particular family was influential. They owned the biggest house, had the most number of cattle, had leased in a stone crushing unit, owned a jeep and a couple of motorcycles and more importantly, wielded political clout. Respected (and possibly feared) by the rest in the village, this family controlled the affairs of the village. But as our visits increased and our contacts grew, the ‘second line’ became more visible.

This second line was very different from the elders. Aged between 14-24, many of them had at least a few years of schooling, which was significant considering that none of the elders had ever been to school. They had a slightly more 'modern' or 'cosmopolitan' outlook, spoke a smattering of Hindi, understood a few words of English, wore trousers and shirts (instead of the traditional dress worn by their elders, except on special occasions like weddings and other festivals). Moreover, they seemed to be a little more comfortable with us than the elders were, probably because as youngsters ourselves, we were closer in age to these youth and probably also because in us, they saw a generational representation. They often had lot of questions about our educational and professional background, about what we did to qualify with whatever degrees or diplomas we had and how we were picked up by AKRSP. They also wanted to know what they should be doing to get a government job (a big thing those days with assurance of a reasonably good pay packet and job security for life, as was the case then).

Of the lot, Alabhai stood out. A young, energetic guy in his mid-twenties, Alabhai was the friendliest of the lot. He stood out partly because of his confidence. A guy of an average build and height, he flaunted a stylish (step) hair cut. His ear studs, which he wore occasionally and his tattooed forearm with Lord Krishna’s motif and his own name provided the symbols of tradition to his otherwise ‘modern’ personality. His smile was bright and revealed a set of perfect teeth and his thick eyebrows knit in concentration while contemplating on what could be done in his village.

Alabhai was a force in his village. At his age, he was the Chairman of the village milk co-operative, which meant that he dealt regularly with the district level dairy officials. His position also brought him in contact with the local block level officials. He often met the local MLA to press for various schemes for his village. More importantly, he seemed to be a role model for the other youth in his village, who looked up to him, took instructions and extended their co-operation to whatever he initiated as a community activity. With equal ease, he related to the village elders, trying to convince them to bury their individual differences or differences between communities for a common cause. His father though was not often happy about his community level work as it meant that much less time for the family business, their farming and managing their cattle. But Alabhai had no qualms. He was confident that his brothers and cousins could help out his father, while he engaged more in community development initiatives.

When the work on the fodder farm started, Alabhai naturally took the lead, as it was under the auspices of the milk co-operative. Initially, there were several meetings. People had to be convinced about allowing a portion of the village commons to be fenced off for a fodder farm. The panchayat had to pass the necessary resolutions, which then needed the District Collector’s sanction. After this, the DRDA had to provide a technical sanction and an administrative sanction to ensure that funds under the relevant government programme was released. All this meant that with AKRSP, Alabhai had a lot of follow up to do at both the block level (who had to recommend the necessary approvals for their district level officials) and at the district level. It was always an asset to have Alabhai with us. In addition to providing the necessary information, Alabhai had his own way of dealing with the government officials in a firm, assertive manner, but with an enviable degree of diplomacy. He lent a certain credibility to our follow-up as he was a representative from the village and the Chairman of a successful milk co-operative.

Starting the fodder farm provided lot of challenges and opportunities to Alabhai. His administrative skills were put to good use as detailed accounts of money spent and all the supporting documentation had to be systematically maintained. His conflict resolution skills came to the fore as he often took the initiative to resolve several internal conflicts (including some with the neighbouring villages). He also performed an ambassador’s role. He often accompanied AKRSP staff to other villages where we were not known, addressing community meeting and exhorting them to plan for their village development. His youthfulness and energy infected those in the newer villages who often sought his advice on development opportunities in their respective villages.

At the height of the 1987 drought, with AKRSP’s support, he led in organizing a cattle camp to take care of the village cattle. This meant that in addition to running around for various approvals from the government, he travelled to south Gujarat hunting for good fodder sources. There are quite a few things that I recall about Alabhai and I was always amazed about how much he managed to do, in spite of his youth and the dominance of the elders in the village affairs. But one thing that he did was indeed spectacular, I thought.

This was a village meeting that we were having. He suggested that we could have it in the courtyard of his house that was quite spacious and could accommodate several people. It was a cold, wintry night. People filed in, covering themselves with blankets and trying to sit as close to the fire that was lit in the middle of the courtyard as possible. Since there was no electricity that day, faces were barely visible. In the dim light there, as people made themselves comfortable, I saw a group of people huddled near the entrance of the courtyard. They were not quite inside, but it was clear that they were not uninterested witnesses. They were here to participate in this meeting. A little while later, as Alabhai noticed them, he said, “Come inside and make yourselves comfortable. If you stand there, you won’t be able to participate.” A perfectly hospitable gesture, I thought, except that there were some murmurs from a section of the crowd. Not quite able to fathom the reluctance of those waiting outside, and the rather disconcerted response from a group within, I asked Alabhai what the matter was. “They are Harijans (dalits or untouchables)”, he said plainly, “and as per the general practice in the rural areas, they are not normally allowed inside our homes”. I could now understand what the issue was. Alabhai was, in his own way, trying to change the rules of the game. “But I want to change this all. How does it matter that they are Harijans ? They are people of this village. There is no problem when they supply milk to the milk co-operative. Why? Because it helps us show better collection figures, and hence, better bonus and profits. So why should anyone mind them coming and participating in a meeting”, he asked. Well, perfect logic. But then, a lot of what happens are not generally informed by logic and reason !

I happened to visit Thoriyali several years later, 12 years to be precise, in 2001, while I was on my way to Bhuj. I had spent a night on AKRSP’s campus in Sayala from where Thoriyali was just a stone’s throw away. As I made my way through the familiar dusty lanes from the main road into Thoriyali, dotted as they were with the ‘ganda baval’ (the thorny bush tree that grows in abundance in arid areas) shrubs and littered with cow dung, nothing much seemed to have changed. Some houses looked better, some houses were brightly painted, some lanes were laid with stones, there were more concrete structures, but a look at the people indicated that not much had changed.

As I made my way to meet Alabhai, I was led to a house behind the one that I was used to meeting him in – his father’s house. Alabhai had set up his own home in a fairly big house. As I entered, he looked at me, partly in disbelief, and partly rather unsure and hesitant of how he should greet me. Alabhai, I was told, and Thoriyali in general was no longer involved with AKRSP’s programmes after some problems with one of the AKRSP supported programmes in the village. That was disappointing though not entirely unanticipated. This was a common recurrence with many villages in the development process when, as programmes develop, NGOs tend to move on to other villages. The older villagers are either ‘graduated’ or there is a minimal contact with those villages. In some cases, this could also be due to some internal problems, as was the case with Thoriyali.

Alabhai hadn’t changed much. The lines on his forehead were deeper and he seemed leaner. Strands of grey hair were clearly visible. He eventually warmed up to my unannounced visit. It was clear that much of what had been initiated earlier had not really sustained. The milk co-operative, I was told, was functioning quite well, but the fodder farm had folded up. Alabhai himself had got out of his developmental pursuits in favour of his family business of stone crushing and other bits of contracting work. In the intermediate, he had also contested local elections but had not succeeded. All this was a bit disappointing as this was one village on which I had lot of hope. But a couple of years later, I realised that all was not, after all, lost.

I was visiting a DFID (UK Government's Department for International Development, where I worked for some time) supported project in western Madhya Pradesh as part of an annual review process in 2003. I was with the Gram Vikas Trust (GVT), an NGO that worked in some parts of Madhya Pradesh, Gujarat and Rajasthan. Just before one of the sessions was to begin in Ratlam where GVT’s team from the three states had assembled, I was told that someone from the Dahod (Gujarat) team wanted to meet me as he knew me. His name was Devsi, they said. The name, though sounding familiar, did not quite ring a bell. As we moved into the meeting room, I looked around for a face that may be familiar, that may belong to Devsi. None. The meeting started. At lunch break, a young man in his mid-twenties came towards me and greeted me. “Do you remember me”? he asked. I didn’t and was rather embarrassed. “I am Devsi and I am from Thoriyali”, he said. Yes, he now seemed faintly familiar. “I remember the time you used to visit our village very often. I was an adolescent then. I used to listen keenly to all the discussions in the meetings. I used to work alongside Haja (a young chap who used to work as the secretary of the milk co-operative) occasionally”, he continued. After completing his intermediate level schooling, he had pursued a Bachelors in Rural Sciences, a course offered by Lok Bharati, an autonomous institute founded by Gandhians in Bhavnagar district. He had then started working with GVT. “We were inspired by the young staff members who came from AKRSP. We then realised the value of education and that it was important to take academic seriously. We were constantly goaded by Alabhai to pursue our studies seriously as he felt it was important to do well in academics to be successful in life”. Devsi went on. He was excited, narrating all that had happened in his village, that had obviously escaped my notice during my brief visit earlier. And I was delighted to hear all that he had to say. From a time to hardly anyone completing secondary school, Thoriyali could now boast of quite a few graduates and several secondary school pass-outs, many of them girls. Devsi’s sister had completed her degree in law. Many other girls, after completing their intermediate school, had plans to pursue their graduation. This was truly a sign of progress. And Devsi was very clear. “Even if the fodder farm was not successful, I think the fact that we had, through you all, started interacting with the wider world early in our youth, spurred us to look for various options. I am happy to be working here as I can put my knowledge and learning to good use. And moreover, it helps me to work for communities that are not as fortunate as we were in Thoriyali”! he said.

THE BENIGN BHIMA

Bhima – the name evokes images of the Pandava strongman from the Mahabharata, huge, tough and fearless. But this is the story of a Bhima who was, in many ways, quite different.

Bhima was everyone’s Man Friday. Bhima was a young man in his early twenties. He belonged to the Koli Patel community and hailed from Sapar, a village on the national highway that connected Ahmedabad to Rajkot, in Gujarat.

Bhima was a well built, handsome guy. It was difficult not to notice him. His athletic gait, his broad smile, charming demeanour, his twinkling eyes and his thick moustache were quite conspicuous. A hard working, sincere and honest guy, Bhima was quite popular in the village. He was rumoured to have had affairs with quite a few pretty young lasses, both from his Koli Patel community and the Rabari community. (That was quite an achievement considering that the more agriculturally inclined Koli Patels were always at loggerheads with the Rabaris who were cattleherds, with most of the disputes around the cattle of Rabaris helping themselves generously to the crops that were waiting to be harvested in the Koli Patel farms !).

I do not remember when and how exactly we befriended Bhima. Probably it was in his avatar as a tractor driver. When we started work on renovating the Sapar percolation tank in early 1986(this was one of the earlier major projects taken up by AKRSP, an Ahmedabad-based NGO with whom I worked), we also needed tractors to transport earth that was dug out by those working manually with their spades. Bhima was introduced to us by Devchandbhai, Sapar’s respected and clever businessman in his sixties, a hard nosed agriculturalist, the local trader, moneylender, a dispute settler…all rolled into one. The two major communities in the village, the Koli Patels and the Rabaris, could not ignore Devchandbhai. Not because he was popular, but because he was important and influential.

Bhima was Devchandbhai’s trusted lieutenant too. He drove the only tractor in the village that belonged to Devchandbhai. He was a regular on the Devchandbhai’s agricultural lands, spread all over the village. He was some sort of a Jack-of-all-trades, and pretty much a good one in almost everything he did. As the tractor’s driver, he was also a local tractor mechanic. Working on the farms meant that he could repair the diesel motor pumpsets. He could tend the crops and knew quite a bit about fertilizers, pesticides and productivity. He could even do odd electrical repair jobs. But Bhima was only partially literate. He had barely gone to school. Hailing from a poor family, Bhima had started working very early in his life and was quite devoted to supporting his family.

Bhima was, in some ways, quite different from the other youth of the area. Unlike his other companions, he never was idle. He was extremely industrious. He did not smoke, drink or indulge in eve teasing. Though he did love going to the local block headquarters (Sayala) or the nearest city Rajkot, he rarely indulged himself. He often came back with improved seeds of crops or vegetables, or something useful for his family.

Bhima was a regular on the Sapar tank site for the entire duration of its work during most part of 1986. On days when the tractor was not required, he got down to digging the earth or piling up the stones or any work that was available – and you could always trust him with doing a good job. A quick learner, he was often asked to assist with supervision of the tasks along the 2 km bund length and with his unquestionable integrity, he could be assigned with various responsibilities. This virtue of his was of immense value in the corruption-ridden environment that we were working in, and construction sites was one of the easiest to siphon off money.

One thing that was entirely new for Bhima was community mobilization, something that AKRSP often engaged in. This was something he had never done before. Never before had he been deeply involved with such ‘public’ responsibilities. The renovation work often meant that there were frequent meetings in the village. Our trusted Bhima would ensure that the message went round and that all were aware of the timings, the venue and even the agenda ! But that was not all. As a deeply sensitive and an intrinsically intelligent person, Bhima had very useful insights to offer. Often he would articulate what others may want to say, but hesitate to do so in a meeting. Bhima had, through this process, discovered something which he was not aware of – his capacity to represent his community and confidence in his articulation abilities. Gradually, he started functioning like a secretary of the local association called the Gram Vikas Mandal. He even started to learn to read and write (he had some basic literacy skills in spite of not going to school) so that he could take down minutes of village meetings, read out from the muster rolls to mark attendance of people on the sight, and even compute weekly wages.

Bhima set a certain benchmark for us that we kept looking for in village level functionaries in all our project villages with his amazing range of qualities – honest, sincere, hardworking, eager to learn and generally acceptable. That was not easy. When AKRSP started exploring working in other villages in the area, we often took Bhima around with us, so that he could talk about what had happened in his village and so that the village youth could find someone to connect with, someone who understood their environs, their culture and more importantly, their perspectives and aspirations.

As our work in Sapar came to an end, our interaction with the village and Bhima reduced. We had more villages to work in, there were more concerns, more projects……But we did make it a point to seek him out whenever we visited Sapar or passed through – and invariably, he would be busy either with his own work or with helping others. Bhima must be in mid-forties now. He is probably married. He probably has children. His ex-girlfriends probably still yearn for him. He has probably joined politics and contested local elections. He is probably a very successful farmer and entrepreneur. And he certainly would continue to be an asset to his village and his people, someone that the younger generation can look forward to for inspiration and emulation.

KESARBAI'S PIONEERING EFFORTS

It was not easy getting to the villages of Chindwada district (in central Madhya Pradesh, India), famously known as ‘Kamalnath’s constituency’. (Kamalnath is a senior Congress leader who is now Union Minister in the Congress-led central government). As we wound our way through the rough tracks, we rocked in the jeep. But Yaseen’s expert driving assured us a safe passage. The landscape was dotted with teak trees growing on forest lands. The streams were running, thanks to the good rains. The fields seemed to be buzzing with activity. The seeds had already germinated and the fresh growth provided these fields with a velvety green cover. A variety of crops were being grown – maize, sorghum, pearl millets, paddy, groundnut and even cotton and sugarcane. There were small beds of vegetable crops too. There was an upbeat mood all around and why not? The rain gods had been generous, ponds and small dams were full of water, people had enough work on their farms and were looking forward to a good harvest.

I was traveling to Chindwada in 1995. One of Actionaid’s partner NGOs, Prayas, worked in a few villages of this district, in the Amarwara and Harrai blocks. As we passed through the villages, girls and boys, women and men waved and shouted out aloud to Sadiq and Seema, who waved back cheerily. “Aren’t you going to stop here”? they asked as the jeep slowed down to acknowledge their greetings. “Why aren’t you coming to our village”? they queried. Sadiq and Seema were a familiar sight in these villages. Both were post graduates in social work and had been working with the local community, predominantly adivasis (tribals), since the late eighties. “No”, they replied. “This time, we are going to Jhirna. It’s a long time since we went there, and, as you know, Kesarbai will be very upset if we put off our visit to her village once again”. “Yes of course”, they nodded knowingly. They knew Kesarbai too, very well indeed. After all, she was one of them.

The people of Jhirna saw the familiar side of the Mahindra Commander jeep from a distance and as we approached the village, we were surrounded in no time. “ Namaste”, they shouted aloud, “welcome, welcome, we were wondering what took you so long to come”, they chorused. As we unwound and tumbled out of the jeep wondering if our backs were alright after the rough drive, we saw a frail looking lady in a bright orange coloured saree with colourful flowers printed all over, coming towards us making her way through the crowd. She had a neat line of vermillion in her parting. Her hair was tied neatly in a knot. In spite of her frame, she seemed to exercise some authority as she surged ahead of the crowd. “This is Kesarbai”, Seema introduced proudly. Seema had been instrumental in working with the women, organizing them into groups and guiding them in managing village level initiatives such as forming grain banks, seed banks and cash savings so that they were not dependent on the local moneylenders who were highly exploitative. She had also trained them in legal awareness and with the help of her lawyer sister Sunita and husband Sadiq, had represented many a case of harassment of the local people by the local authorities.

Kesarbai grinned. She was quite happy to see us. Each time Seema and Sadiq came to her village, there was something to discuss, there was some new information to be gained, there was some more impetus to the village works. This time too, she had something important to discuss, and something else to share.

As Kesarbai called out to the people around her, they started assembling in the courtyard of one of the houses nearby. The women huddled together in one corner of the open space, while the men seated themselves at the other end. Bidis (tobacco rolled in the locally available tendu leaves, for smoking) came out and the air was thick with its smell. There was an excited chatter. It was about 7 in the evening then and the women had ensured that they had cooked their evening meal before coming for this meeting. They wanted to discuss the plans for a new programme in the village that would improve their lands and help them conserve water. The men had some good ideas, but they wanted the women to put these forth, as the women apparently enjoyed better ‘credibility’, largely because of the way their ‘sangathan’ (association) had been functioning ! Also, they had such an impressive record of managing the grain bank, the seed bank and their savings, which the men just could not match up to.

There was nothing special about Kesarbai, in a sense. Like the other 40 odd families living in the village, hers was also a simple adivasi family. She had been married for about 30 years now. Life had been full of struggles. She used to spend long hours in the farm, alongside her husband. She would tend the cows, in addition to attending all the domestic chores. Like the other women in her village, she took pride in keeping her house clean, applying fresh coats of cow dung in the ‘angan’, (courtyard) making small paintings in bright colours on the walls of the verandah. Her kitchen was bare and simple, but spotlessly clean. Her grains had been stored away with great care to last the whole year.

The monsoon months were very busy with work on the farm. Her husband would often sleep in the farm during the nights when the crop was ready, like the other men in the village. Kesarbai grew vegetables in a small plot of land just behind her house. But once the crops were harvested and stored, there was not much to do. Well, she could still grow some vegetables in her ‘baadi’ (kitchen garden), but that did not need much time. And like other women and men, she too would look for opportunities for employment – on road sites, dam sites, making small bridges and causeways, well, just about any public work that came her way. After all, it meant an additional Rs. 20 per day for each day of work. Even if it was backbreaking, and even if it meant so much of additional work, it was important to keep the family together, ensuring that there was enough for the whole family to eat and making ends meet. She could also not rely entirely on her husband. Lazy as he was, he was not keen to find work for himself. He often found it too much to do. Moreover, even if he did manage to find work and earn something, most of it was spent on buying the local country liquor, like most other men. Most of them would then create a scene in the village, by picking up fights with their neighbours, beating their wives, shouting at their children, cursing the landlord, well, just about anything that they felt like doing that day, promptly to be forgotten at the break of dawn the next day !

In March, Kesarbai, like the other women, would wake up early in the morning, before daybreak, to join a group of women who would go to the forests nearby to collect ‘mahua’ ( found in the spring season) flowers. This would then be bought by local traders and among other things, mahua flowers would be used for making the local brew. There was a good demand for this. They would collect the flowers that were shed, from the ground under the trees. The more enterprising ones would even climb the trees to pluck the flowers. Kesarbai could do that, and she quite enjoyed it also. But it had its own hazards. Many a time, women had fallen from these trees, causing bruises and injuries. The fact that they were climbing the trees wearing sarees did not really help. But then, in the company of the women at dawn, partially assisted by the dark and with no one else watching, they would lift their sarees knee length, take a strand of it between their legs and tuck it at the waist behind, to make it look almost like a dhoti that the men wore, which was more conducive for climbing. But what they feared was the leopards (tendua, as they called them) and the occasional bears that they would encounter. Which is why, they would always go in a group.

The mahua season would last for about 2 weeks. They wished they could store the mahua flowers so that it could fetch up to Rs. 15 per kilo. But then, the need for hard cash during a season when work on the agricultural fields was low, meant that they would sell it to the local traders, who would anyway have done their rounds well before the mahua season had set in and pay them an advance to ensure that the women sell the mahua to them. It was in a way, trying to capture the source. Well, why then would they accept this advance and be bound to sell to the trader, one could ask. The answer was simple – the need for liquid cash ! Most of the families grew crops during the monsoon season and harvest it at the onset of winter. Most of it was kept for their home consumption though. Anyway, it wouldn’t last the whole year. Most would have to buy grains and other food items on credit, paying huge interest, though. There was hardly any marketable surplus. Thus, to them, the local traders came across as being benevolent, for they were advancing money against the crop (mahua flowers) which had not yet been collected. But what they did not realize was that their collection was bought at rock bottom rates, sometimes as low as Rs. 2, when could then be sold for prices that would be 7-10 times more !

Kesarbai had often wondered if there was a way out. Somehow, it was to do with non-availability of liquid cash, she knew. But she was not clear how this could be tackled. And it was also to do with poor yields from their farms. But then, what could be done about that? The mahua season was a given too. No one could extend that!

That was when she came to Amarwara to meet Seema at her office. Seema and Sadiq had, in the mid-eighties, set up an organization, Prayas, to work with the tribal communities in Chindwada district, setting up a small office in Amarwara, about 40 kms from Chindwada. Kesarbai was accompanied by three other women from her village.

“We heard that you are working with women like us and forming ‘sangathans’ (associations) in the village. We want to do something similar so that we can tide over our problems”, she said, very simply. She had certainly come with lot of expectations, but with little hope. Hadn’t she done the rounds at the various government offices – the Block Development Office, the Education office, the Health centre, the Water department’s office, for various purposes? And what the response? Almost always, it was of no use! Which made even the men of her village jeer at her. “We told you nothing will happen in this village. You are being unrealistic by visiting these babus (officials). You need to pay them money, you foolish woman! Only then will they respond to our problems”. “But at least, I try”, she would retort back, “unlike you who are content at accepting things lying down, blowing away our earnings with your bidis and drinking away your earnings with the country liquor” ! Heart of hearts, she knew that somewhere, sometime, her perseverance would pay.

But Seema’s response took her by complete surprise – a very pleasant surprise. “We are willing to help those who help themselves”, Seema told her- which was something that rather baffled Kesarbai. Seema continued, “We don’t want people to depend on us. We believe that you all have the power within to change your lives. Why don’t you organize the women in your village and start a group activity, like initiating savings. You could save in whatever form and in whichever way you want. You can save through cash, food grains, seeds, and even mahua flowers. One of you should take the responsibility to keep track of who has saved and how much has been saved. We will help you with that”, she said. Kesarbai shook her head vigourously in agreement. This was certainly making a lot of sense to her. But she looked at her friends who had accompanied her, seeking their endorsement. “If you have understood what madam said and if it is ok with you, it is ok with us too”, they had said. They had faith and confidence in Kesarbai. Many a time, Kesarbai had come up with simple solutions to complex problems. They were sure that this time too, Kesarbai would come up with something useful.

Kesarbai did not lose much time in organizing a women’s meeting. Not that it was easy. She still staved off delirious comments from the men, including her husband. Some of the other women were admonished by their husbands when they said they were going for a meeting. Some were horrified that their women also seemed to go the Kesarbai way ! But then, the women were undaunted. The first meeting had over 20 women, just a little over half the number of women. But it was a good start, they thought.

“If we consume all that we have, all that we produce, we won’t have anything when there is a crisis. So let us kept aside a little of what we have, each day, day after day. One of us will take the responsibility of calling meetings of our group, someone will take the responsibility of maintaining accounts”, Kesarbai explained. There was quite a bit of animated discussion around the group. “Kesarbai, what are you talking about? Don’t you know about us already? We barely have enough to eat and feed the family. How do you expect us to save from this”? It was indeed a sobering thought. “We have to save”, Kesarbai said slowly, with determination. ”Sisters, there is not way out. We need to sacrifice. I know it’s difficult. But we won’t die if we eat a little less, each day. After all, it is for a better future. Each day, when you sit down to cook your meal, keep a ‘muthi’ (fistful) of grain aside in a ‘kothi’ (an earthen storage bin). Let me tell you, it won’t hurt…at all ! Slowly, start talking to your husbands. They also need to know, to understand, and to co-operate. And every week, let us deposit the grain thus saved into a common kothi. I will ask one of the men to spare their kothi. Ramlal has some spare kothis. I will talk to him”, she said. “What will we do with the stored grain?”, one of the women asked. “When our own kothis are empty, we will take some grain from the kothi and put it back with some extra quantity when we can repay. If we borrow 1 kilo, we will repay a kilo and 200 grams. That way, our stock will increase. And then, no one will go hungry in our village”.

The women brightened up. It certainly sounded very interesting. “Why don’t we also save some cash”? one of the women suggested. There were soft giggles of disbelief around. “Hey you, do you have that much of extra cash for you to save” ? The women laughed ! But not Kesarbai. She said, “Jamna is not wrong. Can we not think of saving a couple of rupees a week ? If 20 of us save Rs. 2 per week, we will have Rs. 40 each week in a common fund. And that will become Rs. 160 per month. Now, isn’t that a decent amount? If someone falls ill and wants some money urgently, or wants to buy food urgently, can we not lend at an interest rate which is lower that the local sahukars’(traders) ”? she asked. The women were quiet. This too made sense. “Okay sisters, it is getting quite late and before our husbands start shouting and abusing us for what they would call gossiping, let us get back to our homes. I am sure we all have work to do. But think about what we have discussed carefully and let us meet again next week, may be the day after the weekly haat (market)”, she said. The women dispersed. But there was a strange sense of excitement. As they wound through the dark lanes in twos and threes, they could not conceal the excitement. They felt that they were embarking upon something that would change their lives. Even the thought of an angry husband or hungry, squealing children waiting to be attended to did not seem to dampen their enthusiasm!

This meeting had indeed changed the perspective of these women, most of whom had always believed that nothing much could change in their lives. Slowly, but with determination and amidst a great deal of cynicism especially from their men folk, the women started meeting regularly, saving fistfuls of grain and a little amount of cash. Seema and Sadiq were impressed. In a short span of 6 months, the women had not just shown their desire to take control of their lives, but had been very systematic about it. They would travel to Tinsai, a village a little away from theirs, where the women had initiated something similar a couple of years earlier. They wanted to learn. They wanted to know more. Keeping accounts was their biggest problem. They got the primary school teacher to help them and hoped that over a period of time, one of their school going girls will be capable enough to take on this task. They had also managed to impress upon their men to think of other ways to develop themselves.

The men, not to be left behind, started discussing about the prospects of improving their lands and constructing small earthen structures to conserve rainwater, which could be used when their wells had gone dry or the monsoon had receded. Seema and Sadiq had agreed to send their engineer over to their village to firm up their plans.

As the mahua season approached, Kesarbai and the rest of the members asked Seema if her organization could lend them money equal to what they would otherwise have earned if they had sold the mahua produce to the local traders. It did not amount to much, but it was a critical need. Seema agreed. The women got some liquid cash, which enabled them to store the mahua flowers. They could now wait for another 3-4 months for the prices to rise and then sell it at a profit. Which they did, and in style! Each time one of them went to the market, they would check out the mahua prices. As the mahua season receded, the price started going up. Then, in the month of June, they decided to sell the mahua flowers. The prices had gone up considerably by then. Moreover, they had the additional problem of storing the flowers through the monsoon, which was difficult. On one of the market days, the women took their produce to the market in bullock carts and weren’t they proud to be a seller in the off-season rather than a buyer, something which they had never dreamt of? And they had reasons to be happy, because their men folk had also been equally enthusiastic and supportive, casting away their skepticism as they had now begun to see a reason behind what they were doing !

They came back from the market, with Kesarbai securely tying up the cash with a knot at the edge of her saree which she then tucked it safely round her waist. It was not just her money – it belonged to many of them and she had to be doubly careful! Before doing so, she had made sure that the women who accompanied her had counted the money and knew how much they had made. Next day, in the afternoon, they sat with the school teacher to work out the economics of this ‘enterprise’. They calculated the costs of the gunny bags which were bought to take the flowers, the amount they paid for the bullock cart, and even the couple of teas and snacks they had while trying to sell their produce. The result – a net profit of a little over 100%, something that the best businesses would envy them for! It was time for celebration. That evening, they had a feast. It was a community event. Some made maize rotis, some cooked the rice. There were brinjals, potatoes, onions and green chillis for the vegetables and the curries. And there was chicken … hot, spicy chicken! The local brew made from mahua was quite prominent too! Men and women alike indulged in celebrating this important event. For once, no one was complaining about drinking!