77. A Tale of Two Worlds

It is a tale of two worlds. Many more worlds within those two worlds are visible as I move deeper into it. I see cross connections, power relations, and I understand that I do not know much about it. Yes, I am in Orissa once again.

Ten days. Thousands of kilometers. Sixteen villages and towns. Twenty + meetings. Hundreds of people. Moments of joy and despair. Time to introspect and to compromise.

Some moments are prominent, some are deeply buried, some are just in the queue, and some will definitely influence my life. Some moments I might re-live, some I might never get again.

That was my life during the last ten days. Nothing unusual I believe.

Koraput. We are in the Circuit House. Why it is named so? – None of us knows. It is a beautiful building, constructed in 1937. It is well maintained. My colleague tells me that Vinoba Bhave stayed here in 1955 – this was written in Odia. This must be during Bhoodaana movement. Were there any landlords in this area? – We ask ourselves. We discuss the strengths and the fallout of such movements.

In a small village named Khudi, many women come for the meeting in the evening. So we split in two groups and few of us especially discuss with women. They are smiling at me, and excitedly telling each other about my lack of knowledge of Odia. They cultivate lot of vegetables, but apparently they do not consume it. There are well defined norms which restrict interaction of young women with the outside world.

I meet four very young Sarpanch. Two of them are women and naturally their husbands are playing more active role. For me, the women sharing chairs with unknown guests and government officials is a big step forward. I am sure things will improve as we move on. I talk to a young man. He has no history of political power in his family. He is confident, assertive and he expresses really well. He is aware of the problems of the village, the causes and offers some solutions to it. People seem to be very much aware of government schemes especially NREGS and they keep on posing questions. To watch those people was a joy.

And then my colleagues insist that I visit a local Jagannatha temple. They narrate stories. I am amazed to listen to those. It is beautiful place. There is a story behind construction of this temple. There is no place for logic and rationality here. But if it makes people happier and self-reliant (which hardly is the case!) I don’t mind. And of course, I know that my opinion in these matters is least sought and not at all valued.

Now we move to Kalhandi district. Once again I am in the vicinity of the lovely Niyamgiri. We interact with Dongaria Kondh tribal people. Some of them insist that they are ‘Zarania Kondh’ –living by streams. This is one of the Primitive Tribes. But they seem to be used to external people. The whole village gathers around us – men in very less numbers. As usual we ask questions and they answer. Some questions start a hot debate. Some questions make them laugh.

A woman is wearing a short decorated sickle in her hair. She takes it into her palm to show me it clearly. I ask whether she has an extra piece, she answers I can take the one she is holding. Mischievously she adds: ‘for just hundred rupees’. Everyone around laughs. I know that is not the price of that item. I am surprised with her negotiation skills.

I am wondering about the divide between scheduled caste communities and scheduled tribes communities. Both are poor, but somehow a conflict is induced between them. They don’t trust each other and they have to live with each other. The caste dimension, the social (and economic) disparity, the exploitation, the working of many outside forces is appalling.

I purchase an Odia newspaper and try to read it with the help of my local colleagues. They enjoy the role reversal as they become my teachers. I try to speak couple of sentences and slowly I realize that I understand most of what is being spoken. That happens because I am aware of the context to a certain extent. But when I do not know the context, I fail miserably.

At the end of the day, life seems to pose the same questions that I somehow keep on asking myself repeatedly. Some of them are: What is my role? On whose side I am? Can you change any system by becoming part of it? Is it worth having certain partnerships? Am I teaming with wrong people for the wrong cause? Have I become a ‘purchasable’ person? And that too cheaply?

Through this visit, Orissa remains an enigma for me. It poses more questions and riddles than it answers. I hardly know anything about my own people, just because they belong to another world!

I can’t afford to have a fragmented existence in these two worlds. If I aim at establishing link in the two worlds (obviously for betterment), I need to keep my integrity intact. This leads to more questions, more discomfort, more stress.

That is the essence of the tale of two worlds! I hope, in future I will do better than this and overcome this dilemma by taking some sensible steps.

59. Building Bridges

I am in the midst of Oriya speaking women and children. They do not speak Hindi and I do not speak Oriya. But we interact. I do not have a translator. There are a couple of Oriya speaking men with me, but they have to cater the needs of three non-Oriya men. I know that if I depend on translators, I will not get anything. So, I move alone.

Women gather around me. I ask them about their homes. I indicate that I want to see their homes. They take me inside. After the visit to first two villages I have picked up few Oriya phrases. Somehow I manage to understand how many children they have, whether they go to school, whether the water source is nearby or not, whether the women are in SHG, how many cows they have, what do they eat everyday, where is the forest from which they bring fuel wood … and so on. Sometimes there is confusion. For example, I ask: how many children are there in Anganwadi. The woman keeps on saying ‘Gutte’ meaning ‘one’. I keep on asking the same question. Another woman runs away and fetches a child –a three year old boy. Then she indicates that this is the only son of the woman I am talking to. So, I am not getting the answers to my questions. But it is alright. We all smile.

For the women and kids, it is time to laugh. For the first time, they are meeting someone who is not able to speak their language. They encourage me when I speak up one or two Oriya words. They are very supportive.

We visit eight different villages and each village has something to offer me. I see tribal fathers taking care of their kids.

I meet a woman who is speech-impaired. She pulls me in her house to show me preparation of chutney. I meet three women, who are ready to take me up into the Niyamgiri hills to the temple of Dharani Mata. The only condition is I have to wear a saree. Dharani Mata does not allow women wearing salwar-kameez. I meet two women who want to show me that they can write their names, and they confidently write their names in my notebook.

One woman wants me to write my name on her palm, I write it in English, one kid reads it loudly and they all laugh merrily.

I meet an old woman, who is running a grocery shop. When I take her photograph, she demands a copy of this photograph for displaying it in her shop. She speaks in Oriya, but I can make it. In one village, girls fetch me to a spot, where women take bath, wash utensils and clothes. It is a 50 feet climb-down, and they want me to go there. Two women hold my hands so that I do not fall down. They are laughing when they see me climbing down with so much of caution.

Outside village temple, there is a small stone. I sit there for a minute and a tribal man rushes to me. He explains that the stone is a goddess, I apologize and he accepts the apology without hesitation. He informs me about the temple in details, indicating that he is not really angry with me for my misconduct- because he knows I had no bad intentions.

I am in the vicinity of Niyamgiri hills. This is my first visit to this area and it is ‘love at first sight’ with Niyamgiri. It is beautiful. There is something very serene about the hill. I am fully aware of the unrest in the hills; so I had a dilemma about this visit. But I choose to come here, and I am happy that I came here.

Just three days in the midst of those communities and so much of enrichment. It is kind of magic for me. How many times I have experienced this? I mean mingling with the crowds, even when we do not understand each others' language? But let me tell you, it is fun. Even without language you can build bridges. May be because you can’t advice them or you can’t make long speeches, you build better bridges.

I return to Pune and observe the festive environment. Everybody is naturally in a celebration mood. I still remember those children and those women. I remember the poverty. I remember their unventilated houses. I remember only dal-chawal in their plates. I remember women climbing down 50 feet to take a bath. My heart is full of such memories.

I need to build bridges between the luxuries I have and the lack of basic amenities people in the remote parts of the country have.

Otherwise, I will walk miles but I will not reach anywhere. Then the bridges would be useless.
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