Prostitution - In The Name Of Tradition!

In India, it’s the age of women empowerment. 33% of the seats in the parliament is reserved for the women. In rural India, village council must have 50% women members. The country has, for the first time in history, a woman president. In Uttar Pradesh – the country’s most politically powerful state, there is a Dalit(‘lower’caste) woman chief minister. But in the same state of UP men in a village have been, for generations, forcing their daughters and sisters into prostitution saying it’s their ‘tradition’.

Gunjan, a community correspondent of our IndiaUnheard program has just filed a shocking video about Natpura, a village near Lucknow – the capital city of Uttar Pradesh state, where for generations, men have been forcing their daughters and sisters into flesh trade.

The girls in the village are made to start serving clients when they are barely 11 or 12. Because they start so early, no girl here goes to school. No woman here gets married either. The reason is, no man from other villages wants to marry a girl from Natpura.

The most shocking fact is that almost every woman here believes that she is just carrying on a ‘village tradition’, though they don’t know what exactly makes this a ‘tradition’. This thought instilled in them by their family members and other male relatives in the childhood. So few girls protest or even realize that they are being exploited or their rights are violated.

Natpura, which comes under Hardoi district, has about 50 families. In every family, all the young women work as prostitutes and are the main bread earners. But when they are old and have retired from the profession, they live in extreme poverty and loneliness, abandoned by their relatives.

However, the male members of their families are free to live whichever way they want. So men here marry and bring home their brides, whom they protect well, keeping them away from prostitution. But when the same couples have female children, they bring them up only to later initiate them into prostitution.

Gunjan, the young correspondent who is from Uttar Pradesh, says that when she visited Natpura 4 years ago, she was totally unaware of the village’s dark truth. It was like any other Indian village with bad roads and homes with broken walls where barefoot children played around while men gathered in front of a tea shop, sipping tea, smoking and laughing. However, she had been surprised to see a number of women sitting in front of their house, as though waiting for someone.

It was only later she came to know that the women, who should have been ideally busy working in the field or kitchen, were waiting for their clients to arrive.

In past four years, however, things have changed a lot, but only for worse. Now girls are trafficked to work in brothels in cities like Mumbai and Dubai. These girls are also as young as 13/14 and don’t even know the meaning of prostitution when they are packed off to a brothel. In fact when Gunjan tried finding someone of her age to speak with, she couldn’t. Because, she was told, all the girls had gone abroad to ‘work’.

Today it’s mostly women who are thirty or more stay in the village. Their clientele includes several politically and economically powerful people. Most of who live in Lucknow – the state capital. Since these men pay well for the women’s services, men in the village are not willing to let the women leave or retire early from the profession.

The village has no schools, no electricity and no panchayat/village council of its own - facts that makes the village a perfect breeding ground of any social crime.

Gunjan says when she visited Natpura, she felt that this was not a part of the country she lived in. This is because all the talk of empowering women, ensuring their rights fall by wayside when one enters the village. This was the same reaction at IndiaUnheard office once Gunjan sent her footage for editing. Everyone sat around the editing table, listening to the interviews, with shock visibly written on their face.

Gunjan says, once she visited the village, she felt ‘compelled by conscience’ to share this story with the world, so it wakes up, takes notice and helps stop this utter injustice to women that has gone on here for long.

If you have read this far, it means, the wall of the isolation has already started breaking.

To see the plight of the women in the shocking video, click here.

Rohini Powar: Correspondent Par Excellence

A few months back I had first written about her - how she tasted empowerment just by dancing for an evening with a group of fellow rural reporters . For years, it was something she longed for. Now, back to village, she is voicing the same longing and feelings of other women like her, living in her own village of Walhe, Maharashtra. Meet Rohini Power again - this time as a community correspondent who can command anyone's respect.

Nag Panchami or the Snake festival has a totally different meaning for women in Walhe village of India’s Maharashtra. Rohini Powar, who lives in the same village, says that it is the only day of the year when married women like her are allowed to dance and play games, while for the rest of the year they are forbidden to do so.

Rohini, now a community correspondent of Video Volunteers' IndiaUnheard program, has just filed a video report that gives us an exclusive insight into this tradition which allows a rare chance to women in her community to enjoy freedom.

In the rural belt of India – a patriarchal society – women labour harder than men do, their areas of work stretching from home and kitchen to the paddy fields. Yet their lives are dogged with problems such as female infanticide/foeticide, early marriage, dowry, forced divorce, malnutrition, poor health and lack of education.

These are endemic problems existing in all states, irrespective of religion and communities. In Rohini's village also women are treated as inferior to men. So while men are free to do whatever they want, women’s movement is restricted and they must take special permission from their family members even to step out of their homes. They are especially forbidden to sing, dance or play in public view. Those who do so, are looked down upon as women of loose morality.

However, once in a year – on the day of Nagpanchami this bar is lifted and women are expected to dance and play games. So this day local women gather at the snake goddess temple to worship. However, what they really wait for is the moment when the worshipping is over and dance and games can begin. Once that moment comes, everyone joins in dancing and playing – acts that are otherwise considered a taboo.

Rohini says that throughout the year women like her look forward to this day when nobody will shout at them for dancing or, nobody will accuse them of breaking a tradition by playing. However, after this day, they will have to return to the life of restriction again. Rohini feels that this must change.

She wants the patriarchal society to change its thoughts and values, so that women like her will not have to enjoy for one long year to enjoy a day’s freedom.

Watch Rohini's candid report here

Indian Temple Shuts Doors To Dalits, Brands Them "Untouchables"

In what is one of the ugliest practices in Indian society, temples in a village in India's Haryana state bars people of Dalit communities from entering and worship.

A local community reporter Amit Kumar, a Dalit himself reports this in a video showing how his community is forbidden to enter a temple.

In Barot village of Ludwa, Haryana, Dalits are not allowed to enter the village temples. The temples allow only the villagers who belong to upper castes to worship. Amit talks to several other youths like himself in his community who share the pain and indignity that they face every day.

The Constituion of India ensures equal rights to all citizens. These include the right to ‘opt, embrace and practice any religion”.

However, in Barot village of Ludwa the Dalits have always been denied this right. They have been treated as ‘dirty’ and asked by both the upper caste and the temple priest to keep away from the temple.

Amit says that though the older generation has accepted this denial of rights as a fate, youths in his community are angry and bitter to be treated as untouchables and being barred from having simple joys such as worshipping in a temple.

Though such discrimination violates the basic human rights and causes a lot of indignity to Dalits, no effort has been made to end this till now. In fact the govt only acts when the prejudice sparks violence and a Dalit family is physically attacked by the upper caste.

Amit who has been reporting on this discrimination since he joinedIndiaUnheard - a news service dedicated to community news, did this video to share with the viewers the humiliation that he experiences every day as a Dalit youth. He wants them to condemn this, so that people like him can live with dignity.

Defenceless Woman Branded Witch, Brutally Tortured

Despite a state law in place, poor women from marginalized communities in Jharkhand continue to be branded as ‘witches’ and tortured. Here is a video that describes the plight of Rubiya Bibi - a poor Muslim woman and a mother of 4 children from Jharkhand state of India, branded as a ‘witch’ and tortured by men of her village.

Brutally beaten, made to eat human waste, ostracized, denied work and earning opportunities, forced to live in isolation – this is the story of Rubiya Bibi, a poor Muslim woman in Jharkhand, India, branded as a ‘witch’ by men in her village.

A mother of four children – all under 10 -, Rubiya’s husband is mentally unstable and oblivious to what is happeing. Rubiya’s in-laws have supported her tormentors and driven her away from her husband’s home.

Rubiya now lives at her father’s home. Her father, a poor labourer, struggles to feed so many mouths with his meager income. Rubiya’a children can’t go to school as their mother is a ‘witch’. They can’t play with other children because everyone teases them as the ‘witch’s children.

Jharkhand was one of the first Indian states, to adopt a law against witchcraft-related cruelties and crimes against women. The law - Witchcraft Prevention Act, 2001 provides for severe punishment for those who brand/torture/kill women as ‘witches’.

Ironically, the state still continues to top the list of women branded as witches.

The National Crime Records Bureau (NCRB) records state that Jharkhand has witnessed deaths of 249 persons (mostly women) between 2001 and 2008 for "practising witchcraft".

The Jharkhand Criminal Investigation Department figures maintain that as many as 1,200 witches managed to survive torture and attacks between 2001 and 2009. The figures suggest that there has been a rise in the number of attacks on women accused of being a 'witch'.

While the attackers aim to kill the victim, some lucky ones manage to escape. Rubiya was also lucky to have survived. After escaping, she went to the police station of Deoghar and filed a case against her tormentors. But police refused to take action.

Mukesh Rajak, the young community correspondent of IndiaUnheardlives in Deoghar. When he met Rubiya, he was heartbroken to see the plight of the poor uneducated woman who neither any means to earn, nor is provided any help from anyone. He says, “It is only the poor and defenceless women like Rubiya Bibi who are handpicked by their rich and powerful neighbours to be declared ‘witches”.

The unjustified sufferings of Rubiya and her family that made Mukesh angry and bitter, especially the way Rubia’s children were ostracized and taunted every day. It was this anger that made him do this video report, as a documentation of witchcraft torture, despite a law against it.

Mukesh is keenly following the case filed by Ribiya Bibi. He wants people watching this video to create pressure on the police of Deogarh to act on the case, so that this woman can get justice under the existing anti-witchcraft law.

When Flowers Kills A Forest

After 69 day-long economic blockade, the economy of Manipur state in India is in trouble again. This time its from flowering of bamboo. A video produced by a local reporter from interior Manipur brings in light this phenomenon which is rare, natural and also dangerous.

The state of Manipur in north east India, is one of the largest bamboo producing states of the country. has about 3,218 sq. km area covered with bamboo forest. Production in this large forest contributes greatly to India’s Rs. 7,000 ₊ Crore ($1.43 billion)+ bamboo industry. The local economy of Manipur also benefits a lot as bamboos are used practically for every reason – from building a house to cook a local dish. The world market for bamboo is valued at US $ 10.

The mass flowering of bamboos is known as “gregarious flowering of bamboo”. Though it isn’t harmful to humans, it causes great economic loss. This is because after the flowering and seeding, the bamboo ‘clumps' die. Secondly, rats feast on bamboo seeds and multiply their numbers. Once all the bamboo plants die, these rats then start attacking agricultural crops.

This year several districts in Manipur has witnessed bamboo flowering. A video by Achungmei Kamei, a community reporter captures this flowering phenomenon. The video, named Bamboo Bloom Spells Doom and how people of the community, normally heavily dependent on bamboo, is dealing with the aftereffects. The natural phenomenon of bamboo flowering has been recorded to have happened in 1862, 1881, 1911-12 and 1959 too. All of them resulted in severe famine.

Tamenglong, the district that Achungmei Kamei is based in, is one of the 5 hills district of Manipur. This year the district has suffered severe economic loss due to a 69 day-long economic blockade. The blockade which Achungmei earlier reported on, created shortage all basic amenities, including food items. Destruction of bamboo due to bamboo flowering is feared to add to this loss. Already the price of bamboo shoots – a part of people’s daily diet – has gone up by Rs 5

The government usually releases fund to combat the impact of bamboo flowering. In the year 2006-2007, it had allocated Rs 1 crore. But it is not yet known if the state has a plan ready to fight the bamboo flowering impact this year.

In past few years, however, the federal government has multiplied the fund allocated to Manipur. If the state is serious about helping farmers who have experienced great loss due to bamboo flowering, it can. The only prerequisite is political will.

Sixty Six Days of Economic Misery: Life Under Economic Blockade in Manipur

On 5^th of July, the opposition parties of India called for a nationwide shutdown, to protest against the federal government’s failure to check price rise, especially that of fuel.

The 24 hour shot down call came under heavy criticism by media which was prompt in pointing out that the country would suffer a loss of 13,000 crore or 2.8 billion US dollar because of a 24-hour bandh.

Now, imagine this: a state shut down for, hold your breath, 66 days!!!

And this is a landlocked state with very little cultivable land producing very little food. So starting from rice and good items, all things of need, including cooking gas becomes difficult to access. Schools and colleges shut down because students can’t travel and dorm kitchens have no food supply.

Sounds shocking? Well, it IS the truth.

On 12^th of April this year, two Naga political groups (though, incredibly they call themselves ‘students groups’) called for the blockade on National Highway 39 (Imphal-Dimapur) and National Highway 53 (Imphal-Jiribam). The groups were protesting elections to the Autonomous District Councils (ADCs) in Manipur hills and Manipur government's decision to ban entry of Thuingaleng Muivah, the general secretary of National Socialist Council of Nagaland (Isaac-Muivah group) – the outfit fighting for separation from India for decades – into Manipur.

Within days of the blockade, Manipur plunged into an unprecedented crisis in Manipur. The two highways under blockade are the lifelines for the state where all supplies reach through trucks. The blockade meant supply trucks couldn’t move in. Before a week had passed, Manipur had shortages of all essentials, including life saving drugs, foodstuffs and fuel.

Finally, on June 18, the All Naga Students’ Association of Manipur called off the blockade. But by then the misery of common citizens was complete. Hostels in schools and colleges had been shut, as there was no food in the kitchen and no power supply. Students were forced to leave. Hospitals stopped taking in patients. All construction work stopped. Temporary workers became jobless. Daily wage laborers were the worst hit.

Now, braving this chaos and agony, a community correspondent kept up her effort to report the story of a state under sieze. But how hard was it for her to do the story? Here is a picture:

The blockade created a huge fuel shortage which, in turn, crippled the transport service. Petrol prices, shot up to Rs 160 a litre and auto and bus fares multiplied. Due to this, shooting of the video itself became an uphill task for Achungmei as she couldn’t travel. Because of power cuts, she couldn’t charge the batteries of her camera for days. Many a times, there was no food at home as the market was closed and sometimes there was no food because there was no cooking gas. While shooting, she was also treated with suspicion and disrespect by many as she was a Naga tribal. Even after the end of the blockade, her family, like thousands others, do not have cooking gas as cylinders are not available.

Achungmei’s video, published only after the blockade that captures the community perspective as vividly as it can be. And it leaves one with the mixed feelings of frustration and hope. Frustration, because, even after 69 days of agony, the fear of yet another new blockade still looms large.

And hope, because, there is a lone community voice that would never keep shut, no matter how difficult the time is.

Varsha breaks the silence

"Hi, I am Varsha. Three days after I was married, my husband beat me unconscious."
Not a conventional opening line -- but then, Varsha is not a conventional reporter.

A correspondent for IndiaUnheard, India's first ever community news service, Varsha is a woman whose brings her own experience of violence to every story she writes.
Varsha writes on a single issue -- domestic violence.

"I represent those women who are being victimized by domestic violence every day of their life... my community is not the one I was born into, but the one I identify with," she says.
Born in a well-to-do family in Pune, 31-year old Varsha had her first brush with cruelty when her father refused to even look at his newborn daughter and kept away from her for eight months because he had wanted a son.

The neglect continued as she grew up. "Every single day of my life, someone always reminded me that I was a girl child, the unwanted one. And that someone was from within my own family," she recalls.

It was sheer grit that kept Varsha going.

Fortunately, her family did not deny her an education. After getting her university degree, Varsha joined a human rights organization in Pune.

Marriage followed soon after. "I was happy, finally, to have a job and to be starting a new life, with someone who liked me. The fact that he was a fellow human rights activist gave me hope for my future."

But her hopes were shattered on the third day after her marriage, when her activist-husband beat her till she fell unconscious.

"First, I was shocked. Then hurt and scared. For everything I said, for every word of protest I uttered, I got a blow on my face. But then came the day when I told myself -- there is something wrong. Either I am not speaking out loud enough, or I am thinking of myself as a lone individual. The truth is, there are many others like me."

It was this realisation that finally brought Varsha to IndiaUnheard.

An initiative of Video Volunteers, IndiaUnheard was launched on May 3 -- World Press Freedom Day -- this year, with a team of 31 correspondents from 24 states. Like Varsha, each of these correspondents has experienced discrimination, violence and neglect in her own life and is committed to reporting on issues that remain largely untouched by the mainstream media.
(Video Volunteers is a media and human rights NGO founded in 2003 that promotes community media to enable citizen participation in marginalized and poor communities.)

Varsha completed a training camp organised for IndiaUnheard correspondents, despite breaking her leg in an accident. It was painful, but Varsha was determined to finish the training. "I have had fractures several times before," she says.

"Once, during the hearing of my divorce case, I was beaten by my husband in the court and left with several broken ribs and a dislocated... injuries do not bother me anymore. In fact, this is the first time in years that I have got an injury which is not the result of a beating."

Based in Danapur -- a satellite town of Patna in Bihar -- Varsha now shoots news videos on women who have been victims of sexual violence at home.

She plans to cover Danapur and Patna, where she says domestic violence is practically a way of life. "India still doesn't have a law against marital rape -- people do not see sexual assault by the husband as a crime," says Varsha.

Domestic violence is an ugly reality for lakhs of Indian women but is still shrouded in denial and silence -- a silence that Varsha is determined to break.

An unreported Korean invasion

It's common to blame the west for anything that goes wrong in India including loss of culture and heritage. But, an IndiaUnheard report shows a different picture where the North Eastern region is experiencing a cultural invasion from the East - Korea.

Wokha in Nagaland is just another hill town in North Eastern India with poor civic facilities and rich tribal traditions. Like the rest of the region, people here are emotional about forest, land and ethnic traditions. And like the rest of the state, people in Wokha too are supportive of the Naga's struggle for self rule.

Ironic, therefore, is the fact that, despite the decade-long violent struggle to save their tribal identity and refusal to be ‘Indianised', the youth of Nagaland have fallen prey to the spell of Korean culture.

The most watched TV channel in the state is the Korean channel Arirang TV, DVD and CD shops are bursting with Korean films and the hottest hair-dos offered by salons are the ones flaunted by popular Korean actors and actresses. All salons carry posters of a particular Korean actor who is much admired by the youth. Shops are selling street fashions that are currently in vogue in Korea, cultural evenings in the state have special ‘Korean song' contests and sports events have categories like ‘Korean wrestling'. Arirang TV is not only watched avidly but also receives requests from the youth of north-east Indian states and newspapers regularly carry a listing of its programmes. In the meanwhile, the entire media seems to be ignoring the issue and treating it as an inconsequential and natural phenomenon.

While it is difficult to date back the advent of Korean culture precisely, by 2007 it had already been around for long enough for the government of Nagaland to have included Korean wrestling and songs in the annual Hornbill Festival.

Breaking this incomprehensible silence, one IndiaUnheard Community Correspondent from Wokha filed a story on this Korean invasion. Shot on streets of Wokha, the video report of Renchano Humtsoe captures the disturbing trend of unquestioningly accepting all things Korean by the younger Naga population.

Says Renchano, “I felt it wasn't normal that everyone was adopting Korean style and culture but I wasn't sure if that was worth news because nobody seemed to be talking about it.”

Once Renchano did his story there were more revelations by IndiaUnheard's other correspondents from the region. It became clear that from Ukhrul in Manipur to Itanagar in Arunachal Pradesh, the influence of Korean culture has been growing at an alarming speed. In Manipur the ban on Hindi films by insurgents has opened the floodgates for Korean films and videos.

A Kamei, a journalist with AIR stationed in Imphal does not at all find the advent of Korean culture surprising. She says, ``People always liked non-Indian things here. So we were anyway using non-Indian products. Korean products are just an extension. In fact Koreans are so similar to us.''

Renchano's video has raised a number of questions: How do Korean consumer goods manage to reach the market so easily? Why do cable operators subscribe to Arirang TV? Why have people chosen the culture of Korea over that of Thailand, Taiwan or, for that matter, any other Asian country of the region? Why do people, who are so vocal against Hindi, have no issues with everything Korean?

Above all, the story leaves me aghast at the media which has been so quick to point out all types of foreign invasions and yet ignores the onset of an alien culture which is bound to leave a mark on the younger generation.

While these issues are being debated, reporters like Renchano should take a bow for bringing to light a story that has gone unheard for so long.

Chaos is ruling today’s Manipur, the hill state in North east India. There’s an economic blockade imposed by armed insurgents. All non-Manipuris have been asked to leave the state or face the consequences. There are gun shots, police actions, shut downs and landslides and flooded roads, because of heavy rain. Among this, an IndiaUnheard correspondent is reporting on issues that concern the common man.


Of all the Indian states reeling under terrorism and violence today, Manipur perhaps has the most curious case. For, this is one state with the most complex ethnic geography. The majority of the population is of the Meiteis who are Hindu Vaishnavites. But beyond this, there are several tribes living in the 5 hill districts with each calling one of these districts their ‘homeland’. There is a Meitei insurgent outfit, calling for a sovereign Manipur today, while the tribes are fighting, albeit separately, for an independent state of their own.

Achungmei Kamei comes from Tamenglong district of Manipur. But she belongs to Rongmei Naga tribe. For decades, National Socialist Council of Nagaland of NSCN has been fighting for independence. The outfit has a vision of their ‘independent’ home which they call ‘Greater Nagaland’. ‘Greater Nagaland’, demands NSCN, should have entire Nagaland, as well as Naga-dominated areas in Manipur. As expected, this demand, which would see breaking of Manipur, has put the Nagas at loggerheads with the Meiteis.

Right now, the entire state of Manipur is under an economic blockade. The blockade, which has unbelievably entered it’s 5rd week, has been imposed by the non-Naga separatist groups, to protest the recent visit of a prominent Naga leader to Manipur. The character of the blockade, however, has been more of a punishment to those who support the Nagas. The food stores are running out of supply, schools are closed, roads are blocked, power cuts are more frequent than ever and over all there is threat of being shot at any time.

Achungmei’s family has always lived in Manipur. She speaks Meitei for all official communication. Outside the state, she is a ‘Manipuri’. Inside the state, however, for the Meiteis, she is an outsider. And for other tribes of Manipur, she is a Naga, a troublemaker who would one day run away with the land they live in.

In Achungmmei’s words – I don’t know how I should view myself. As a Naga, I support the Naga people’s movement. But I don’t know if NSCN is fighting for me or not. I don’t know if it is serious about Nagas outside 14 districts of Nagaland. What I know is that every time NSCN talks about Greater Nagaland, Manipuris react violently. And we, the Rongmeis are immediately seen as enemies of the state.

Labeling the entire tribe as conspirators against the state has resulted in the entire district being at the bottom of the govt’s priority list. Development in Tamenglong is always an afterthought and vanishing of forest and land raise little concern in the official circuit.

‘Manipur govt has been building a dam at Tipaimukh for several years. There are nearly 1 lakh Rongmei families living in Tamenglong and dam has already displaced hundreds of them.We have no other occupation except Jum (slash and burn) cultivation and with our land being lost, we are threatened with starvation. We have no rehabilitation package. In fact we don’t even exist for the officials.

That she is not exaggerating, became clear when I tried to find data on displacement of tribals in Tamenglong. There is no mention of a single Rongmei family being displaced.

Achungmei is one of the 31 people to have joined India Unheard – India’s first ever Community-based News Service started by Video Volunteers - as Community Correspondents, to report on the stories from within their communities that go unheard. So, what kind of ‘Unheard’ stories she plans to bring forth?

Her answer is straight. The only identity her community has had so far is a highly political one. “We are either identified as conspirators, or partisans. Nobody sees us as a normal group of people with normal needs. We need food, land, electricity, education. We need our land, our forest. This is what I want to tell the world. That is why I am reporting on education, livelihood and water. Because these are our everyday stories. ”

The world is listening to you, Achungmei !

Rohini: Empowered to dance

Some days back I was at my friend Mala’s house, watching my friend’s 4 year old daughter Chinni jumping in joy. The reason for her excitement: Chinni was going to participate in a group dance, to be presented at the school’s annual day. Mala was excited too, for it was the first time her child would perform on stage and she was trying to borrow a camera from a neighbor, so she wouldn’t have to miss the precious moment.

This, I am sure is the story of every parent, every child at every home. We celebrate the dancing and the singing moments of our children. Many of us send the children to formally train in dance. The reality dance shows on TV are getting more and more popular and are attracting boys and girls of all ages.

But as they grow up, things change. We see a great divide of morality slowly created by families. While boys, now men, are allowed to dance on, girls are barred from doing so. The same parents who once filmed/photographed their children – boys and girls alike – dancing, now reprimand the girls for doing the same because now it’s an immoral act, a taboo for women from ‘decent’ family background.

Rohini Powar comes from Purandar taluka of Pune district, once famous for its lavani - the famous folk dance form of Maharashtra. For generations, dancers have performed Lavani in courts, impressing kings and their ministers alike with their delicate movements and lilting singing. With time, the courts have vanished, but Lavani is very much a part of Maharashtrian culture and every school student performs Lavani in annual day event.

Born in 1985, Rohini was first forced to leave school by her poverty-stuck family at 17 and married off 2 years later. Post marriage, with increasing burden of financial difficulties, Rohini had to try different ways to contribute a little more to the family’s income. She learnt to stitch dresses, taught women in her villages the same and also worked as a farm labourer to help her family.

Of the many things that she wanted to do but wasn’t allowed, was dance. And so, while working hard eased her financial burden, Rohini still felt like a prisoner who had no way to express herself. She yearned for a way to self expression, to tell her thoughts, her stories. Joining Video Volunteers’ India Unheard program as a Community Correspondent was a result of this yearning.


From 15th of March’2010 to 28th, during the training of all the Community Correspondents in Sanand, Gujarat which she attended with 31 other people,
Rohini was one of the most active and vocal participants. Every evening after dinner Stalin and Mehul, two of our Directors would bring in a drum and start creating a musical wave to infuse some life into the group of trainees, tired from the day’s classes and lessons. As the beats grew louder, a group of watchers would surround the duo, before slowly joining in. And they would be followed by another group with legs ready to start a-shaking!

Evening after evening, the second group would have one steady face – Rohini. She would be the first one to swirl with the drumbeat and the last one to stop! Her energy was infectious, just as was her wide smile.

On 28th of Morning, there was a small event where we said goodbye to each other and what these training meant to each one.

Most of the trainees said the expected thing; that they learnt of videos, news, shooting, issues and new responsibilities. When Rohini’s turn came, she said ‘After 7 years, I danced. I came here, accompanied by 3 people. But I‘m going back alone’.

She didn’t elaborate further. She didn’t have to. The message was clear for all of us: Rohini had found her way to self expression. She had found her courage, suppressed so far. She had found herself. And she was going back, with the new self, to do something that meant the world to her: Get stories of the voices who lived within the margins, just like her.

Gujaratnama 2: What is 'Cinema'? It's 'Cine plus Maa'

Eid Mohammed is 81 and has lived his entire life in the Berhampura slum of Ahmedabad. A ‘dresswala’/tailor till a few years ago, Eid Mohammed always had something special: power of observation. He did learn to read the Quran in a madrasa, but never went to a formal school. Yet he always was, and still continues to be, popular in his locality as a man who knew a lot about the world. Of many interests in his life, films top the list.

It was at the screening of a film that I first met Eid. Samvad, the Community Video Unit had organized a get together of all their community members in Berhampora. I had accompanied Stalin, the founder of Video Volunteers, invited to speak on the occasion, which also had a special screening of several of Samvad’s films. As Stalin and other guests speakers finished addressing the audience, a frail old man walked on the stage. As everyone wondered what he would say, Eid Mohammed took the mike and started – ;Cinema’ is, for me, Cine plus Maa (mother). Just as a ‘Maa’ would never teach her child wrong things in life, Cinema also teaches nothing but the right thing. These cinemas that Samvad showed today also shows us truth.’

At this point, I knew I had to know more about this person. So post event I met Eid and asked what made him think of ‘Maa’ while describing cinema. ‘Because of these film makers of Samvad’, he said. My area – Narayandas –ki-chali, always had so many problems. We had no drainage, lanes were full of garbage and almost all the men were addicted to arrack or drugs. But I never knew these issues could also be the subject of a film until one day these young men and women of Samvad came and started shooting. When I asked who they made these films for, who would see them, who would do something about it, they said ‘you’. This reminded me of my mother especially when she would notice something bad that I did. She would say ‘Yes, beta, something bad has happened. But you are still special. And you can do so much better for yourself.

Eid was a regular at every screening. His eyesight was getting weaker, but his passion for films and change was the same. In fact his enthusiasm was fast spreading among other community members, earning him quite a few fans, I was told. What I didn’t tell him is that he had just earned another one – in me.

Gujaratnama 1: On road, but not at the end of the it

That Bhagwanpura village is just 100 km away from Ahmedabad - capital of the largest and supposedly the richest Indian state is hard to believe. For reason one, there is no running water, no toilets and no tar road. The only mode of transport for common people is Chakda – a strange combination of a cycle rickshaw and a push cart. There are so seats and no shed to save yourself from the blazing April sun, or pouring rain, if that ever comes.

Bhagwanpura has a population of about 10, 000, of which nearly half are landless. They are also Dalit or lower caste. April is the beginning of a tough time for these people. Because, this is when the village wells run completely dry. The fields, half baked in the sun, are not fit to be cultivated until the rain comes and with no work at the farms, the landless villagers have to face the eventuality: Leave their homes in search of work.

This year also several families are already on the move. Some are moving to Ahmedabad to work on the special road construction projects, while some will go to Surat, the city of textile factories. They will return after 3 months when the Summer is over and the farming is to restart. Apparently, there isn’t much to take except a few clothes and a few pieces of utensils. The doors will be locked, yes, but nobody fears looting or damage to their homes. No loss, save that of one academic year for their children.

The children follow their parents to wherever they go. This forces them out of school for 3-4 months. On return, either the school authorities decline to let them back in, or the students themselves refuse to go to school because they can’t grasp the lessons because of the long interval. Either way it’s an end of the road for them.

But this year will be different for people of Bhagwanpura, I am told. None of the children will have to drop out, they say. And why so? ‘Because now we have our migration cards’, they say. Explains Sejalben, a villager who will be leaving her village with 4 school-going children soon, ‘Apna Malak Ma people showed us a film where we learnt that government will provide special cards to migrant workers like us. If we showed these cards, the school in our new work place would admit our children in the same class. After seeing the film, we approached the sarpanch. The sarpanch formed a special committee and wrote our names to get us those cards, she said.

There was a smile on her face as she talked, and a sense of pride in her voice. I wonder if it was the pride of being able to protect her child’s future, or, empowering herself with information she never had before.

Apna Malak Ma is a Community Video Unit in Limdee, Surendranagar district, launched in partnership between Video Volunteers and Navsarjan NGO and the film that helped empower Bhagwanpura is called ‘Haal Beru Bhano’.

Ode to a Nobody - 1

It’s Ashadh – the month of incessant rain. The month of broken wings of butterflies on the bed of wet grass in the garden. The month of days-old sparrow and myna, scared and fallen off the nests, lying hopeless under the Jackfruit tree and two tiny hands, having picked up the bird, standing equally helpless, not knowing where to find it a safe home. And then an elder coming over, advising the tiny one to leave the bird on the ground, for it’s mother would come and take it home.

With that, hope returns.

Normally this is how Ashadh is. Rainy. Wet, Grey. A little hopeless and a little hopeful.

On such a rainy morning of Ashadh, I met Buwai.

In our village of 40 families in the north east India there were several nobodies – people who had no homes of their own and lived with relatives, with no steady income, and no names. They went by just any name and nobody ever questioned the logic or validity of those names.

Buwai was one of them. Few knew about her or even noticed her - the thin, dark woman, standing in a corner of the wet court yard, in a wet, cotton sari worn thin.

My mother did.
It had been raining since the previous night and our muddy court yard had already patches of green, slippery moss. There, in that mossy green yard stood the woman, not begging, but looking for work.And my mother saw her.

It was the worst time for a daily wage worker. There was no paddy to wean, no pulses to dry, no weeds to pull out, no yard to sweep, no outdoor work, because of the pouring rain. Families survived on potatoes and in an all-woman house like ours, even eggs were rare to get as the market was far away and nobody knew how to find a rickshaw in that rain.

And now here was the woman, asking for work. Because she was hungry. And because she had a hungry child. No, she didn’t bring that child to get instant sympathy, but left him at home so she could do the work fast.

It takes one to know one, goes a popular saying. Perhaps it’s this old logic that worked when my mother, bent with her own burden of ceaseless duties and difficulties, found Buwai some work – clean the cooking vessels. It was a task that needed courage to assign, for Buwai, as a poor, abandoned, nameless Muslim woman, was also among the village’s list of untouchables and outcasts. But courage was what helped my mother survive and so from that day on, Buwai often washed our few vessels and when the rain stopped, did other odd jobs.


Some of those jobs required her skills, some didn’t, but went to her anyway, because it was the way 2 women bonded. One of them saw her husband everyday, with another wife, while the other, my mom, felt like a wife once a year, when my dad came to India. While Buwai was poor because she had no money, my mom struggled to buy enough ration for her kids, because there were too many protocols for her to follow, to get the money on hand. And they both had children – growing and hungry, children that they never abandoned, despite being needy. They both were too busy to deal with each single day to worry about tomorrow. But they both were too proud to beg and too strong to give up.

Years passed by. Things changed in the lives of both women with their children growing up, earning and starting their own families. The sun that most of the time was hard to find, was shining upon them now.

But, this month I asked someone in our village if he remembered Buwai  – she who was the most silent, yet most dignified nobody of our village, who would never accept a donation and gave a fat chicken in return even when my mother bought her a pair of cotton saris – her first ever gift in life. She who was a poor laborer but was against child labor and sent her son to the village school. And then he replied, ‘oh yes, the woman who drowned in the river?’

That was a brief revelation. Buwai, whose hut was around the bend of our little furious hill river, saw a woman slipping into the water with a bucket of clothes on her head. Buwai, old, thin and frail, jumped in to help out the woman who was young, but pregnant. Both were pulled back to the shore after some time. One of them was alive, the other dead.

It was another rainy day of Ashad. A little hope was lost. A little hope was saved. It's the hope dignity, humanity, and love exist in our world, and in our women. Women like Buwai. Women who are nobodies.

Thank you, Prateek

There was a time, when I thought writing was what made me happiest. Because writing was what made me travel, ticketless and helped me live with the highest degree of intensity.

I would write the word ‘writing’ in my semi-dark, one-window room of the hostel and felt there was light around me. In to the darkness I would feel a day had started to dawn. I would write and then slowly started travelling out of my room, into the terrace, then would be on my way to the hills of North east, the little village that those hills guard – the village where I could still smell of the lemon flower,
still see a rainbow after every downpour,
still see the toothless smile of the old Santhal man who came everyday to catch black eel in the soft mud of our drying pond,
still felt the shivering of a dragon fly in my hand…

Then it all stopped. I stopped writing. I took on to existing. I smiled at those I knew, talked, to those I always been talking to, worked, shopped, read and travelled, for specific reason.
And I existed. For months.

Then I got your message. You asked me why was I not writing any more? And I wondered, ‘why indeed?’

And so here I am. Coming back to write. To travel. To breathe out all that I had been holding all this while. I am coming back to live. And I thank you for that. Welcome back to my world, once more, my friend!

Milan, my friend

Creativity, I thought, is a work of happiness. Words, I thought, spring out when you are happy. Because words come when thoughts form. And thoughts form when you are stirred to think. Pain has a numbing affect. And so when pain comes, you just withdraw. All within you shut down in numbness. Then there are no thoughts and no words carrying them down.

But that was what I thought.

Sometimes, things change. Like they did today.

Today I met pain. I met him right in my bed, in the morning hour. But unlike before, I didn’t shut down. Instead, I felt the need to talk. To write. To bring the words out.
And so here I am.

And here I’m looking back. Going back there where I was 5 years ago.

It’s a small town. Once the tree of Agar grew in abundance there. People took the bark off the trees and burnt them in the temple. The mother of all perfumes, this Agar is what today’s ‘Agarbatti’ came from. And then this same agar helped the place get its current name: Agartala.


Milan Debbarma had been living there for past 11 years. His living was supported by sale of bamboo shoots. And when there were no bamboo shoots to sell, he worked as a daily wage laborer. He climbed trees, plucked coconuts, betel nuts, made bamboo fences around tiny gardens, spread ‘chan’ grass over the roofs of fellow poor people’s huts. For a meal and Rs.50, he would do any of those and catch fish from your pond or clean them of water weeds, cut grass or even milk your nastiest cow for you. Yah, he was an everyman’s right hand.

The day I met Milan, there was a dusk to dawn curfew in the town. And I had landed myself to report on the incident that had resulted into this curfew: An attack by militants on a village on the outskirts of Agartala. I spent the day visiting a hospital, seeing 23 bodies in white sheet (6 of them babies under 10), and rows of animals, tithed to bamboo poles, where they had died, burnt when the huts of the villages were set alight and when humans ran out to save themselves. They were shot of course and so there was none to come to the house and free the animals. Now here they were…their blackened, charred bodies telling the stories of agony inexplicable.

As I was spending hours taking notes and practicing my brave act of not crying, it was getting dark. And then it was dark. And then it downed – the fact that I had to return a long way back to the town, to be safe.

But safety was a 3-hour journey away. And by the time I made it there, the tiny town had shut down its shops and shutter of the lodges. The curfew hour had started.

I had a place to lodge myself. But I had nothing to eat. And I was hungry. And I felt lonely too. The memories of the day, my first encounter with the horrors of terrorism and mass massacre had formed a tight knot in my throat and I needed to spit it out.

This is when I met Milan. He stayed in a hut that stood right next to the tiny house I was staying in. He had seen me coming in and going out. Now in the dark of a curfew night, I saw him coming. He knew I was hungry. And now he had come to invite me to share his dinner.

We ate ‘daal-bhat’ in the semi darkness of his hut. Lights were not forbidden, but put out in the fear of attracting attention. Sometimes, when there’s a combing search operation on, even a broad smile is seen as a suspicious act. There is a general air of distrust and everybody is a potential killer or conspirator, and therefore guilty of some unproven crime. Living in complete anonymity is therefore what everyone tries. Not lighting a lamp is an act of that anonymity. Maybe even an attempt of being non-existent. And Milan did have a reason to be non-existent.

In Agartala, the deads were Bengalis and the killer’s tribals. Milan was a tribal man, living in a Bengali area. There was a constant fear of being the subject of a retaliation. Of being lynched. Stabbed in the dark maybe. Although he was just another poor laborer. And an everyone’s helper.

‘I left village because there we were constantly ordered by the militants to shelter them, to give them food. If we didn’t, we were beaten Then, one day I ran away with my wife. Came here. I thought I had escaped’.

In the dark, I didn’t see his face. But the pain that I could sense in his voice was hard to miss. Leaving the village to escape violence. But now here he was, the easy poor scapegoat. Being held for a hundred crimes he hasn’t committed. Being answerable for all wrongs that he never did. Carrying a terrible burden of guilt and conscious that is sourced elsewhere.

‘People like us spend all time earning their next meal. How could I ever think of anything else?All I want is to find work every day. I pay Rs. 200 rent for this hut. I hope one day I could live in my own hut’.

Such a small dream. For a man who lived in a country that is reaching out to the moon soon. A country that, among it’s citizens, has world’s 5th richest person.

But then this was the dream of a nobody.

And it did die that way – without coming true.

Milan didn’t die of stabbing though. Nobody lynched him either. Ambari, however, continued to see more shooting and bodies of dead men and women and kids and cattle kept being added to the previous list. But this week the town of Agartala was ripped apart by a number of bomb blasts.

Milan was helping a friend sell clothes in GB market, one of the blast venues. Poor vendors, selling hand me downs to poor laborers shopping for Durga puja. It was puja time. The only time they could afford to buy new clothes, the only time to be worry-less and happy. His name appeared in the newspaper next day, as one the seriously injured. His right leg was blown off knee down.

Early this morning he died, of excessive bleeding. It was this message that I woke up and began my day with.

Death is the ultimate end of everything, even of worries and fear. But I wish Milan had been freed of fear and alive as well.

Its hard not to miss him.

Travelling through Myanmar(Gag-the order of the day)

Travelling down the Indo-Myanmar Friendship Road, for a split moment, I had an illusion of homecoming. The road –a wide, rain-drenched one (it opened on Feb’ 2001), was smooth and had that signature deserted look of any hilly town. Now and then I saw locals, mainly girls, in their bright blouse and longyis – walking by, their faces hidden under the made-in China umbrellas.

In the ghost of a jeep, I found myself sharing a seat with 3 people. The youngest of them, Htun, is our driver and guide and in this rainy, stormy weather, also the saviour, – who can take us to the destination. The greatest love of his life seemed to be chewing betel nut. The 2nd one, an elderly Burman Buddhist and the 3rd person,(yes, another Mr.Htun), a primary school teacher.

We were going towards Kalaymyo, the next big town after Tamu. The cyclone had hit the country 2 days before. There was news of great loss of property and life. Being an Indian, and a media worker at that, I was itching to talk about it, to discuss it, to hear some argument in favor and against the government-taken measures. If nothing at all, I expected people to curse, to complaint…

But minutes passed and then hours, but nobody spoke a word. On the way we stopped twice, first to have afternoon meal (a huge plate of rice with tangy fish curry) and then for a ‘routine check’ by armed soldiers. And I was amazed to see how silently people moved. They ate, chewed betel nuts, some smoked and others just sat there. On the veranda of the bamboo thatched motel, waiting for the journey to resume.

Later that night I was eating dinner at hotel ‘Hollywood’ - a 2 storied house that served as lodge cum bar cum tea house and sold rice, fermented fish chutney and sour apple beer, I saw people gathering in to watch TV. I expected them to switch on the news channel. Instead, the colour TV monitor brought on a Thai film, about a boy and girl and their unrequited love.

It took me 4 more days to learn of and understand this silence, that is, until I met Alex in Kalewa. Alex or Alexander Kwang was a fellow wanderer like me. Unofficially, however, he was a human rights activist. It was Alex who told me that the ruling military junta in Burma neglected everything in the country except the politics. Yes, you could do all illegal businesses but you must make sure not to be involved in politics. This is also the case with many so-called pro-democracy cease-fire groups, which had entered into sorts of agreements with the regime during the past eleven years. Burmese government claimed that, as of now total 17-armed ethnic groups had entered into cease-fire agreements. It has allowed these groups (in Burmese ?Nyein Chan Ye? groups) to operate both legal and illegal businesses with freedom in many parts of the country. These groups come and go in their "areas" with uniforms, guns and their own flags.

But is talking about a natural calamity, a disaster as big and as damaging as a super cyclone a political activity? Yes, said Alex, because it would gradually lead to the action taken or the lack of it. And there would be criticism. And that would be politics. If you were a peace-loving citizen, you would keep quiet, go home and pray –that’s what the Junta said and that’s what you did, if you wanted to keep your freedom of movement intact.

That people were not allowed to speak against the government was not the biggest surprise for me though. What surprised me is how life went on despite that. How people lived their life in absolute normalcy, with the gagging order ruling every sphere of life!

And that’s when I learnt…even peace could be an illusion!

Travelling through Myanmar(The journey begins)

The first thing that you have to deal with and of course with great difficulty, once you cross the international border in Tamu, is remembering names.

To begin with, every name sounds same. Maybe that’s because your ears are still ringing from the continuous journey on rickety buses and then on even more sickly-looking Burmese autos, or maybe because you just haven’t heard so many names with so many ‘n’s before. Whatever the reason is, you can’t help asking everybody again and again to repeat and even after they have already obliged 3-4 times, you still can’t quite get it, and therefore, still can’t help feeling stupid.

The first person I met after entering Burmese soil is Ko Htun Win, the army soldier on duty in Tamu bazaar. The second, the man who sold me a bunch of bananas, was Daw Than . The third, the young urchin who seemed to have curious mixed feelings of ‘who the hell are you’ and ‘love at first sight’ for me, told me his name was U Ngwe Thein. Hmm…no medal for guessing by then I had already forgotten the name of the soldier.

Mercifully, I didn’t stay long enough in one place to face the same person again and again and address him more than once. And mercifully, I looked smiling and strange and young enough to be forgiven, even if I did commit the sin of forgetting names.

But when it came to places, I had no such escape routes. 2 days before I crossed Tamu, I was in Chandel(Manipur), where, over a hot plate of mouth watering Changpa-me (rice gruel, cooked with chunks of smoked pork and herbs) I tried byhearting names of places I might be travelling through …. Nam Monta, Htan Ta Bin, and Man Maw, Ah Myint, Homelin, Thamanthi….

Later, on my way 70 km long journey from Chandel to Moreh town, which leads to Tamu –the first Burmese town I would be in, I tried remembering the very essential What’s your name? (Na meh be lu kaw leh)‘Thank you’ (Kyei zu tin ba deh) and ‘hello(min ga la ba)’s in Myanmarese.

But now, when I was here, in the land of pagodas, my memory failed miserably, making me feel like a complete idiot. In fact it was a classic situation for an idiotic gypsy. –No map, no knowledge of local language and just 20, 000 kyat(pronounced chyat) –the amount of money that could barely sustain me a couple of days and, thanks to the cyclone that had hit the land just a day earlier, with very few roads now open for me to take. Yes, my journey had begun in a true stellasque style.

Baje, Wishdom Personified(2)

A smile is all it takes to bridge the gap of a hundred miles that lay between 2 hearts, two ages and two cultures..its like that cosmic ray that can light up the darkest corner of the earth .

But a smile also is a veil under which lay secret , untold stories of fear, of sorrow and of feelings too deep to fathom..In such cases a smile creates an aura of an enigma.......


This is what came to my mind as I saw Baje's smiling face . There were stories untold, hidden under that veil of smile and so, with ever passing day my curiosity to know them grew stronger.

Like most Gurkhas, Baje was also paid peanuts for his decade-long service to Her majesty the queen. And so when he returned home post retirement, there was very little cash in his pocket. His monthly pension did not reach him every month and it was back to he hard peasant's life in the mountain, once again. The hardship multiplied when his wife died suddenly. And even as he was overcoming that grief, the elder of his two sons lost a hand in a freak hunting accident . The accident sent the young man over the edge of his wits and he never recovered from that again. He lived in a perpetual stupor, caring for nothing and none.

The younger boystudies in a residential school, away from home.


The house he had been able to built, during his service years, was a good one. It was a 2-stories stone house with 3 spacious rooms. There were 2 words 'Love, Live ' written on he walls, just above the door and there were beautiful creepers growing around he windows.


But it was a house full of hollowness. There were none here with warmth in the heart , nor anyone eager to listen to Baje's stories or share his childlike laughter .

Everyday he would get up before sunrise, regardless of the season or the climate. Then he would cook his meal..a dish of daal-bhat(the concept of breakfast did not exist there) and before 8 he would be in the village nursery where he would be working till midday, when it was time to look after other domestic duties. This included chopping firewood, collecting fodder for cattle, tending to rabbits and ducks in the village community farms. Add to this tilling of the land, sowing seeds, preparing compost and a hundred other odd jobs and what you get is a day where there is barely a minute to laze.


Night, therefore was a welcome relief , but before that he had to finish his dinner, which again could be had only when it was prepared..by himself.


And this is the way life is...12 months ayear. Hard, devoid of rest, and lonely. And yet you find him smiling . He has to fetch for himself every single day , yet he would be happy to be your host, to invite you over his home, to cok a meal for you.

At his age, specially after so many years of service abroad, men think of nothing but living in a cozy home and a life freed of all duties. And yet he would not only happilly carry on his own endless list of duties towards his village, but would happilly offer his services , of course for free, to any visitor like you. He would offer to take you to the mountains, explore the forest, show you the waterfalls, the watermill, the ancient shrines, the crops in the field, pluck flowers for you, and if you are too tired, then he would even offer to carry your bag although he is 74 and you are an able bodied yung person in your early twienties.


His area of work , as I said, is medicinal plants. But he taught me of paper plants and of plants that produce coton-like fibre. He showed me rearing of angora rabbits. He taught of grass that produce powder that folk actors in China used in their make up, to whiten their faces before a performance, of extracting wood that can be burnt like a torch... And of course a hundred myths, legends and folklore.. .

And as if these were not enough, he even found a young man in the village (one of the few who spoke some english) who would be my entertainer, meeting me every evening with his guitar and sing for me.....


And that's my Baje...a grand old, real man....a personification of wisdom..someone I am proud to have known.

Baje, Wishdom Personified(2)

A smile is all it takes to bridge the gap of a hundred miles that lay between 2 hearts, two ages and two cultures..its like that cosmic ray that can light up the darkest corner of the earth .
But a smile also is a veil under which lay secret , untold stories of fear, of sorrow and of feelings too deep to fathom..In such cases a smile creates an aura of an enigma.......

This is what came to my mind as I saw Baje's smiling face . There were stories untold, hidden under that veil of smile and so, with ever passing day my curiosity to know them grew stronger..

Like most Gurkhas, Baje was also paid peanuts for his decade-long service to Her majesty the queen. And so when he returned home post retirement, there was very little cash in his pocket. His monthly pension did not reach him every month and it was back to he hard peasant's life in the mountain, once again.
The hardship multiplied when his wife died suddenly. And even as he was overcoming that grief, the elder of his two sons lost a hand in a freak hunting accident . The accident sent the young man over the edge of his wits and he never recovered from that again. He lived in a perpetual stupor, caring for nothing and none..

The younger boystudies in a residential school, away from home...


The house he had been able to built, during his service years, was a good one. It was a 2-stories stone house with 3 spacious rooms. There were 2 words 'Love, Live ' written on he walls, just above the door and there were beautiful creepers growing around he windows. But it was a house full of hollowness. There were none here with warmth in the heart , nor anyone eager to listen to Baje's stories or share his childlike laughter ..

Everyday he would get up before sunrise, regardless of the season or the climate. Then he would cook his meal..a dish of daal-bhat(the concept of breakfast did not exist there) and before 8 he would be in the village nursery where he would be working till midday, when it was time to look after other domestic duties. This included chopping firewood, collecting fodder for cattle, tending to rabbits and ducks in the village community farms. Add to this tilling of the land, sowing seeds, preparing compost and a hundred other odd jobs and what you get is a day where there is barely a minute to laze. Night, therefore was a welcome relief , but before that he had to finish his dinner, which again could be had only when it was prepared..by himself.

And this is the way life is...12 months ayear. Hard, devoid of rest, and lonely.

And yet you find him smiling . He has to fetch for himself every single day , yet he would be happy to be your host, to invite you over his home, to cok a meal for you.

At his age, specially after so many years of service abroad, men think of nothing but living in a cozy home and a life freed of all duties. And yet he would not only happilly carry on his own endless list of duties towards his village, but would happilly offer his services , of course for free, to any visitor like you.

He would offer to take you to the mountains, explore the forest, show you the waterfalls, the watermill, the ancient shrines, the crops in the field, pluck flowers for you, and if you are too tired, then he would even offer to carry your bag although he is 74 and you are an able bodied yung person in your early twienties..

His area of work , as I said, is medicinal plants. But he taught me of paper plants and of plants that produce coton-like fibre. He showed me rearing of angora rabbits. He taught of grass that produce powder that folk actors in China used in their make up, to whiten their faces before a performance, of extracting wood that can be burnt like a torch... And of course a hundred myths, legends and folklore..

And as if these were not enough, he even found a young man in the village (one of the few who spoke some english) who would be my entertainer, meeting me every evening with his guitar and sing for me.....

And that's my Baje...a grand old, real man....a personification of wisdom..someone I am proud to have known.

Baje: Wisdom personified

He is 74 and lives in a village called Nangi in the hill district of Myagdhi in Nepal.
Like many of his fellow elders, he too is a former Gurkha who once served in the British Army.


My first meeting with him was quite nondescript. I was walking around, trying to see the village where I was to be a volunteer for a fortnight, offering my services towards community development. Along my way I met and was greeted by ever-smiling villagers. He was one of them. Someone had introduced him as Mote, the nursery man.
Like everyone else in that mountain village, he too had a face so full of smiles, you would be tempted to think it never had a reason to be sad or cry. His 74 years of age notwithstanding, the man woke up every day at break of the dawn and cooked ‘daal-bhat’ the only meal of the day over wooden stove in a tiny log hut. At eight in the morning he would be at the village nursery, set up by a non government organization trying to conserve the rare and vanishing Himalayan plants. Here they were growing plants, most of them of high medicinal values and have these planted back in different areas of the mountain. And Mote was the custodian of the nursery.

As a volunteer I could choose my area of contribution and it did not take me long to
Choose the nursery for the simple reason of learning about medicinal plants, something that I always had an interest in. And soon I realized, couldn’t have made a better decision, because I couldn’t have found a better person than Mote to work with. Because he was and continues to be, someone who could make each day of yours a day with a little difference.

However, the first few days though enriching for me, also brought in a little frustration. The reason—Mote wouldn’t, just would not allow me to get my hands ‘dirty’ with cow dung or mud. He would just want me to sit at a safe distance and watch while he did went about the job. So there I was- watching him looking into the germination of the seedlings, filling the plastic bags with soil, planting saplings in them, watering them , covering them with sheet of bamboo and so on….

However, soon I found out his weakness: a great ability of story telling. And soon he was absorbing me in the net of that magical web of stories….. a web I had not experienced since my granny died… Now, here, in this strange mountain village I heard this old man tell me endless stories again…of this village, of his people, of his youth, of his days as a Gurkha, of England, of Malaysia, Hong Kong…the places that he had been to.
Perched on a stone , in turn , I too told him of my childhood, my fascination for people and cultures…..

It was this exchange of stories that gradually started drawing us closer. Soon Mote dropped his resistance and let me come down and give him a hand in the work. And even before I could express my gratefulness, one morning he told me to call him’Baje’ which meant grandfather.

And that moment, right there, with the morning frost still thick all around us, with the wintry chill still in the air he was let me straight into his world and his life and we became related to each other.

That morning I got the grandfather I had never had and had always been longing for.

After this things moved rather rapidly. Under Baje’s supervision I learnt of medicinal plants and how to grow them. And once our working hours were over, Baje would head towards the mountain, into the forest, with me trotting behind. Every few second he would stop, to show me a new plant, a new tree, rare and ancient and tell me about its utility, as well as the legends that encircled it.

Deeper in the forest and we would find tiny shrine-like structures, which were actually tombs of Buddhist lamas. Interestingly, Baje had a story on each of those tombs and thus he would make everything, living or dead, appear significant, enchanting.

Often during these walks and during these long hours of story telling we would burst into laughter. It felt as though we were two children, standing at two corners of life, fascinated with the world around us and thrilled with the idea of being a part of it…………..

To be Continued..