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A
circle of hills with occasional bursts of greenery
surrounds the tiny village of Mandijhola, a near two-hour
walk from Kashipur. Located in Orissa's Rayagada district, this
little village is one of the many such in the area that are cut
off from what is
known as civilisation. The only access to the village is through
some hills, followed by a long traverse over a bauxite-laden
plateau. Kashipur block has a tribal population of 61.51 per cent with an overall
literacy rate of 13 per cent, which dips to 6.5 per cent for
tribals. Only one per cent of the women here are literate,
according to the 1991 census.
A
steep descent brings you to a cluster of
40-odd houses set in two neat rows facing each other. The
forests around are sparse with the exception of mango and
jackfruit trees. The Paraja
and Kondh tribals here have been cultivating the hills for many
years and grow pulses-- oilseed, paddy, ragi, maize and bajra.
They barely harvest 1.5 to 2 quintals per family
and for six months of the year, they are dependent on
forest produce. All 42 families are below the poverty line.
Even
kendu, a nationalised forest produce, and amla have
shrunk in quantity. The reducing forest cover has dramatically
affected people's lives. In a way they have been responsible, some
villagers felt. With
almost no plain land available for cultivation, the villagers rely
on podu, which entails clearing large patches of vegetation
on the hillsides, burning it and then sowing seeds, which can be
harvested after the monsoon.
The
chequered hillsides are evidence of podu or slash-and-burn
cultivation. This year some new areas have been demarcated for
cultivation. The tribes believe that podu is productive and
since the same piece
of land is not used every year, the fertility of the soil is
maintained. No fertilisers are used and traditional methods of
sowing and harvesting are employed. Purandar Majhi puts it
philosophically: "We have a choice of staying hungry or
letting forests grow, and for us the choice is clear. The
villagers claim there are some good patches of forest left and
bears and other animals pose
a threat to the harvest, which has to be watched 24 hours."
Bisen
Jhodia, a resident, said,
"We collect hill brooms or
bamboo out of which baskets are made and
sold for Rs 5 each." Earlier, there used to be a plentiful
supply. The only craft they know is using bamboo from which they
fashion a variety of baskets, and storage bins.
Earlier, the men said, bamboo was available at a distance
of five km, but in the last ten to 15 years, they have had to walk
the whole day.
Older
men in the village testified to
seeing thick forests where honey, sal resin and many edible
root varieties were in plenty. Now very little remains of
that and with
the forests vanishing so has the produce. Honey is practically
non-existent now, he added. The adivasis
still make their own oil from
castor seeds, and, often, only buy salt, chillies, ghutka
or dried fish from the market. Though migration for work
has not yet begun, the people live from hand-to-mouth,
specially during April and September when there is very little food or money
to buy any. During that time
they make bamboo baskets and sell them in the weekly market
at Kashipur. Many of the villagers take loans to tide them over.
However, Bisen said, since last year we formed a grain bank and
now we do not need to go to the sahukars (moneylenders).
"Otherwise the sahukars lend us four kg of grain and
we have to repay double that quantity in six months. We used to
pledge our gold or the cattle we have."
The
grain bank has been started with an initial
10 quintals of grain, under a UNICEF programme, and a
matching amount is collected by the village. This is then
distributed to the families as and when the need arises. The
people replace the grain with a minimal interest after harvest.
Education
is non-existent and there was no facility
till last year when an NGO opened a school, which is now
attended by about 40 children. Not a single person has even
managed to pass the tenth standard.
The
remoteness of the village cuts off access to health care or
immunisation for children.
Though women do not travel much for fuel wood, the only hand-pump
in the village does not work. A perennial stream nearby supplies
water, which the
women fetch, first filtering
it, using their saris
or thin pieces of cloth. Hiramani Jhodia said, "Our eating
habits have changed due to deforestation. We depend more on
cereals and less on forest produce. Earlier we had roots and our
men used to
hunt."
In
the afternoon, the village looks sleepy but the red, white and
black paneled houses buzz with activity. In the front of the
houses, grain is spread out to dry and women sit around in the
dead heat of the afternoon, wielding long spindly bamboo sticks to
ward off hens from
consuming their drying stock of grain. From inside the dark
houses, the only
sound is a rhythmic thudding noise,
the sound of women
powdering ragi. Little
holes are dug into the ground and the women use
heavy wooden pestles with a metal head to pound the grain. Ragi
gruel is the staple food here and a
fermented drink made out of ragi (handya) is
also very popular.
Rukminibai
complained about the number of premature births. She said,
"There is absolutely no medical facility
and no one
comes here. It is too far away. I have not seen a single health
worker. Our children do not get tikas (immunisation).
Illness of any serious kind means a long walk to Kashipur and the
children seem the worst affected with distended bellies and signs
of malnutrition. If people fall seriously ill, we take them on a
cot. Four of us carry the cot and then we have to climb to the
plateau before going down again to Kashipur which has the nearest
additional PHC."
"Sometimes
people die on the way," said Jodu Jhodia. "During the
monsoon, this task is difficult with flowing nallahs and
slippery slopes. Sometimes we
do not go as it is too cumbersome and risky for us to carry
the patient over such a distance."
Women
work hard, getting up before dawn, going to the nearby forests to
collect fuelwood, cooking, washing, or pounding grain, apart from
fetching water. They
also have to go to the market to sell forest produce. On the way,
we met young girls carrying heavy loads of hill brooms, to be sold
in Siriguda which has a purchasing and processing centre.
During
March, tribals in this region celebrate Chaitra Parab and there is
a ceremonial hunt. Despite the sparse vegetation, the
animals give the men a run for their money and the hills
around can suddenly erupt with shouts and cries of hunters in the
midst of a spirited chase. The wild animals in the region have
also dwindled with the exception of deer, bears and wild boar.
As
we returned, sudden and loud shouting from the forest around the
plateau rent the air. From the thickets, a startled deer charged
out, chased by men from the village, whose arrows missed the
animal as it sought refuge in another hillock.
Before
we left, young women performed a ceremonial dance to a song
composed on the spot, which lamented that they could not provide
their visitor - me - with better entertainment in the form of a
film, or give me something special to eat. The adivasis here are
clever with words, said my guide. Looking back from a height, the
small village seemed defenseless, surrounded
by steep hills. How long would it be before the forests
they depended on, completely perished, leaving them to the mercy
of the outside world. How long will these people have to wait for roads,
immunisation for their children or medical care or education,
necessities so basic which are still denied to them after all the
money that has been pumped in for developing this backward region?
(The
research for this article was supported by the
National Tree Growers' Cooperative Press Fellowship Program).
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