The Day I Couldn't Urinate: Reporting Sanitation Issues In India

It's well known by now: a majority of Indians do not have a toilet. They urinate and defecate in the open. They include men, women, children and adolescent girls. It’s a shame. It's indignity epitomized. But do you ever think what does a journalist who covers sanitation issues in India go through? Well, it’s the same shame and indignity. Let me tell you about one day - JUST ONE OF THE MANY DAYS - that I had to experience this.

I was in Handitola village in Rajnandgaon district of Chhattisgarh state in central India. With me was a local woman social activist. We arrived at the house of the village council head (locally known as 'sarpanch'). As it turned out, she was away from home, and would return in another half an hour. Her son and daughter-in-law were at home and they requested us to sit. They also offered to make tea for us.

A typical community owned pond in a village. Villagers bathe there, as do - often times -their cattle, they wash their clothes and carry home pitchers of water to wash utensils and cook. The banks are usually where they squat on to relieve themselves.The tiny structure is the shrine of the patron god of the village. 

We were waiting. The house had a neat courtyard, 3 rooms, a nice little veranda and a cowshed. I walked around a bit, peeped here, peeped there. I could see no toilet.

We had eaten a rather large breakfast in the morning at Bhan Didi’s (the activist) place because it was going to be a long day, and I also drank a large glass of chai. Now, I was feeling the pressure on my bladder. I needed to go, urinate. But, there was no place to go.

In India, women village heads face gender bias, discrimination

It's been a while since I posted the my last. Here's what kept me away: attending the Dart center media fellowship in Bangkok, Speaking at the Women Deliver maternal health conference in Malaysia and finally, covering the 38th global conference of UN-FAO. And in between all these, I have been traveling across the conflict-ridden districts of central India, meeting women tribal village heads. And sharing here the first of my intended 10-story series on these women leaders. You can also read the original article HERE


Kanker: Vasan Buiki, sarpanch (head of village council) of Malgaon village in central India's Chhattisgarh state wears a permanent scowl: the 48-year old was elected the village head leader three years ago, but still finds it difficult to manage the affairs of her village council, known as 'panchayat'. "Being a sarpanch isn’t easy. There are too many decisions to take, too many people to think of. I wish I had some training!" she says, sitting in a grocery shop next to her house which is owned by her family, but she has to take care of.

Stella Paul

Vasan Buiki, head of Malgaon village council in central India's Chhattisgarh state finds it difficult to find time for her work as she is busy taking care of the family-owned grocery store in her village.

Buiki—a Gond tribal woman—became a sarpanch in 2010—the year the government of her state decided to reserve 50 percent of village council seats for women in order to encourage and promote women’s participation in local politics and governance. While the decision increased manifold the participation of women in political system, most of them also came unprepared and inexperienced. To address this, the state government organizes annual training workshops for the village heads. Popularly known as “empowerment workshops,” the training help the leaders acquire the much-needed skills of village administration. Attending the workshop could have been hugely beneficial for Buiki, who had never stepped out of her home alone, had never spoken to men outside of her family and had no idea how a panchayat worked, before she was elected one. But, running the grocery store and doing household chores keeps the sarpanch so busy, she couldn’t find time to attend the workshop. "The workshop was in the capital town Raipur, which is four hours journey from here. My family said, it was too far away," she says, lowering her voice into a whisper as her husband and her son—both farmers—walk into the house. Dulmat Netam, the sarpanch of Pandarwahi, another tribal village in Kanker district, has a similar story. The 30-year-old mother of two says that her husband, a former village head, told her that the training was “not that important” and therefore she need not leave her house to attend one because he could help her run the panchayat. According to Netam, her day begins at five in the morning, but she can go to her Panchayat office only after finishing all the household chores. These include fetching water from the community well, cooking, cleaning and sending her children to schools. "I have to take care of the panchayat, home, my two children. I have to cook, clean, wash, fetch water. Where is the time for anything else?" she asks.

Stella Paul

Dulmat Netam and Maya Kavde - women village heads in the former's office. 'It is important for women to network. Together we can overcome many challenges', says Kavde

Lack of administrative skills and freedom to take decisions on their own is making women to be increasingly dependent on their male relatives such as husband, elder brother or father in-law, preferring to stay home. There are reports of ‘Pati Panchayat' (meaning husband-run village councils) existing across the state. Says Reena Ramteke, a local gender rights activist and journalist from Gariaband district of the state, The whole idea behind the 50 percent reservation was to encourage more women to take part in governance and empower themselves. But while the former is happening, the latter isn’t; with a non-cooperative environment at home, women are meekly handing over their power to decide to their husbands who then run the panchayat in proxy. The husbands conducts all meetings, take all the decisions and the women leaders only sign the papers. In Netam’s case this seems to a reality. The remedy, says Netam herself, is to conduct the training workshops right in the village. If the training is organized inside the village, nobody can stop me from attending it, she says. However, she refuses to discuss this with her husband saying, "I don’t want a feud in the family." Unlike Netam and Buiki, 38-year old Maya Kavde, of the neighboring village of Makdi Khona has attended all the three workshops which she says has built her administrative skills considerably. The reflection of that is the development works she has carried out in the village: new roads have been constructed, the community village ponds have been de-silted and dug deeper solving the problem of water shortage, the village school which offered only primary education, has been upgraded to a secondary level school and above all, an emergency ambulance service has been launched in the village as well. However, despite her great performance as a Sarpanch aside, Kavde is far from being happy. Widowed in 2008, she was thrown out of her husband’s house by her father in-law. Since then, she has been fighting a battle to save herself and her family from an uncertain future: "My father in-law and his sons do not want to share the property with me. They say, 'You are a sarpanch, so go fend for yourself.' But being a sarpanch doesn’t make one rich. Do they think I should start stealing public money?" she asks, her voice shaking with anger and frustration.

Stella Paul

The house where Maya Kavde lives with her three daughters since her father in law threw her out of her husband's house following the death of his son four years ago

To get her share back, Kavde, who lives in a rundown mud hut, is now talking to other female relatives—including two of her sister in- laws who also have been denied their rights to property—and trying to get their support. It is important for us women to stay close. Together, we can have a chance to win many challenges she says, looking hopeful. Besides bias at home, the women village heads also complain about noncooperation from their male colleagues in the panchayat.

Says Kavde, who heads one of the biggest village councils in the district that has three villages under it with a combined population of 3,000. I am tired of the way my male colleagues treat me. They do not attend the meetings. When they do, they show little interest in the village affairs. Some oppose everything I say. They are supposed to be my allies, but they act like my opponents she says. Despite the difficulties she faces, Kavde wouldn’t name anyone. "I am scared of being attacked," she says, "I have three teenage daughters and don’t want anything to happen to them."

 In India, there is a common perception that women in a tribal society enjoy greater freedom and rights than those in a non-tribal community. However, if the village leaders like Kavde, Buiki and Netam are any proof, this turns out to be a mere myth.

The reporter is a fellow of the National Foundation of India

Maoists are India's main forest destroyers? Nah, I don't buy that!

Just a couple of months ago, during the Durban UN Climate change summit, India got a huge pat on its back for increasing its forest cover by over 2%. Piggy riding on that, the government loudly asked for increased funding for its growing carbon stocks under REDD+ program.

Barely 8 weeks later, however, that great green picture is already showing signs of fading: the country has just released India State of Forest Report 2011 which shows, India's forests have shrunk by 367 square km over the last two years.  According to the report, in 12 states the forest cover has fallen by 867 square km since 2009. Among the big losers are the North East - undeniably one of the country's pride green regions – which has lost a whopping 549 sq km of forest area – and Andhra Pradesh (AP), which, with the loss of 281 sq. km, leads this pack of losers. 

A forest in the Maoist stronghold of Dantewada, Chhattisgarh. The govt says, Maoists are prime destroyers of forests. The picture says something else!

Three to Tango: Teaming up with Panos to amplify a grass root voice

A month ago, the editor duo of Lilly Peel and Anna Egan from Panos, London asked me to do something I found both unique and exciting: write a 5-blog series on a social activist who had great stories to share with the world. It had to be someone who matched words with deed - a tough job, if you ask me, in the murky world of  activism where talkers outnumber doers.  

But I had a name ready: Bhan Sahu - a grass root activist from Chhattisgarh whom I have known since 2009. Bhan was introduced to me (and then to Video Volunteers - my then office) by Adiyog, a senor journalist and media trainer who has been Bhan's mentor for years.

Following a quick nod from Panos, I visited Bhan in Chhattisgarh and from 1st week of January, started to write the blogs. And thus began a unique story-telling journey in which I and Bhan and Panos were co-passengers, having a dialogue with the global audience.

A month later, the series of the blogs have garnered great response, with readers from all over Asia and beyond expressing awe and saying how impressed they are to hear a powerful and true voice from the ground. 

Inspiration in the land of despair - A story re-told

The following is my article that has just been published in World Pulse - an action media powered by women of 185 countries. The article is my 2nd assignment as a Voice of the Future Correspondent - an honor I received in Nov'2011 by World Pulse. You can also read it here. Why am I sharing this here? Because, it is not everyday that you get to hear that a landless and tribal woman, despite being caught in between the frying pan and burning pyre (the Maoists and the Army), is trying to do pull a community out of poverty, discrimination and injustice. 

Me and my muse: with Sukhantibai, the barefoot soldier who fights social injustice with the weapons she has: strong will and honesty.

November’2005. In Handitola- a remote village in central India, people were faced with a horrific situation: a young Dalit (a marginalized community) man had hung himself and the body was on the verge of decomposing. But nobody dared go near him. They all had their reasons: for some, the boy was an ‘untouchable’, while others were plain scared. Then, a woman of 50 came up, with a sickle in her hand. She stood upon a stool, and, as the whole village stared in fear and awe, cut the rope and lowered the body. Next week, in a meeting in which they had to decide who would be their ‘Sarpanch’ - the head of the village council, everyone voted for this woman – the most courageous one among them. And that is how Sukhantibai - a Gond (a primitive tribe) woman, became the ‘Sarpanch’.

In The Line Of Fire

7 years later, I am meeting Sukhantibai today. I have traveled for 3 days to reach her village in Rajnandgan – one of the 78 districts identified by the government of India as ‘Maoist affected,’ meaning places that have borne maximum brunt of the Government vs Maoists (communists) armed conflict.

On my way, I have been feeling the suspicious glare of several people, and, since I reached the district, my mobile phone has gone off the network.

In Photos: What's on a woman's plate in rural Chhattisgarh?

In the local markets, there are a lot of vegetables. But at INR 20 and more a Kg, most women I met find it beyond their reach. So, what most of them buy are,  the cheapest ones like tomatoes (Rs 10 a kg) or cauliflower (Rs 5 a piece)

Chhattisgarh: How Does a Woman Sarpanch Work in Bastar?

The participation of Indian women in the political process, especially at the hyperlocal level, has been on the rise since reservation of  33% of seats in the village councils came into force. In the tribal belt of Bastar, women actually have 50% seats reserved for them. But, with the Government Vs Maoist conflict raging, how is that reservation helping? How does a woman village head work?

Kalavati and I: It would be easy to criticize this Sarpanch for not doing enough, but it would  be wiser to try to understand the reasons that force this under-performance

To find the answer, I have met 23 women Sarpanch (head of the the village council) in Bastar, 15 of them are in forest areas where the Maoist activists are very active. Let me share the story of Kalavati Salam - the sarpanch of one such village panchayat.

Chhattisgarhnama II: "Keep 16 Suhagans ready"

The twin evils of Displacement and Forced Migration are dogging both  men and women in tribal belt of Chhattisgarh, especially Bastar, but its the women who are the worst affected

So far, I have visited 22 villages in 4 districts of Chhattisgarh that have been officially declared as 'Maoist Affected' (a term used to indicate the intense armed conflict between the government and the Maoist activists). And, everywhere I have heard and seen what I had suspected: its women who are the worst affected by the conflict.

Let me begin with Khemi - a Madia (a primitive trbe) girl who lived in Abujhmarh of the state. Until a year ago, Abujhmadh was a protected area where one needed a special permission from the Government of India to visit. The reason was to protect the unique (and vulnerable) culture of the Madia people.

But as the Maoist vs Govt conflict intensified, the authorities decided to lift the restricted label off Abujhmarh, considered a Maoist stronghold, so the army and other security forces could take action there.

As expected, there has been chaos since then. The Maoists opposed the Government decision, saying it would not fare well either for the government, or for the tribals. But the government was not in a mood to back down.

Caught in this chaos has been Khemi (name changed),

Chhattisgarhnama III: At 56, she labors hard, so her girls can stand on their feet.

Phulwanti - woman who is defying age and poverty to ensure the girls in her home grow up as strong, self-sufficient women.

Like so many of my aunts living in villages, Phulwanti Sahu of Machandur village in Chhattisgarh also can't say the year that she was born, or, how old she really is. Her ration card (the little book that allows her to buy food grains and sugar at a subsidized rate) shows she is 56. On the afternoon that I reach her home, a little girl playing in front of her house tells me that 'Ma' has gone to work in the field. This is, however, only half the truth; contrary to what it sounds like, Phulwanti is not working in her own farm. Instead, she is working as a laborer, in a neighbor's field, cutting the hard, uneven ground, making it even (Chhattisgarh government called it Bhumi sudhar yojana/land improvement scheme). This work, provided to her by the government for 100 days in a year, is Phulwanti's sole source of earning. With INR 122 per day, she earns INR 12,200 a year (about $250), that is, when the 'Thikedar'/supervisor is not corrupt and not cheating on her.

And she has three people to support: herself and two young, school-going girls.

Both the girls are her own grand children, but daughters of two different mothers. The elder one of them, Neha, was abandoned by her mother when she was 3 month-old. Her father, Phulwanti's son, is a migrant laborer who travels from state to state in search of work. A few years ago, he remarried, got three more children and decided to take care of two of them - both boys. So, the girl child - a 7 year old Dolly, was sent to the village, to Phulwanti. The old woman, who struggles to get a square meal for herself, took both the girls under her wings, and is today playing the multidimensional role a parent, a care giver and a friend.

There is a school in Phulwanti's village, but it provides education only upto the elemenatry level. Little Dolly studies here, while Neha, a student of 7th grade,  has to travel 3 Km to go to her school. Under a government scheme, Phulwanti has got a toilet in her house, but like most other villages in the region, there is no water. Both Neha and Dolly wake up early and fill up old plastic cans (Phulwanti can't afford to buy either pitchers or buckets) from a borewell by the road - a good half a km from their house."The girls work very hard", says Phulwanti, with a flicker of pride in her eyes, "they sweep, clean, and store water. Neha also cooks at times. They know their grandmother is getting old and try to decrease my burden."

The burden, however, is not easy to lower. Neha is growing up fast and Phulwanti worries about the time she will get her menstruation. Walking 6 km a day is going to be tough, so will be the job of carrying all the water cans. The girls will need more nutrition in their daily diet. Besides, Phulwanti cooks over wood stove  (cooking gas is beyond her reach and shockingly, the idea of biogas - the most affordable mode of cooking fuel to rural folks, is still alien here) and it might affect the girls' health. 

But not one to watch helplessly, Phulwanti is doing all she can: planted years ago, there is a Moringa tree in her house which has started bearing fruits and Phulwanti, who can't find either the money or the time to buy vegetables from local market, often cooks Moringa for the girls. And this year, she offered her paddy grower farmers, to sell their paddy in the market for them, so she can earn some extra wages and one day buy a cycle for Neha.

'Girls must stand on their own feet', says Phulwanti who, despite having three children, is forced to earn her own bread at the age of 56

'I did not get to study. But two years ago, I learned from my own daughter (who studied upto 8th grade) how to add, subtract and multiply. I also learned how to deposit and withdraw money from a bank. My neighbors, who are busy and are also illiterate, find it convenient if someone did the job for them,' she says.

In villages around here, girls are married off at the age of 18, if not earlier. Phulwanti herself was married at 15. But for her granddaughters, she wants a different future. "Neha was abandoned by her own mother. Dolly has been left here by her father. How can you say that the husband will stay by them?, she asks and continues,"Women must have means to take care of themselves. I want my granddaughters to study as far as possible and start earning. They should never be dependent on anyone in future. As long as my hands and feet are strong enough, I will labor."

As she talks, I look at this woman; dressed in an old synthetic sari, grey, dry hair tied with a piece of cloth (torn off the border of a sari), with no slippers and calloused hands, she is your typical woman living below the poverty line. But her vision, coupled with her courage makes her a woman you don't dare feel sorry for; only bow to, in respect.

Chhattisgarhnama: 'Don't let anyone use that Internet'

There are stories galore, but no means to tell them. It reminds me of a poem by Rabindranath Tagore: 'I closed the door to stop the untruth/ now truth is asking me, 'how do I get in?'

It has been a good 9 days since I came to Chhattisgarh. In these 9 days, I have been able to access internet only once, when a social activist called Keshaw Shori (who heads an organization called Disha) graciously let me use his BSNL internet data card. And that is how I was able to write my earlier blog, as well as upload a picture on Facebook. 3 days later, I am in Kondagaon - a newly formed (1st Jan 2012 to be exact) district where I have met someone who doesn't want to be named. Lets call him Mr X. We met in a overcrowded jeep and after we reached the town, Mr X told me that I could use his laptop and data card for a day, provided nobody knew about it.

And this brings me to the topic of the day: communication in Chhattisgarh. It seems, lack of mobile or web access here is more of a strategic move, than a technical impossibility. And I have reasons to feel this way:

I began my journey from Rajnandgaon - a district in western Chhattisgarh, bordering Maharashtra's Gadchiroli. In this district, there is a town called Ambagarh Chowki, that has at least 5 computer centers with internet connections. But not a single one will allow you to use the internet, even after you show your press card and tell them that it is urgent; that you need to file your story.

'We are not to let any outsider (visitors like me) use the computers here. Also, cyber cafes are not allowed to operate here,' each of them says.

'Have you been denied a permission?' I ask

'Yes, several times. We can only allow people who want to use the computers for learning to type. If there are students of a computer engineering or something similar, they can do their homework here.'

But why is this restriction on Internet use? A local reporter - lets call her Ms Makram - who has faced a lot of questions from the local police for her work, tells me that it is because of Manpur and Mohola - two semi-urban localities within the district where the Maoists are very active. This is something I have been observing as well; in Manpur, I saw a banner that was put up just a couple of weeks ago, giving an open call to avenge the death of Kishenji, the highest ranked Maoist leader, gunned down by the security forces in late November.

In interior Chhattisgarh, the idea of communication facilities is distorted; dish antennas sell everywhere. But there is strict controlling of Information technology.

In Kanker district, where I spent 2 days, I was surprised to find a particular block totally cut off from the outside world. There were shops, a primary health center, a bus station, a taxi hub and several government offices. But not a single mobile network had coverage there, let alone internet. When I asked, everyone said that it was because the Maoists uprooted every mobile tower in the vicinity. However, one woman called Gandai later told me that a month ago, two soldiers (there is a big camp shared by a big police force and a batalion of paramilitary forces) had been talking on mobile phone which was heard by a group of Maoists. Immediately, the Maoists shot the soldiers dead. 'From then on, there has been no mobile network.', she concluded.

On my way to Kondagaon yesterday, I did see two mobile towers (one of them belonged to the Aditya Birla group owned IDEA network)lying on the ground, which I was told, was the handiwork of the Maoists. 'Don't the Maoists use mobile phones themselves?' I wonder aloud. Someone tells me 'they do, but not in areas where they suspect police informers are operating.'

Last evening, I was at a place called Narainpur where a local social activist with a laptop - and I can't take the name again - told me that every single phone here is tapped and everyone has been expected to report if they spot a 'new face'.

Who expects you to report this?
'Dono log'(both sides),' he says. looking around cautiously.

'And do you do this?' I want to know.
'Not on our own. But when you leave, we will be asked who you were, where you came from and what you said and did. The safest way for us is to tell all we know. Otherwise they will come again and again. We are also asked not to let anyone use any of our mobile phones or laptops.'
.
And this is why my internet service provider (pun intended) today will have to stay anonymous.  But, here's a bagful of thanks, my friend, for your generosity!

The Missing ‘Mawattu’

Three years ago, I met someone who had a poetic way with words. As we grew fond of each other, he had a name for me ’Mawattu’- winter rain. ‘A “mawattu” is different from the monsoon downpour' he had said, 'right in the middle of the cold it comes, taking you by surprise, blowing stormy wind on your face, soaking the ground with hard drops and fallen yellow leaves. And before you know, it’s gone, leaving behind a handful of happiness.’

Flattered I sure was by the poetic comparison, but I remember spending more time thinking about the phenomenon Mawattu than my friend’s affection. My thought tookme to North east where, as a child I saw a woman blowing a conch shell when it rained one winter; she said it was a sign of gods playing and Varun – the Hindu god of rain, throwing his ‘rain ball’ at his divine friends.

3 years passed by. My poet friend and I have come a long way, in our own separate paths. Somewhere along the journey, I almost forgot about the Mawattu, until last evening when in a dusty little village of Bastar in Chhattisgarh state, sipping black ginger tea, an eighty year old man told me about the winter rain.

 We were talking about the weather. I had expected Chhattisgarh to be quite cold and therefore, had come with lots of winter clothes. But it was very warm and at times quite hot. The man – landlord of a friend I was staying with, told me that the climate in the state has been rapidly changing, growing warmer every year. “I have been staying this house for eight years now. Eight year ago, I enjoyed a bonfire in the morning. But now there is no need of  a bonfire. I miss that. But what I miss is the winter rain. I lovedit so much1” he said and fell silent.

‘Winter rain!’ ‘Mawattu!’ I thought.’ and asked ' How was the winter rain?’ The answer brought back old memories in both him and me: 'its sudden, its something you can’t expect and yet it is something you expect to happen. It is a little furious, but it is also gracious’.

Panos, London and I: a journey begins!

What is the most effective, yet the simplest way to bridge the gap between hyperlocal stories and the global audience? How can you make heard the voices off the ground in an authentic, unaltered manner? There are quite a few ideas floating around, but the 'Voice from the Ground' project of Panos, London which brings the stories straight off the ground, stands out among all.

Chhattisgarh: There are stories of inspiration waiting to be told in this land of despair and I am going to bring some of those stories on

This is how it works:
Panos selects a journalist who has been reporting development issues for a while. The journalist follows an activist/community worker for about a month and presents stories, as told to her/him by the activist/worker. The story appears as first person account and this way, the reader gets to hear and connect with the voice of the ground directly.

River Projects: Why That Double Standard?

Last week – 16^th to be exact – the Cabinet Committee on Economic Affairs in New Delhi decided that it would pay appropriate compensation to National Thermal Power Corporation (NTPC) for the abandoned Loharinag Pala hydel power project in Uttarakhand state.

The 600 MW hydelpower project was coming up in Uttarkashi district of Uttarakhand state, on the river Bhagirathi (a tributary of Ganga). 

But, in Nov 2010, the National Ganga River BasinAuthority (NGRBA) declared that all under-construction hydro electric projects in the upper riches of the Bhagirathi would be scrapped, because, it was the only way to maintain the continuous flow of Bhagirathi river. Since, Loharinag Pala fell in the same zone this had to go as well.

But NTPC is a rich company and it has made substantial amount of investment already which it just can’t lose. Enters the government, deciding quickly to pay back the Navratna/ nine stars (the nine biggest public sector companies) co its money.

How wonderful! However, I can’t help asking a few questions.