The high cost of some cheap weddings

The high cost of some cheap weddings

P. Sainath

In village after village of crisis-hit Vidarbha region you can find many girls aged 25 or more unmarried because their parents can't afford it. This is a major source of tension in the community.

The irony was hard to miss. Political leaders — MPs and MLAs amongst them — lecturing people on the virtues of low-cost marriages. Divthana didn't need the sermon. This village in Buldhana district began its cheap, mass weddings way back in 1983. It has seen hundreds of brides married at very low cost to their families since then. That is, 23 years before the Maharashtra government launched its own mass-wedding programme as part of the Chief Minister's relief package for the Vidarbha region.

“The netas spend crores on the weddings of their own daughters but celebrate our austerity,” scoffs one young villager. Divthana took no funds from government for its mass weddings. It has also convinced its people to have all the marriages in a given year jointly and on the same day. In a region where even the very poor might be forced to spend upwards of a lakh on getting a daughter married, this means a great deal. The cheap wedding practice has come from the dominant Rajput community that makes up most of the village. Which seems to give it a stamp of legitimacy, making it easier for more deprived groups around here to accept simple weddings.

“The normal wedding involves too many costs, too many feasts, too many guests,” says Vishnu Ingle of Divthana. A stringer for major Marathi dailies like Lokmat and Sakal, Mr. Ingle's reports on the subject have helped make this village famous in the region “Today 15 of our girls will get married and none of their families will pay more than Rs.7,000 for it,” he says, proudly. He hands us the cheaply-printed joint invitation Divthana has put out for the event.

Weddings have been an explosive issue in the region for some years now. Rising costs and dowry pressures have added to the ruin of many in six Vidarbha districts already battered by a decade-long agrarian crisis. Failure to get their daughters married has been cited as a factor in the suicides of some farmers and it is a major source of debt and stress for most. As early as 2006, this journal had reported the Maharashtra government's finding on the subject. “Well over three lakh families had daughters whose marriages they could not arrange due to the financial crisis they faced. One in every nine showed interest in the mass marriage scheme of the Government.” ( The Hindu, November 22, 2006). That crisis has worsened a lot since then. In villages across the region, you can find many girls 25 years or older, unmarried because their parents can't afford it.

So Divthana becomes important. “We prefer it this way,” says Kalpana, one of the village's young brides in the most recent mass wedding. Her father, Rathor Singh Ingle agrees. “This is sensible and not wasteful.” Other brides, their parents and even the bridegrooms we spoke to were for it. But what if better-off elements want to have their own, more upscale weddings? “I was one of those,” says Prabhakar Ingle who holds a steady job at a private hospital. “But friends in the village talked me out of the idea. I'm quite happy I did it this way.” People around him are quick to point out that bridegrooms from other villages are also accepting it. “Or how would we get our daughters married?” they ask.

An apolitical event

The organiser of the wedding we are attending is the Hanuman Sansthan. This organisation has at least ten committees with over a hundred members to run the annual wedding day of the village. These include a ‘dal committee' and a ‘water committee'. The event after all, is a public one and draws many guests. “What the girls' families contribute works out to no more than Rs.7,000,” say Sansthan officials. “The rest is voluntary labour and help from villagers.” The village has different political trends within, say Sansthan president Mansinh More and Divthana sarpanch Bhagwanji More. “But the Sansthan and the whole village act as one on social issues like the mass weddings. We see these as above politics.” At least a dozen neighbouring villages now follow Divthana's example.

And to this point, it's quite admirable. Success has many fathers, though. They're showing up in the form of more and more political bigwigs attending the mass weddings to harangue the gathering on simplicity. Local leaders can't afford not to be seen at them. As one activist put it: “Political leaders engaging with the process is not a bad thing. This way the example reaches more people and gains legitimacy.” The problem is when the process itself gets politicised — and hijacked. A fate that threatens Divthana's great effort.

The math, for instance, no longer adds up. It is quite true that the families of the brides pay only a fraction of what they would if they held separate weddings. They avoid debt and possible bankruptcy as a result. However, as the annual wedding day event gains greater success, it is costing a lot more than it should. Some 15,000 people are at this wedding — many here because the political leaders are — and all of them were to be fed as guests. Divthana is spending a lot of money on its cheap weddings. To the point where it threatens to gut a fine example of simple living and joint effort. The poor families did not pay for the huge public event, but somebody did. Maybe rich political leaders. The idea of a village community taking charge of itself suffers. It also opens up a new chain of patronage. And converts somebody's wedding into a political event.

The importance of Divthana's example can be seen in the suffering of many in other villages in this wedding season. Like struggling farmer Shekar Badre in Amravati who took his own life soon after learning his family had to raise Rs.1 lakh for his sister's wedding. Or of Bhagwan Hanate in Akola, who spent a fortune marrying off his first three daughters. “The wedding of my fourth daughter — I have five — broke down just days before the event. I simply could raise no more money to meet the demands of the other side.” Sometimes, unmarried daughters of farmers who have committed suicide have taken their own lives — blaming themselves for their fathers' deaths.

In a region ravaged by an ongoing agrarian crisis, costly weddings are sometimes the last straw. Divthana shows a way out of this. That is, if it does not become a victim of its own success.

Poverty’s definitional woes

Poverty’s definitional woes

Poverty estimates stumble on differing definitions of the household for statistical and policy purposes

Himanshu

Officially, the Planning Commission accepted the Tendulkar committee’s report on revision of poverty estimates after the empowered group of ministers on food security asked the commission to issue a final estimate of poverty in the country. Despite the commission’s acceptance, the ministerial group asked it for another estimate of poor households.

The simple reason is that the Tendulkar committee’s estimate— or any estimate by the Planning Commission—shows the percentage of poor people in each state. The number of poor households has never been released.

In theory, once the percentage of poor people is known, it should be straightforward to arrive at the number of poor households. In reality, the process is complicated by the fact that households are defined differently for different purposes. While the National Sample Survey Organisation and the census recognize a common kitchen as the basis of identifying a household, the below-poverty-line (BPL) census and the Mahatma Gandhi National Rural Employment Guarantee Scheme (MGNREGS) use the definition of a nuclear household. The extent of variation due to this difference is huge.

Take, for example, Bihar— among the poorest states in the country. Food ministry data says Bihar has 6.42 million BPL/AAY (Antyodaya Anna Yojana) cardholders. Since the existing number of BPL/AAY beneficiaries is fixed, according to 1993-94 poverty estimates, this amounts to 54.96% of households in Bihar. This percentage— actually a percentage of the poor population—is then converted to the number of households using the estimated household number in Bihar as 11.9 million in 2000. This estimate is arrived at using the census population estimate of Bihar at 73.1 million and an average household size of 6.16. That means the Bihar government has almost exhausted the number of beneficiary households that the BPL census identified correctly or incorrectly.

Of course, there were many targeting errors in this process. When the Bihar government undertook the BPL census (after a Supreme Court stay had been lifted in 2006) it found that the total number of households to have been surveyed was 22 million, with the number of beneficiary households at 13 million. As a result, the state government had to exclude almost half of the poor correctly identified. This was almost double the existing number of households that the food and rural development ministries recognize as poor. The average household size reported by the state’s BPL census turned out to be 3.99—much lower than the 6.16 estimate used by the Indian government.

The Bihar government has pointed this out and its chief minister has been critical of the Planning Commission’s poverty estimate. However, the problem lay with the estimate of household size, which in turn led to underestimation in the number of households in the state. Had the number of households in the state been correctly recognized as 22 million based on the average size of 3.99 and adjusted population estimate, all the beneficiaries identified by the state government could have been given their entitlement. That is, the state government should have insisted on correcting the estimate of household size and total number of households in the state.

Now that the poverty estimates have been corrected, does it make a difference? In the case of Bihar, it unfortunately does not. The new poverty estimate based on the Tendulkar committee report for the state is 54.5% of the population— roughly the same as the the old poverty estimate of 1993-94.

The real problem lies in the different ways households are defined for statistical and policy purposes. This is something that has been imposed by the programme design, be it MGNREGS or the public distribution system, where entitlements are based on households irrespective of their size. It, therefore, makes sense for households to show themselves as two different units even though they may be sharing the kitchen.

This would not have been a major problem if it were just a convenience of nomenclature and definitions. But this has an impact on actual services obtained, particularly for the poor, who are forced to remain outside the purview of programme benefits because of arbitrary caps assuming statistical estimates of household size. But this also has the adverse social consequence of young married people not wanting to live with their parents because it deprives them of government benefits, or siblings being forced to split households to avail of social benefits. It will then not be unfair to say that our programme designs have contributed to splitting households for pecuniary benefits. While nuclearization has often been a subject of enquiry for sociologists, it would be interesting to analyse the impact of public programmes-driven division of households.

There is also a message here for the policymakers: It would be much better to design basic entitlements such as employment and food on an individual rather than household basis. For the proposed right to food programme, this would not only take care of the unnecessary debate on the 25kg versus 35kg entitlement, it will also mean that food subsidy is utilized properly. Even more importantly, it will be in the true spirit of a right that is an individual and not a household attribute.

Comments are welcome at theirview@livemint.com

Himanshu is an assistant professor at Jawaharlal Nehru University and a visiting fellow at Centre de Sciences Humaines, New Delhi.

Voting in Maoist Land

Voting in Maoist Land

JEAN DRÈZE

Why do poor people in rural areas vote when they know the whole system is against them? JEAN DRÈZE talks to some voters and observes the voting process during the recent Assembly elections in Latehar district, Jharkhand, and comes away with some pointers...

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At one booth (Rankikalan, Booth No. 69) a BJP activist was trying to influence voters before they entered the booth, under the guise of helping them.

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Latehar district in Jharkhand is one of India's so-called “Maoist-infested” areas, where people are said to live at the mercy of Naxalite terrorists. On the surface, it is quite peaceful. I have never felt unsafe when I moved about rural areas of Latehar over the years. But the stillness is deceptive. Over time, one learns to feel the heavy yoke of structural violence under which people live: economic exploitation, social discrimination, police repression, and so on. Most of the time, the violence does not surface, because people learn to stay in their place. But if they step out of line, there is swift repression: beatings, arrests, false cases, even killings if need be. Maoism is the least of people's fears. But they live in dread of the police, the court, the forest officer, the “security forces”, and other arms of the State.

I was curious to see how voting takes place in these areas, so I spent a day in Latehar on October 18, the last day of the Assembly elections in Jharkhand. I went around half a dozen villages and booths of Manika Block, with two accredited observers.

Election day was an occasion of sorts in the area. People headed for the booths in large numbers. The voter turnout rate was around 60 per cent, a respectable figure by international standards. Most people were quite disciplined, and queued patiently at the booths.

Massive security arrangements were in place. On the main road to Daltonganj, for miles on end, there was an army jawanin full battle gear every 20 metres or so. In the interior villages, every booth was heavily guarded. But people were moving about in groups, so they were not afraid of the “forces”. Nor did we see any sign of the army or police interfering with the election process.

Procedures observed

I was impressed with the administrative preparations that had been made. Voter ID cards (with photograph) had been distributed in advance, and reams of matching identity slips were ready at each booth. The prescribed procedures seemed to be observed. Voters were allowed one at a time into the booth, and the anonymity of their vote was respected. We did not witness any incident of rowdiness or disruptive behaviour.

However, we did observe some serious irregularities. For instance, at one booth (Rankikalan, Booth No. 69) a BJP activist was trying to influence voters before they entered the booth, under the guise of helping them. And we found no active booth after 2 p.m., even though the official timings stretched to 3 p.m. The departing officials claimed that voting was “over”, but what about people's right to vote after 2 p.m. if they so wish? On my way back to Daltonganj, I also met a young man who claimed that when he reached the polling booth, he was told that someone had already voted under his name. This was an isolated but disturbing sign of the fact that the system may not be as fool-proof as it looks. Having said this, considering that this is one of India's most troubled areas, in a state where all semblance of a functioning administration has virtually disappeared, the entire operation looked reasonably credible.

So much for the good news. On a less cheerful note, most people's vote seemed to be little more than a shot in the dark. At each booth, I asked a few men and women who they had voted for and why. Most of them were quite happy to tell me who they had voted for, but found it difficult to explain why. “Someone told me to vote for the lantern, so I voted for the lantern”, “I always vote for the hand”, and “this candidate is from our area” are some examples of their responses.

Focus on personalities

Most of the respondents were unable to relate the symbols to political parties. They know about the flower, the lantern, the banana, and so on (there were about 20 different symbols on the machine), but ask them which party the lantern stands for and you are unlikely to get the correct answer. I also noted with interest that the voting machines don't mention any political parties. Against each symbol is the name of the candidate, and nothing more. When most people are unable to relate symbols to parties, as seemed to be the case in Latehar, this arrangement reinforces the focus on personalities at the expense of issues.

In larger villages on the main road, the situation was a little different. There, the mainstream parties had conducted intensive campaigns, and people's education levels were also higher. Some voters there refused to tell me who they had voted for, arguing — quite rightly — that it was a private matter. Others did tell me, and were able to associate symbols with parties. Even there, however, there was no evidence of specific parties being identified with specific issues.

To understand how poor people vote in these areas, we must remember that most of them live in a very hostile environment where the whole system (the contractor, the landlord, the police, the BDO) is against them. In this system, what people need is a “strong man” who can help them to get things done and come to their rescue in times of trouble. It may not matter much if that man (or woman) is corrupt, or communal, or an opportunist. And it certainly does not matter much that he or she belongs to the privileged classes. On the contrary, a strong man, by definition, must be rich and powerful.

So how do people pick their preferred “strong man”? It's hard to guess, based on a single day of observation. Some voters may identify with the caste or community of a particular candidate, or with the fact that she is “from our area” as one respondent told me. Some were said to have been given liquor or money to vote for a particular symbol. Some may have gone by rumours that so-and-so was the person or symbol to vote for. And quite likely, many others just followed the advice of someone who matters. It is these influential middlemen, more than the voters themselves, who are wooed by the political parties.

A different candidate

All this helps to explain why Jitendra, a “different” candidate who talks about people's rights and social justice, had a sad face on October 18. Jitendra looks much like any other villager of the area, and certainly not like an MLA or future MLA (no special outfit, no gizmos, no bodyguards). He took a leading role in a successful struggle against forced displacement in the area, and thought that this would give him a good chance in the Assembly elections. Around his own village, Jitendra had a lot of support, and many people were voting for the banana. But beyond that, he didn't' seem to count for much. His defeat was assured.

At the end of the day, I wondered why people vote at all. Knowing that their own vote makes no difference, and that the whole system is against them anyway, why do they bother? One answer is that they clutch to the little they have — the faint hope that they can do something to bring change into their circumstances. There are other answers too. To some extent, it may be a form of “herd behaviour”. Voting is also a social event of sorts — a distraction that brings fleeting excitement in people's monotonous lives.

Yet another answer is that people think of voting as a collective rather than an individual act. When they vote, they feel part of a collective effort to back a particular candidate. This point was vividly conveyed to me last year by a young man in Rewa (Madhya Pradesh), who said: “had I voted for the flower while others in my village voted for the hand, my vote would have been wasted”.

I believe that there is some truth in all these answers. And in a sense, we don't really need an “explanation”: voting just requires the sort of minimal public-spiritedness that is readily found in most societies (with some pathological exceptions, such as the United States where the odd act of voting is confined to a small minority).

In the evening I left for Ranchi by train from Daltonganj. Hordes of loutish jawanswere crowding the platform, waiting for the same train. The brief moment when they had a specific duty, and strict orders to behave themselves, seemed to be over. Seeing this, my friend Shailendra, who was due to board the same train, decided to catch the morning bus instead. I smiled at this panic reaction, but understood it better when I saw the behaviour of the jawanson the train. No wonder poor people live in fear of the security forces. One of the jawanstold me apologetically, “this is India”. I replied “no my friend, this is the army”.

Professor Jean Drèze is now with the G.B. Pant Social Science Institute, Allahabad.

Khap panchayat: signs of desperation?

Khap panchayat: signs of desperation?

Jagmati Sangwan

The Hindu An All castes (Khap) Maha Panchayat in progress in Kurukshetra. File Photo: Akhilesh Kumar

The number of cases in which the totally unconstitutional caste panchayats have openly defied the law of the land by issuing illegal diktats has increased manifold.

In Haryana today, rapid capitalist transformation is accompanied by a regressive feudal consciousness. As education and political awareness spread among Dalits, women and backward sections, alongside there is a massive consolidation of caste (khap) panchayats in defence of the status quo. The number of cases in which the totally unconstitutional caste panchayats have openly defied the law of the land by issuing illegal diktats has increased manifold. Attacks on young couples, Dalits and progressive-minded people have become frequent.

A recent landmark judgment by the Additional Sessions Court at Karnal in the Manoj-Babli “honour” killing case, in which five accused were given the death sentence, sent shock waves among caste panchayat leaders, as it reminded them that they were not above the Constitution. The court took serious note of the fact that the policemen deployed for the security of Manoj and Babli actually facilitated the accused in perpetrating the crime.

Though geographically small, Haryana is socially and culturally heterogeneous. For example, in some areas and among certain castes, marriages within the village and even intra-gotra marriages are not uncommon. At the same time, such marriages are treated as incest in certain other areas, and among other castes. Even the caste or khap panchayat is not a feature prevalent throughout the State, as many believe, but is confined to a particular region. Thus, a section of people of one particular caste proclaims itself as the cultural representative of Haryana, refusing to acknowledge the customs and traditions practised by others in their own neighbourhood.

A look at the demography of the State and its development statistics would help to contextualise the problem. The State that stood second in per capita income in the country has one of the lowest sex ratios (821 in the 0-6 age group). Female foeticide is rampant, and the situation is so bad that wives are being brought from far off States. Not once have these panchayats called a maha-panchayat to pass a resolution against female foeticide or dowry or even in connection with the crisis in agriculture — problems staring the people of Haryana in the face.

After the judgment in the Manoj-Babli case, however, a congregation of caste panchayats representing the Jat neighbourhoods from Haryana, Uttar Pradesh and Rajasthan was called at Kurukshetra on April 13. It was decided that panchayats would now fight for legal status to legitimately maintain the “social order.” One of the main agendas of this sarv-khap panchayat was to push for amendments to the Hindu Marriage Act, 1955 that would ban marriages within the same gotra(clan within which men and women are considered siblings and hence cannot marry). Under this Act, marriages between certain lineages from the paternal and maternal sides are already barred.

Most of the khap panchayat diktats are against couples who are not from the same gotra. In fact, not more than one case of honour killing has been of a couple within the same gotra. By creating the false impression that all marriages of choice between young couples are incestuous, what the khaps are actually opposing is the right to choose a marriage partner. Among the several instances of khaps issuing fatwas in Jaundhi, Asanda, Dharana, Singhwal, Hadaudi, Maham-kheri, Ludana and other villages, not a single one was an intra-gotra marriage, yet the married couples were declared siblings, and families made to suffer boycotts and excommunication from their villages.

A sad example of the gotra row is that of Ved Pal Moan, brutally beaten to death last year when he tried to secure his wife who was confined by her parents at Singhwal village in Jind district. He was escorted by a police party and a warrant officer of the High Court. Ved Pal had married neither within his gotra nor within the same village. In this case, another absurd code was invoked by the khap: that the couple violated the custom of not marrying in the neighbouring village as it forms part of bhaichara (brotherhood). A khap congregation held in March 2009 publicly pronounced the death sentence for Ved Pal, and it succeeded in executing it in June. As couples are selectively targeted, it is clear the real motive is to control women's sexuality to ensure that property remains within the patriarchal caste domain (mainly Jats in Haryana).

The sarv khap panchayat also called for social boycott of individuals who raised their voice against the caste panchayats. A former police chief of Haryana, himself a self-styled caste leader, went on record threatening khap-critics. How can a former DGP publicly threaten law-abiding citizens, and yet continue to enjoy the hefty perks and pension out of the public exchequer?

The caste panchayat leaders have decided to stifle any voice of assertion from the backward sections. On April 21 more than 20 houses of Dalits were burnt down at Mirchpur village, in the presence of a police force, allegedly by thugs belonging to a dominant caste, resulting in the death of an 18-year-old handicapped girl and her ailing father. A panchayat of khaps convened at Mirchpur three days after the carnage not only declared all arrested persons innocent but also issued an ultimatum to the government for their release! This was exactly the pattern adopted by caste panchayats in the Gohana (2005) and Duleena (2002) incidents, where brutal attacks on Dalits took place.

Even elders from socially and economically weaker families are not spared. At Khedi Meham in December 2009, the father of a newly wed groom was forced to hold a shoe in his mouth in front of the whole village by the panchayatis. Ordinary citizens are caught in the contradiction between two sets of values — the blind consumerism of the neo-liberal dispensation, and the outdated feudal values represented by the khaps. The first is no replacement for the second, and indeed, pseudo-modernism only strengthens the forces of revivalism. The alternative to both types of distortions lies in the spread of healthy and progressive values that can be unleashed through only a new social reform movement in the entire Hindi belt.

Limited but crucial role

The judiciary does have a crucial role to play but has its limitations too. On June 23, 2008 Justice K.S. Ahluwalia of the Punjab and Haryana High Court made a revealing observation while simultaneously hearing 10 cases pertaining to marriages between young couples aged 18 - 21: “The High Court is flooded with petitions where … judges of this Court have to answer for the right of life and liberty to married couples. The State is a mute spectator. When shall the State awake from its slumber [and] for how long can Courts provide solace and balm by disposing of such cases?” A legislature with little political will and a pliant executive will have to be made responsive under pressure of a mass movement.

The voices of dissent are also getting consolidated under the umbrella of organisations like the AIDWA and other democratic forces. The younger generation must stand forth as responsible social activists and lead the struggle for change in an otherwise feudal society that lives by the dictum “Jiski lathi uski bhains” (the powerful call the shots). In Haryana each passing day is costing the lives of innocent women and men.

(The author is Director, Women's Study Centre, Maharishi Dayanand University, Rohtak, and State President of AIDWA, Haryana.)

Child marriage in Bundelkhand

Child marriage in Bundelkhand

May 3, 2010

It was by sheer accident that we spotted a teenage boy with some unusual make-up (white dots on his forehead) seated in a vehicle parked on the roadside. I was on my way to visit some MGNREGS work sites along with a colleague and some local social activists, and remarked on the boy’s unusual face decoration.

 

Just then, one of my travel companions, a worker attached to a voluntary organization called “Jagruti Nehru Yuva Mandal”, shouted “Oh my God, it’s a marriage party… a baal vivaah (child marriage)! Seeing us jump out of our vehicle, the villagers tried to drive off but stopped when they saw my colleague taking pictures.

They immediately brought out the newly wedded couple. The groom, whose name was Sunil, was 12 according to his mother, but looked no more than 10 years old. He had just been joined in matrimony to Santoshi, who was apparently 14 years old.

“We got them married just now,” said Sunil’s mother Bimla proudly. She said they had gone ahead with the marriage after Sunil’s older brothers marriage had failed to produce any children. “What do I do? I want grandchildren!” she said without a trace of remorse, when asked if a 12-year-old boy was not too young to get married. “This is
our tradition. I got married when I was 12. Nothing happened to me!” she said.

Bimla says her son is old enough to work as a blacksmith and is therefore also old enough to be married. Child marriage, though not very common, still happens in the Bundelkhand  region. Social activists in the area say that there are under-aged couples participating even in community marriages organized by some politicians, but said no one protested because they did not want to compromise the political value of the event.

Although child marriages have been against the law in India since 1929, it has clearly not been effective in containing this practice. A further amendment to the 1929 law contains provisions to prohibit child marriage and enhances the punishment for those who abet, promote and solemnize marriages between boys below 21 and girls below 18 years of age.

According to Unicef’s “State of the World’s Children-2009” report, 47% of India’s women aged 20–24 were married before the legal age of 18, with 56% of such marriages occurring in rural areas. The report also showed that 40% of the world’s child marriages occurred in India.

No water under the bridge here

No water under the bridge here

P. Sainath

Many projects for supplying water in Vidarbha remain on paper, though the money allotted is very real.

Sarada Badre and her daughters have stopped their bi-weekly 20-km walking trips. That was their routine for a while. “The orange trees have withered and there's no water anyway,” says Saradabai at her home in Sirasgaon village in Amravati district.

In theory, watering their 214 orange trees shouldn't be too hard. Though the nearby canal has dried up, their new water source is 300 metres away. Next door by rural standards. “But that's 214 pots of water.” Back and forth, that is 428 trips, half of them with a full pot of water on their heads. Or over 40 km for each of the three women — in short trips. They cover “half the trees on Mondays and the other half on Thursdays”. That is apart from working in the fields all the other days with temperatures in Amravati well past 45°C in April itself. But now even that source is turning dry.

Water in Vidarbha can be a mirage — and not just in summer. Many of its “projects” in this sector remain on paper, though the money tied to them can be very real. Nearly Rs.3,000 crores of tenders have been floated for the Lower Penganga project — for which no land has been acquired other than 325 hectares for the dam site. “16,000 hectares required, 325 acquired,” scoffs a senior official. “Of those tenders floated, Rs.2,400 crore worth appear to have been allotted and some Rs.600 crores worth are under consideration or up for approval.” The region's landscape is dotted with “projects” for which work orders have been issued but no work ever done.

In Yavatmal, over 1,000 very angry people attended a “ pani parishad” (Water Council) organised by the Vidarbha Jan Andolan Samiti (VJAS). The parishad declared it was fed up with “the total failure of government to address these problems”. So rasta rokos and other protests against the severe water shortages are in the offing. That will turn up the political heat as well. In many places protests have also broken out over load-shedding running to 14 hours or worse — with little information given to the public. MSEB engineers have been roughed up by farmers in some places.

Vidarbha's water crisis has half-crippled the Chandrapur Super Power Thermal Station which shut down the fifth of its seven units last week. The station now generates just 15 per cent of its capacity of 2340 MW. Such experiences have not deterred the state from proposing another 43 thermal power plants in the region. Around 19 of these have already been approved. “We live like there is no tomorrow,” says one official.

Panderkauda town in Yavatmal certainly lives that way. “They are pumping out 20 lakh litres of water a day from every known source and many new ones they've drilled into,” says Kishor Tiwari of the VJAS. “Their bores now run very deep. Anyone but the municipal parishad can see this coming to a sudden dead-end with no chance of recharge or recovery. Water is being sought, bought, sold, even stolen. This is a quick route to disaster.”

In Jarur village, Yavatmal, activists fought a politically-connected farmer selling water to poor people at high prices. That from a well which belongs to the village but with records fudged to show it as his property. He was selling ten litres for Rs.5. (Almost 150 per cent costlier than tanker water.) “He was earning Rs.1,000 a day from this,” says one activist. While they managed to halt this, the well itself is nearly empty.

Dismal performance

And there is very little work when lots of people need it badly. Like in much of Maharashtra, Vidarbha's performance in terms of MREGS work remains dismal. In the entire Amravati division, where 10 million humans reside in five districts, there are just about 16,000 covered by the rural employment guarantee scheme. Of these, around 13,500 — 84 per cent — are in Amravati district alone. Within Amravati, around 80 per cent of these workers are concentrated in just Melghat.

Current attendance is worse in the other districts of the division, as official figures show. Yavatmal has some 950 workers on the MREGS. Washim around 680, Buldhana 480 and Akola a mere 440. Neighbouring Wardha, the sixth of the “crisis” districts covered by the Prime Minister's and Chief Minister's “packages”, has around 650. So there is very little work to be had here. “When Bhandara district reached nearly 1,200 workers,” mocks Mr. Tiwari, “that was presented as a success story.” There is much hair-splitting over the factors behind this abysmal failure. “Lack of demand”, is a common official claim, one activists challenge. Whichever way you cut it, Maharashtra's overall performance in MREGS lags far behind many other states — and gets worse.

One result is a rise in out-migrations. “As soon as the agricultural season is over,” says Sunita Nagulkar in Wadiraithad village of Washim, “we go to wherever the contractors call us. That could be Nagpur, Pune, Mumbai or other places. Though my husband and his two brothers own three acres jointly, it was never enough.” In the places they went to, they faced harsh conditions but earned more than the maximum of Rs.105 each could possibly get if they were on the MREGS. All that came to an end this week. Her husband Chandraban had suffered an electric shock in the field that had damaged his arm. Depressed by that and their poor crop, he took his own life leaving Sunita to look after their three young daughters. But other “migrations are on and gaining in force”, says Prakash Rathor, teacher and farm activist in Washim.

In Sirasgaon, Akola, Saradabai shows little interest in the now stunted orange trees. In her, they evoke only the worst of memories. Her son Shekar took his life less than a week ago as their farm headed for its third straight year of failure. “I don't care about it,” she says, “if the trees die.” What she did care about, already did.