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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE DRUMMERS AND DANCERS
It was in one of the villages that Reaching the Unreached (RTU) worked in, that we found a professional group of drummers. These drummers belonging to a particular caste group had once approached RTU for supporting a housing programme. They had been allotted land by the state government, about 3-5 cents (100 cents make an acre) but had no money to build a decent house. What they did have was small huts, the walls of which were made of mud and the roof was thatched. The 40 odd families there were all landless labourers. The only other skill they had was their drumming (with some playing other musical instruments to keep the drums company). Their income from drumming came during the brief festival season which normally was post the winter harvest in January and would go on till about May. Or else, they would once in a while, be invited for some political function or such other events.

The income from drumming was meager. A group of about a dozen drummers would make just about Rs. 500 for a performance. Incidentally, the drummers were also good dancers, and that is what added a certain charm to their drumming. They had a repository of synchronized steps which would change each time they changed the rhythm with which they beat their drums. Normally, a group of six men would stand facing another group of six men, rhythmically playing their drums. Gradually, they would move forward, cross each other, turn around and face each other again from their new positions. At times, they would form a circle with the main drummer getting into the middle. The patterns they made with their drumming was quite fascinating. As the drumming progressed, they would get into a frenzy with the drums reaching a crescendo, that would make the stiffest and lead footed among those in the crowd to get into the swing. Suddenly, they would bring down the pace of the drums, starting from a low pace and gradually build up. It was said that they had the stamina to dance all night, though I could not witness that. What I did see was their performance which lasted for about a couple of hours. Strangely, they seemed to be in a mood to go on and on, though the onlookers looked tired due to the occasional jig they got induced to performing with the beats of the drums.

Drumming was serious business for them, inspite of all the joy and frenzy with which they performed. The more the onlookers enjoyed their performance and broke into dancing, the more encouraged they would be. All they wanted in between was some bottles of the local soda or the ‘colour’, though it was often said that they would gulp down a few glasses of the local brew to give them the stamina to keep going. Most of the drummers were young men below thirty, though they were commanded by someone more senior, who was the one who sought drumming assignments, collected the cash and distributed. They all had a certain uniform which was white long sleeved shirt and white trousers, adorned by red and golden patterns. Their drums were also attractively coloured. The drummers of Singarakkottai – that is how they were referred to, named after the village where they lived. Though they were on the main state highway connecting the towns of Batlagundu and Dindigul, they were stricken by poverty, none of which was ofcourse evident when they performed.

They were once spotted by the local authorities to perform as part of the opening ceremonies for the Asian Games (Asiad) held in New Delhi in 1982. Though it was a decade since then, they could never stop sharing the excitement they had of traveling to Delhi, experiencing the different weather, culture and food there and the opportunity to meet ‘Amma’, Mrs. Indira Gandhi, the then Prime Minister of India, who had hosted a reception for the performers from various states who had been mobilized to make the opening ceremony a memorable one. They had witnessed the dandia raas from Gujarat, the lavni from Maharasthra, the bhangra from Punjab, the bamboo dance from Manipur, the panchavadyam from Kerala. It was an amazing experience. They had mingled with these artistes inspite of their limitation of not knowing Hindi at all (thanks partly due to their lack of education and the fact that Hindi was barely spoken, taught or used in Tamil Nadu. Remember, this was well before the invasion of Bollywood and the saas-bahu soaps offered by a plethora of private television channels !). But what they discovered which intrigued them was though there seemed to be a wide appreciation of their art form, artistes like them lived in penury and were eking their livelihood through various other forms, mostly related to casual labour. In a way, they had felt a strange sense of oneness and solidarity with those artistes on discovering that most of them went through similar problems in life.

The Singarakkottai inauguration to mark the completion of the low-cost housing project for this community was therefore significantly different. In addition to everything else that we witnessed in other villages, there was this absolutely fascinating performance by the drummers, which led most of the guests to shed their stiffness and inhibitions of being ‘VIPs’ and get on with their dancing instead. It was a great sight. Being on the roadside, most passing vehicles halted to view this wonderful sight. It was like a festival bursting out in the countryside at a time when no festivities were scheduled, for it was neither a traditional festival season, nor was it a wedding season ! Since then, the Singarakkottai drummers were a regular group for all RTU celebrations. It was a special relationship that they built. Their popularity soared with each subsequent performance and we hoped this did, in some small way, help to hone their skills and induce them to invest in improving their skills further - and more importantly, to keep that art form alive !

The other performing art that we had got used was 'Oyilattam' performed by the villages of Dharmalingapuram, a small village of about 50 families of the Naicker caste situated on the main Batlagundu- Periyakulam road. I have written about this village elsewhere in this blog and hence will not go into the details here. But what we got to enjoy whenever there was any function in the village, mostly related to the events in the school, it was a treat watching their Oyilattam. It was performed by the men of the village. A couple of them would sing to which the rest of the men, about 6 to 8 in the age group of 16-40 would dance. Standing in a line, wearing white shirts and dhotis, with a red scarf tied around their waist and with ghunghroos tied at their ankles, they would sway with rhythmic synchronization, waving a handkerchief as their arms moved in tune with the dance steps. The Oyilattam, for them, was much more than a dance. It was a way for them to get together and reinforce the solidarity of their community, for which they were known. The songs often reflected various aspects of their culture, beliefs and ways of life.

What was common between the Singarakottai drummers and the Oyilattam of Dharmalingapuram was that these were performed exclusively by the men - and as with many other performing arts, these were as much a way of life as it was part of their culture and tradition. And both were suffering from the similar fate - a ebbing of interest in their respective art forms due to the onslaught of cinema and TV, forcing them to abandon this art and look for other means of livelihood !

CHANGING THE STEREOTYPE

It is experiences like these that convince me that a silent revolution is sweeping by the countryside, in rural areas, in far flung hamlets and villages. I was once visiting some villages in the Jalaun district of Uttar Pradesh in mid-2003. This is a district which continue to mirror the typical characteristics of a feudal era, where land holding is skewed, where repression of dalits and women is marked and which has an adversely skewed gender ratio, low rates of education especially among the women and high rates of morbidity and mortality.

The women I met were members of a self-help group. They had initially started off 4-5 years ago by saving small amounts so that they could collect a small fund to meet their various needs. Gradually, these evolved as forums for women to look at issues affecting them. They started discussing issues of domestic violence, of sexual harassment while working on the farms of the rich and influential landlords, of the low level of education among the girl children. They started taking part in various village level planning exercises. Some even stood for and got elected into the panchayats. They had started insisting on getting their daughters educated. They had negotiated with their men folk to enable women to access more opportunities.

As their work grew, and as the visible impact of their work grew, the men too started taking notice. The men had realized that their women needed to spend more time outside their homes, to visit the block development officer’s office, to go to the District Collector’s office to press for their demands, to visit the bank in the neighbouring town to deposit their savings etc. They had started getting convinced that these would help them and their villages. As a result, they had started to even undertake domestic chores – taking care of their children, cooking, fetching water and fuelwood etc. The women had also seen the advantage of getting their sons engaged in domestic chores, earlier restricted to the girl children.

While we were discussing these issues, I noticed that many women still had their faces covered. The system of purdah was still quite prominent. I asked them about this custom and whether they think this practice is going to change. “There have been lot of changes over the past 5 years of so. We have started taking various responsibilities and representing the needs of our village with the block and district officials. This never happened before. We have been transacting with the bank. More and more girls are getting educated. We have regular meetings. We speak up in meetings even when our menfolk are around. These are major changes for us. Yes, we still tend to cover our faces when there are other men around. But then, this too, is a matter of time. In a few years from now, even this will disappear”, they said emphatically.

I have seen such changes sweeping through many other parts of the country. Our mainstream media, especially our films and television serials, may still be stereotyping our women and glorifying their traditional roles to counter the trend of increased opportunities that women are increasingly seeking, our corporate sector may still be raking in the big bucks by continuing to project women as objects of desire, our cities may be reeling under various atrocities against women, even in the so-called middle and upper class strata, our urban educational institutions and work places may still be a melting pot of sexual harassment ……. but these belie a quiet, but significant change that is sweeping across our countryside……!!!

BAIRALAL AND HIS QUESTION

The day long meeting had concluded. It was one of the regular meetings they had periodically. As they got up to leave, they said their usual good-byes. The meeting had been interesting and they always enjoyed this opportunity to meet people from the different villages. But it was also the time when they visited the local market, bought some stuff for their homes that were not normally available in their villages. The end of the meeting was often signalled by a dash to the market. But Bairalal was occupied, deep in thought. His brows were knit. Something surely was troubling him. He lacked the enthusiasm others displayed in their shopping expedition.

This was a monthly meeting of the cluster in-charges nominated jointly by Prayas (a local NGO working in the villages of Chindwada in Madhya Pradesh, central India) and the village communities. Local youth, both men and women, had been identified to oversee development initiatives in a group of 5-10 villages in Prayas’ programme area. One of their key functions was to support the village sangathans (associations), ensure that the sangathan records were maintained properly, that their issues and problems were taken up with the block and district level authorities and to report back to these sangathans and to Prayas what needed to be done in these villages. These were fairly remote villages in the Amarwara and Harrai blocks. The population was largely tribal (belonging to the Gond tribe). Decades of exploitation and isolation had impoverished the people of these villages. Prayas had played an important role, from the late eighties, to organise the poor into village sangathans and plan development of their respective villages. It had not been easy though with the local authorities and the traders alike resisting the efforts of the people and Prayas to bring about a change that would challenge their erstwhile unquestioned authority and influence over these people.

Bairalal had been one of the most outstanding of the cluster in-charges. He was one of the few youth who had managed to get to secondary schooling. He could read and write reasonably well, at least, enough to maintain village accounts, transact small business and write minutes of the village meetings. He was extremely hard working. He toiled in the farms during the day in the agriculture season. Though poor, he had his own dreams of a brighter tomorrow. In the evenings, he would set out for his community work. On most days, he would have a meeting in one of the villages that was part of his cluster. If not a meeting, he would be at hand to help the education team with supervising their learning centres, or with the health team spreading health education messages or with the legal aid team helping with organising legal aid camps. He would supervise the grain bank, the seed bank, check the cash savings to ensure that basic systems were followed. He would spend time with individual families, helping them plan for their future. He would resolve conflicts among families or even among villages. A critical function of his was to accompany those in need to the block or district head quarters to follow-up loan applications with the bank or petitions from individuals or communities for some scheme. But more importantly, he would fearlessly walk into police stations or offices of the local forest department officials (something that was quite unthinkable for a tribal, who were more often than not victims of police atrocities or atrocities of the forest department) seeking redressal for various grievances that his people had or for filing reports against exploitative traders or corrupt officials or simply seeking permission to stage a peaceful protest !

Life was quite busy for Bairalal, but he enjoyed it thoroughly, though his wife often complained about he not attending to pressing needs at home. Bairalal enjoyed it because of the love and respect he gained in the process from his community members. There was a sense of pride and achievement in what he was doing. He had also been recognised by the local officials. More importantly, he felt that he was part of a major change sweeping across the tribal villages of Chindwada, a part of a new assertion, part of creating a tribal identity that was hitherto suppressed.

Coming back to the day of the meeting, it was a meeting with a difference. Unlike earlier meetings, it was not about assessing progress of work done. This was a forward look meeting. Prayas was preparing a long term plan in consultation with the village communities. I was there to facilitate the process. This was in 1995. The long term plan was a strategic plan aimed at visioning where these communities would be in 10 years’ time, and what needed to be done in the intermediate period to get there. It was an intensive process with village sangathans having long meetings at their level. The perspectives that emerged were then discussed at the cluster-level by the cluster in-charges (Bairlal being one of them), which in turn was consolidated at the level of Prayas and its operational areas.

A good part of the morning was spent on discussing various ideas that had emerged on what needs to be done to bring about all-round development in the lives of the people in the villages. Taking a historical perspective, we started discussing the fundamental causes of poverty and exploitation that the tribal communities found themselves in. That was quite a challenge. Since the cluster in-charges were village youth and hence did not have the benefit of a long experience and the wisdom that would emerge from being an elder, it was a difficult topic to discuss. The discussion remained inconclusive. But not for Bairalal. The question continued to perturb him. "Why, indeed, were the tribals in the sad condition they were in" ?

It was with this thought that Bairalal left the meeting room, deep in thought and certainly disturbed. Not many of his peers noticed it though Bairalal was often a cheerful, talkative person. The hurry to get to the market and catch the last buses of the evening that would take them to their villages were more important. Bairalal remembered that he too had to go to the market. He had promised to buy various things to his wife and he knew it was better that he honour his commitment. But he continued to be lost in thought. So much so that he did not notice Thakur, the local cop who knew Bairalal very well (and why not, with the number of times Bairalal challenging Thakur’s authority and actions !). Normally, Bairalal, on his visits, would have a couple of issues to raise with Thakur or his colleagues. But this time, he was very quiet. “Bairalal”, Thakur shouted out. “What is troubling you ? Why are you looking lost”? “I need to find a sound answer to a question”, Bairalal replied. Thakur guffawed. “And pray, what’s that question”? Bairalal turned around, looking directly at Thakur. There was an air of defiance, Thakur felt, in the way Bairalal looked at him. “I need to find out – why are we tribals so poor and exploited”?, he said, turning around and walking away as he completed. It sounded a bit ominous to Thakur. There was a certain sense of determination in Bairalal.

And it is this determination and this questioning that sustained Bairalal’s enthusiasm in the face of the several odds that he confronted in his life and work. He was determined to ensure that his community led a better life, were better respected and were better represented in all walks of life. He didn’t see any logic or reason on why they should continued to be discriminated against and exploited. And it was people like Bairalal who truly managed to change the way the tribals were perceived in those villages of Chindwada where they worked. Village sangathans grew in strength, their solidarity reinforced with the formation of a federation of these networks. They learnt to be assertive, demanding entitlements that were clearly theirs from the district administration. They developed strong links with various line departments at the district level, with technical resource agencies, the media and even the politicians. They knew that their past was well behind them and they could look to the future with a great deal of optimism for their children to lead a better life !

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 !