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By Freny Manecksha Village vignettes from the two-month-long padayatra that wound its way through drought-affected regions of Maharashtra
Mere pyaare pyaare Bharat…The tune jogs the memory but I would never have imagined that the words from Mohammed Rafi’s popular song would be adapted and sung in such an unusual setting. It is past noon and we are walking through an arid, dusty ravine towards the village of Kandoli, Digra taluka, in Vidarbha’s Yavatmal district. The ground is stony and hot but the barefoot men dancing and singing and playing the cymbals are impervious to it all. They are followers of Tukkoji Maharaj (a revered sage) and part of the group that has been waiting patiently to escort us to the village. I have been walking with the Dushkal Hatao, Manus Jagao padayatra for three days. This massive march wound its way through the drought-affected regions of Marathwada and Vidarbha over 60 days, visiting 153 villages in nine zillas. On my second day, I witness a similar response near the village of Kathoda after having walked for about five hours. Bappu (Ramakanth Kulkarni of Sahayog Nirmitee), one of the padayatris who walked the entire distance, points to a sudden blaze of colour on the horizon. Women in bright saris and children with lezims are waiting to lead the yatra into the village where rangoli patterns have been drawn outside the simple mud huts. Padayatras, traditionally, are not occasions for celebration. But, as Sharad Kulkarni, a noted figure in studies on tribal affairs and forestry, observed during the winding-up session in Wardha, the villagers’ warm response in turning such a simple occasion into a festival must be read as a positive sign. It signifies a readiness for change, as against apathy and sense of helplessness. The challenge lies in urban India’s counter-response. Certainly, the task is a complex one. In the days I spend with the padayatra I learn how to define positive markers of social development and progressive attitudes. For example, the more prosperous-looking village of Kali, with its population of 13,000, concrete structures and shops, has some of the worst indices -- a hellhole of a primary health centre (PHC), filthy streets, water scarcity, overflowing gutters, school dropouts, child marriages and political squabbles along caste and community lines. But the village of Kathoda in Arni taluka, with a population largely of landless adivasis and banjaras (nomadic tribes), extremely poor people are enthusiastically awaiting a government scheme to end open defecation and the construction of toilets. In this small response one sees again the willingness to move ahead. Indeed, the problem of sanitation and open defecation on arid land is pronounced. In the early morning I join the others in walking single-file with a handkerchief across the nose, as we pick our way through the outskirts of the village. It is strange how the amount of money spent on building shrines or temples in villages is not matched by the zeal to improve sanitation and hygiene. But as we walk through the fields our feelings change. The birds chirp; we try to identify several flowering trees and shrubs and are offered juicy red tomatoes and fresh oranges by the farmers escorting us. In such serene, pastoral surroundings it is easy to see why Gandhi and others extolled village simplicity and self-sufficiency although that ideal has degraded as rapidly as the soil beneath our feet. Kandoli, the next village, also offers more glimmers of hope. The assessment team that was in the village two days before our arrival informs us that the population of Marathas, banjaras, Muslims, adivasis and some 17 castes live in mixed neighbourhoods, unlike in Kali where the demarcation lines were clear. With a population of 1,014 women and 1,076 men, the sex ratio is more encouraging here than in many other villages. This statistic morphed with the charming sight of a young girl effortlessly pedalling her way to school even as the birds took flight from the big tree in the chaupal. This gift of independence came courtesy the panchayat that has provided a bicycle to all girl-children who want to go to secondary school, as the school is in another village. But even as she pedals away, there are miles and miles to go. Dowry prevails (the rate is Rs 25,000 even among the scheduled tribes) although there have been no instances of child marriage. Girls marry after they attain the age of 18, but women’s participation in gram sabhas is low. At dusk, I listen spellbound to taped broadcasts by Gandhi, to Nehru’s famous ‘tryst with destiny’ speech, and to Ambedkar. We are in Kandoli, in the house of Ajmal Khan, a former teacher and farmer. Over the years, Khan has patiently taped hundreds and thousands of programmes aired by the BBC and AIR. His collection of some 375,000 cassettes ranges from speeches by Kennedy and Gandhi to special programmes made for Independence Day. Khan says he was once addicted to smoking and gutka but realised their harmful effects. He decided that he would use the money that he would normally have spent on cigarettes to tape programmes and so build up an archive of rich oral history for posterity. He has a letter from the BBC commending him on his zeal but requesting him not to infringe copyright by making commercial use of the tapes. Khan offers them free of charge to anyone who shows interest, and has painstakingly sorted and catalogued all his cassettes. As we stumble out of Khan’s house in the darkness with the mosquitoes beginning their ominous dance around our ears, we hear Nehru’s anguished voice speaking of the light that has gone out of our lives with Gandhi’s death. But everywhere in these dark villages of interior Maharashtra we come across people working to change their environments. (Freny Manecksha is an independent journalist based in Mumbai) InfoChange News & Features, April 2006
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