In Delhi on the last day in June, my mom went to Gujarat and my Dad and I started the real part of the trip. We were to take an overnight train to Robersganj to meet Romaben, Shantaben, and other activists in the Sonbhadra area in Uttar Pradesh. Now I had been on a train in India a couple times before, but I have absolutely no recollection of the actual journeys. I was probably on drugs or something. I was slightly anxious bc the scene in the Namesake where Ashok’s train crashes was flashing in my mind repetitively. Trains, introduced to India in Britain’s time, are convenient sometimes because they are more economical and reach farther places than planes. The train has bunk beds, and we were sharing the space with two older men on a Hindu pilgrimage who came out of a comic strip. One laid a cloth on his head and looked like a Hindu sheik, the other talked non stop and hid his bald head with a Red Sox hat.
Anyways, we landed in the morning and road two hours to the activists’ office. We met Shantaben and some others who write reports to news agencies and publications, organize mobilizations, and serve as advocates for tribal people losing land to the government and corporations to feed India’s insatiable demand for industry, construction, and energy. (More on that later…)
We made small talk, ate, and then things started happening.
First, an aged Baba came into the office (Remember him. He comes up later). Guests kept coming in and out – all friends sharing conversation, jokes, and stories with each other in this environment. He and Shankarji, a villager who does kethi (small scaled farming) and also has an active interest in movement politics (keep him in mind also) narrated the incidents of 1999 that occurred in this area.
In 1999, randomly, without any warning, the police arrived to the five villages around Baba’s neighborhood. The police accused the villagers of having no right to the land. They pushed women, beat men up etc.
I repeat without any forewarning, they began using tractors to raze fields and crops, in effect destroying livelihoods. This was after the monsoon, so winter crops and fruit trees on which the villagers survived were destroyed. This was basically a threat, warning the villagers to quietly allow the appropriation of land or else they would face calamity.
As a result, many died in the cold. The baba faced insurmountable tragedy: his own wife and three grandchildren fell victim to disease and died. He ended up going into hiding after his protests were not well received by the government. Finally the villagers convinced the forest rangers to put down their guns.
The Forest Department asked the villagers why do you care? You can get jobs… Firstly, out of 100 villagers, only twoish can be forest officials. Also as factories become more mechanized and as manufactured products even in smaller more rural places replace traditional forms of handicrafts, that question is very simple yet complex in its manifold answers. The Baba himself is an artisan who mixes the clay to make pots. But with plastic cheaper and easily manufacturable, his work has been outdated.
Monsoon Season has begun its descent. In this time of rains, though the humid heat of the Indian summer starts to dissipate, new discomforts start to appear. Chiefly, flies. In India, “light-off” (electricity gets cut off) happens frequently, in small houses, large flats, coffee shops, or even offices. A two-three hour power shortage at the office left the fan still, so more than a hundred flies swarmed the small room, landing on my arms, legs, hair, eyes, toes, shoes. It felt so frustrating because I couldn’t keep them off and flies are gross! It didn’t bother the others much because its normal here, so I myself couldn’t demonstrate my irritation. Obviously I can never welcome the flies or tolerate them with equanimity, but I am trying to learn to accept these things and not become overly perturbed that it stops me from learning and enjoying the company of others.
Oh no, the power’s out again…
