Salt Slavery

On the 4^th of February 2009, villagers of Ulana, Gudha, and Bavli, in Nagaur District, Rajasthan collectively protested against encroachments of village common lands and blocked earth movers from entering their villages. The state machinery was quickly mobilized to stem protests. Local police moved in, threatening locals of dire consequences. However, there was a resoluteness that defied all threats. Realizing that they were beaten, the contractors backed off their claims and pulled out.

Incidents such as these do not generate headlines. Even local newspapers covering the issue became silent after a point. However, it marked the first collective struggle against oppression by the salt mafia operating in and around Sambhar Lake. 

Sambhar Salt Lake is located 60 km south west of the city of Jaipur in Rajasthan. Its 5700 sq km catchment spreads across districts of Nagaur, Jaipur, Ajmer and Sikar. Earliest record of salt production from India’s largest inland saline lake dates back to 1500 years. In this span of time, the control on salt production got passed on from local communities to Rajputs to the Mughals to the British and finally to Sambhar Salts Limited, a joint venture between Hindustan Salts Limited and Government of Rajasthan. This public sector undertaking regulates salt production from the Lake. 

Mainstream India may choose to believe that Gandhi’s march to the coastal village of Dandi in Gujarat on March 12, 1930, ended all exploitation related to salt production and sale. For the 90 odd villages located in the catchment of Sambhar Lake, desh ka namak has a very bitter taste. 

There are two sides to this tale. 

The celebrated one boasts of 210,000 tonnes of salt production from Sambhar per year that puts Rajasthan in the list of top three salt producing States in India. It was also declared a wetland of International and National importance in 1990 by the Ramsar Secretariat for being a unique migratory bird habitat and wetland ecosystem. Both Lake and the city from which is gets is name appears in Page 3 for being shoot locales for Drona and recreating the magic of Old Delhi in Delhi-6. 

To view the other side one needs to go beyond official reports and straight to villages located in the catchment area of the Lake. Here, salt is a harsh reality that kills and sustains. It has provided income, employment, death and disease to those who chose to work in the salt pans of Sambhar. 

It’s a story of simple economics, splattered with greed and a fair bit of corruption thrown in. It hardly costs 30-40 paise to produce 1 kg of salt in Sambhar. By the time it reaches the average consumer in the market, it costs Rs 10. The high profit margin triggers off a salt rush. However, it’s difficult to find operational elbow space for everybody. Hence, unauthorized salt pans and processing centres mushroom in and around the lake. The accommodative administration, politicians, and the police prefer not to stand in the way of inevitable economic growth, especially when it affects them positively. Not all can be painted with the broad brush of corruption. Well meaning officers in Sambhar Salts did attempt at regulating illegal salt pans but had to thrown in the towel. “The nexus is too strong, and the money chain goes a long way”, said a retired official. “We know what is happening but are helpless ourselves. Nobody wants to land in trouble”. 

While at a “fairly high level” everyone seems to be gaining, reality is skin deep. Labourers working on the salt pans for 9-10 hours are not provided with any protective clothing or footwear. As a result, most of them develop thick rashes on the soles of their feet by walking bare feet on the pans. Those who carry the salt from the pans on head loads to the trucks get wet salt and brine running down their face. With wrinkled and dry skin salt pan workers rarely look their age. The life expectancy of a salt worker in Sambhar Lake now stands at 45 years. With no employment benefits and zero legal protection, this unorganized lot are at the mercy of an exploitative regime. The men earn Rs 125 to 150 a day, women Rs 100. 

There is no regularity in payment and with no mechanism for redress; labourers often work without payment for weeks. With such an income, one has little left to spend on cosmetic concerns such as itchy dry skin and rashes. 

The salt industry in Sambhar has a hierarchy in benefit accrual, and locals are at the bottom. The owner’s or seths are mostly from Haryana and Delhi, the labour and vehicle contractors are from Barmer and Jodhpur. Indeed there is fortune at the bottom of the pyramid, which gets sucked upwards just like the regions groundwater. 

Internal affairs of the salt industry leave perverse footprints in the villages nearby. The process of extracting salt from in and around the lake has undergone serious transformation. The natural process is monsoon dependant. Sambhar Lake taps water from four seasonal rivers, namely Mendha, Rupangarh, Kharian and Khandel alongside numerous streams and rivulets. This water reacts with lake sediments and becomes brine, which after evaporation leaves behind crystallized salt. This is how salt has been harvested since ages and ideally takes 45-50 days. However, since the last few decades, unsustainable technologies and practices have become rule rather than exception. Most salt production units now use deep bore wells to extract groundwater. Hence salt production now gets completed within 15-20 days. Organizations working in the area estimate around 15-20 bore wells operating in every bigha (0.6 acres) of land. Over extraction has lowered groundwater levels by almost 40 feet in the area. Deprived of recharge and subsurface flow, the lake has been continuously shrinking and the seasonal streams and rivers are now going dry. Water from both upstream and downstream of the lake is being used to produce salt. The water footprint of salt production has now gone beyond the periphery of the lake. Salt production units now hire tankers, which plunder groundwater from areas further away. 

Hence most of the villages in the eastern side of the Lake in Nagaur District are now facing acute shortage of drinking water. Water scarcity is a major reason for migration, especially since majority of the population living in villages surrounding the lake are dependant on livestock management for livelihoods. As most of the male members and elder women leave their villages for 5-6 months, the only occupation for younger women left behind is to work in the salt pans. Most of these young women are helpless prey to labour contractors, who use economic pressure and the absence of family to solicit sexual favours. Molestation and sexual exploitation is now rampant in the salt pans. It has almost become a way of life. Such stories do not have names behind them, and fear of victimization and social taboos provide perpetrators with a security blanket. 

Satellite imagery shows innumerable evaporation ponds or salt pans, locally called kyaries dotting the lake bed and the buffer region. The official number quotes 400 of such. In reality, even the Sambhar Salt authorities are unaware of exactly how many unauthorized salt pans operate around the lake. Research shows that 74% of the illegal salt pans are located within a range of 0-1 kms from the lake’s core. Since little space is left to capture within the lake area, land grab has now spread to neighbouring villages. Large chunks of village common and grazing lands are being illegally taken on 10- 20 year lease, that too at a throwaway price of Rs 20,000/- per 0.6 acres (1 bigha).  This whole transaction skilfully bypasses approval at the Gram Sabha or the Gram Panchayat. Villagers of Ulana, Gudha, and Bavli had seen vast tracts of woodlot and common land getting converted into salt pans in neighbouring areas. This had hardened their resolve of standing up to the might of corruption and brute force. Ramlal Gujjar from Bavli (name changed on request), blames money thrown around by the salt contractors to have subverted collective decision making in the village. However, in time villagers have realised that they have lost more than what has been gained, that too mostly by a few individuals. “gaon ka zameen, pani aur izzat sab kuch loot liya, he laments. 

Standing on top of a house in Bavli village, one can easily spot the steady march of salt pans. These pans are now converting both public and village lands into privately owned assets. As the sun sets, light bulbs on thousands of bore wells come to life. A sadistic phantasmagoria that sends chills down one’s spine. 

Sambhar Lake has been pushed to its death throes. Though it is supposed to occupy an impressive 230 sq km of area, the lake hasn’t had any water for the last 7-8 years. As of now, it has a water spread of roughly 7 sq kms, mostly ankle deep. Habitat destruction has kept migratory bird populations away for a decade. And yet, not even a whimper of protest has been heard from India’s wetland experts. Bizarre explanations are offered to rationalize regulatory failures. They range between declining rainfall due to climate change and construction of watershed structures under NREGA programmes in upstream villages. 

Majority of the numerous watershed structures constructed upstream have faulty design and are actually a colossal waste of public expenditure. They have little ability to hold themselves up, leave alone water. Moreover, NREGA, by providing local employment blocks labour exodus to salt pans, an irritating proposition for salt industry contractors. These explanations are aimed at diverting attention from illegal ground water mining. The reality of Sambhar is now identified through endless columns of white dust hovering over the lifeless landscape like ghosts. 

There is a local myth surrounding the origin of the Lake. It tells us that Shakambari Devi, the family deity of Chauhan Rajputs had converted a significant stretch of forests into plain land filled with precious metals meant as blessing to devout locals. However, villagers nearby realized that this gift would only usher in bloodshed and conflict and appealed to the Goddess to revert the same. The maximum the Goddess could do was to convert the silver into salt. Sadly, in the course of history the villagers were left worse off in the bargain than they could have ever imagined. 

People around Sambhar Lake are slowly realizing that neither God, nor Government will come to their rescue. Collective action is the only thing that will make a difference. What seemed as a flash in the pan is actually spreading across the landscape. 

Another March 12 is perhaps in the offing.  

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An edited version of the article was published in  Tehelka Magazine, Vol 6, Issue 17, Dated May 02, 2009. It's available online at http://tehelka.com/story_main41.asp?filename=cr020509no_flavour.asp

Hamir Sar: Reviving an Engineering Heritage

As the story goes, Hamir, a rabari herdsman, once dug a small lake (talab) for people living in and around the city of Bhuj. As the city prospered, successive rulers from the clan of Jadeja Rajputs realized the lakes water harvesting potential. They increased its size and developed it further.  However, history didn't remember those kings, but named the lake after the nomadic herdsman who voluntarily dug the foundation to offer succour to his people during dry summer months of Kachchh. Hamir Sar (Lake) serves to reminds us of a rich tradition of water philanthropy of the common man in this sub continent.

Located at the centre of Bhuj, the district headquarters of Kachchh,Gujarat, Hamir Sar has been the principle source of water for the walled city, as Bhuj is historically known. Around 450 years ago, the rulers of Bhuj realized that water was critical to sustaining urban habitats. Search for sustainable water supply led to the creation of a hydraulic and geo-hydrological marvel in the history of western peninsular India. Water from 3 different catchments was connected and collected through an intricate and innovative network of canals, reservoirs and tunnels and was finally brought to Hamir Sar. Planning was based on deep understanding of local geology and climatic constraints. 

Hence canals/tunnels traversed the porous sandstone belts, recharging aquifers all the way. These aquifers were optimally tapped by a set of 306 wells which catered to the domestic water needs of the city. The fall back options, in case water harvested in the channels was insufficient, were five feeder dams, spread across the three catchments. Each was located on impermeable layers of shale, ensuring that very little water escaped through seepage in their respective catchments. Aesthetically designed sliding gates were developed at the head of the channels to control the outflow of water from the feeder dams and its inflow into the lake. Excess water in Hamir Sar was systematically released into adjacent Prag Sar, ensuring flood control and repair and maintenance of the former, whenever required.

The importance of Hamir Sar in the cultural and economic landscape of Bhuj is immense. The lake draws in a regular crowd of migratory birds such as pelicans, flamingoes and ducks like widgeon, mallards and pintails. The lake itself attracts local and international visitors during the Rann Utsav that takes place every December. Beyond events, Hamir Sar brings to the population of Bhuj a sense of identity. With everyday lakeside walks, prayers and other cultural and religious festivals, the bonds grow stronger.

The Bhuj earthquake in 2001 disrupted life and livelihoods in the city on a large scale. The spin offs were a potpourri of the good and the bad. Many citizens feel that post earthquake Bhuj showcased resilience through rapid economic growth within very limited time. However, the ugly part happened with the lake. Post disaster reconstruction was insensitive to Bhuj's water heritage. Prag Sar, adjacent to Hamir Sar with a storage capacity of 2, 90,000m³ was filled up with debris and got converted into a playing ground. Old step wells and ventilation shafts which got damaged remains in a state of disrepair. Debris blocked the drainage channel. Finally the proliferation of Prosopis juliflora, an invasive weed, all across the catchment further affected flow of water into the lake. 

Though in time efforts were made to revive the system, a bigger threat emerged. Hamir Sar now had to contend with a economically prosperous and populated Bhuj. The projected population for Bhuj in 2011 was approximately two lakhs fifteen thousand. In 2008 it had already reached two lakh twenty. Simultaneously per capita demand for water shot up and so did the amount of sewage and waster water generated. Shift in demographics was coupled with a consolidation of centralized urban water supply systems. Wells were replaced with systems that operated on assumed efficient economies of scale. Of the total 19 Million Litres per Day (MLD) of water being supplied by Bhuj Municipal Corporation 80% comes from bore wells, the rest from the Narmada. And yet centralized water supply reaches only 42.93% of the entire population. The rest manage with their own bore wells, or from tanker supplies, which again resorts to tapping local aquifers. Hence, while systems to replenish groundwater aquifers have fallen into disuse, ones for extracting it have become ever popular.

Fast paced urban development requires insightful planning and proper regulations on land use. Absence of it has encouraged large scale real estate encroachments on the lake catchment. At the same time, indiscriminate solid waste dumping, especially in an around the lake system has negative ramifications on water quality. As local sources fall into disuse, dependence on unsustainable exogenous sources such as the Narmada will get articulated, rationalized and finally acted upon. And as it happens, further the source, the least the respect for the resource.

Managing Hamir Sar Lake is not an easy task. It requires managing three lakes and their 40 sq.km catchment area. Institutional regulation is not enough and co-management is the only way out. The earthquake led to precipitative action within civil society and a number of actors joined hands to towards conservation of Hamir Sar. A consortium spearheaded by Arid Communities and Technologies (ACT), Hunnarshala and Alchemy Urban is presently engaged in serious research that attempts to provide pointers on lake friendly land use and town planning. Dr. Yogesh Jadeja, ACT played an instrumental role in establishing the importance of catchment management to the life cycle of the lake. Beyond academic analysis, ACT has made concerted attempts to reach out to the citizens of Bhuj by organizing catchment walks for both school children and adults. The district collector of Bhuj, R.R. Varsani has been inspirational in his collaboration with Bhuj Municipality and civil society organizations and sanctioned 50 lakhs in 2007 for renovating a debris infested channel that brings water into Hamirsar.

What is required now is proper socio-economic evaluation of the lake itself and communicating results of the same to citizens and State administration. Hamir Sar's role in providing domestic water to the city of Bhuj remains unknown, the science being complex, the underground resource being invisible. The Lake recharges groundwater and also gets replenished by a high water table. One cannot survive without the other. This is yet to make sense to water supply authorities and citizens alike.

Saving a heritage require small changes. The value of Hamir Sar to the citizens of Bhuj will be measured by their willingness to conserve water through roof top rainwater harvesting and developing decentralized waste water treatment systems in housing colonies. Regulatory authorities can always pitch in and provide incentives on property taxes to encourage such initiatives.  This can go a long way in securing a fair share of water for future generations. 

Published in Civil Society, Vol 6, No.5, March 2009

nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

Sometimes, you just bump into a poem the memory of which lingers forever.  So here it goes, E.E. Cummings' poem titled "nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands"

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility: whose texture

compels me with the color of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

Fading Power

I first saw Umiam Lake in 2006. For long, friends from Shillong had created an idyllic picture of "Bara Paani" (Big Water), as Umiam is popularly known. The first look did not disappoint and I fell in love, like others before, with Shillong's blue-eyed beauty.

Umiam Lake originated as an artificial reservoir for the Umiam Umtru Hydro Electric Power project, the first of its kind in the North East. For a long time, this project had supplied the bulk of its power needs to Meghalaya. So the state's love affair with this lake spans 43 years.

With approximately 12,000 mm of rainfall each year and a catchment area of 221.5 sq km (almost double the size of Chandigarh) Umiam rarely saw any dry days.

Until now, that is. For two years now, Shillong has confronted one of the worst power crises ever. The reason is not hard to imagine: Umiam doesn't have enough water.

Officially, inadequate rainfall has been cited as the sole reason, and a correlation does exist between decreasing water levels (about 39 feet over 3 years) in the lake and lesser rainfall since 2005. And once the water level falls below 3150 feet, there can be no power generation. Still, the role of rainfall is being overplayed while the real issue remains unaddressed.

In 2002, the Central Pollution Control Board brought out a list of polluted lakes and tanks in India. Umiam represented Meghalaya on that list. Deservedly so, since all natural streams that pass through the city and feed the bigger ones, such as Umkhrah and Umshyrpi, have been converted into open drains. Most houses dump their sewage as well as other organic and inorganic waste into these water bodies, which in turn flow into the lake.

Yet, urban growth and deplorable wastewater management is, unfortunately, only one part of the story. Shillong's sprawl has triggered off phenomenal changes in land use further upstream. Stone quarries and mines dot the landscape and road construction has peaked. As more and more community lands slip out of bounds for them, poor farmers modify their jhum cycle (a pattern of shifting cultivation), which is leading to rapid soil erosion. Studies estimate that 40,000 cubic metres of silt gets deposited in the Umiam Lake every year. Such siltation lowers storage capacity and increases water loss through evaporation.

As a result, only an average of 25 MW of electricity was being generated in April 2008, although the current power generation capacity was 185.2 MW. In 2006, the Meghalaya State Electricity Board (MeSEB) incurred a loss of Rs 12.15 crore. In addition to that, the state government had to shell out Rs 923.3 crore in 2006-07 to buy power from external sources and at above par rates.

Political solutions are tipped in favour of tapping the vast coal reserves in South Garo Hills. And in a state that has the potential to produce 9,500 tonnes of uranium, can nuclear power plants be far behind? Along the way, a few inconvenient truths get covered up. For example, is it not true that it's more cost-effective to protect the catchment, dredge the lake properly and generate electricity from that source, rather than set up a string of thermal power plants in an environmentally fragile state?

If the answer to that is "yes", the next question is: who will do this? The reservoir comes under the jurisdiction of the East Khasi Hill District Council; the management is under MeSEB; water quality is supposed to be monitored by the Meghalaya Pollution Control Board; the catchment is managed by the Forest Department, and so on.

Apart from electricity, Umiam Lake also provides a range of ecological, economic and cultural services. The reservoir was created through huge public expenditure and the onus to save it lies with the people. Bethany Society, an NGO, has been involving school children in tracking garbage dumping along streams. A voluntary consortium, "Save the Rivers", has come up. A few organisations have initiated the collection and composting of organic waste. But such initiatives lack both human and financial resources. The inaccessibility of scientific studies commissioned by the state on the lake's water quality is also a big mystery. Such studies could have given future campaigns a shot in the arm.

There are steps that can be taken to help reverse the damage. A Payment for Environmental Services approach would bridge the gap between upstream suppliers and downstream recipients of environmental services; trade-offs could be negotiated to ensue a win-win situation for locals. For example, Shillong's citizens could compensate jhum cultivators upstream for shifting to alternate livelihoods or improved farming systems, to ensure a reliable power supply. Low-cost, community-managed waste water treatment plants could be constructed by the MeSEB to reduce siltation, instead of sourcing electricity at premium rates.

It's time Shillong's citizens made a few hard choices, before Umiam becomes another victim of unplanned growth in India.

From Tehelka Magazine, Vol 5, Issue 26, Dated July 05, 2008

Water on Wheels

Early memories of Persian Wheels originate from lost pages of school geography text books. Passing mention of such systems were largely forgotten as larger and more “important” chapters on Dams were more crucial for both National development and exams. The notion of ‘primitive’ and ‘modern’ technology was hammered in at a very early stage.

Those hazy black and white pictures acquired depth, colour and meaning in Kolar, where a few remaining systems are still in use. To view Persian wheels, up, close and personal, was embedded in a larger agenda to look into the challenges and threats to such systems today.

What exactly is a Persian wheel? Also known as Rahat (in Urdu), it’s a simple water lifting device, where a number of small pots are attached to a long chain. Two gear wheels make up the system and as the first one is revolved, the pots each dip and swallow water from the well and soon after pours itself out to a metallic shaft which in turns empties into an intricate network of troughs that distributes water adequately through the cropped area. It is believed that the technology originated in Egypt and as world shrunk through extensive trading, it spread to India and China.

Its origin in India has a contested history. While some historians point its introduction to the early days of the Delhi Sultanate others pin it on Babur’s entry into India. One of the earliest mentions of the Persian Wheel occurs in the Babur’s memoirs, the Babur Nama (1526-30). As Islamic rule slowly began to consolidate its regime, there was a remarkable change in governance. One such example of an early State effort in augmenting and incentivising use of farm assets to increase land revenue was by Ala Ud Din Khalji. However, like many of his grand schemes (the most well known being Alai Minar), it fell apart. Later periods, especially under the Mughals, saw increased interest in unifying land revenue systems and land related investment. Protection of farm assets was required and as a result of such patronage, irrigation canals and systems such as Persian Wheels brought about phenomenal changes in agricultural landscape of North India.

Advent of colonial rule in India was perhaps the first straw. As the British tried figuring out a procedure to exact taxes from all sections without stripping any one off completely, they obviously looked into issues of land revenue and agriculture. Decidedly unimpressed by “primitive” technologies such as the Persian wheel, this attitude was reflected in subsequent apathy towards such systems. It was the beginning of “Persian wheels” acquiring an antique/ historic value, rather than a local use one.

It’s difficult to pinpoint time frame when Persian Wheels migrated to South of India. Whether the source at all was from the North and not from trading routes down south or west needs to be looked into. Needless to say, rainfed areas in the South were quick on the uptake of such technologies. The district of Kolar stands out, as it has the highest number of wells and tanks in Karnataka. Historic records indicate that at one point of time around 60,000 water bodies existed in the district. Out of which 25,000 had Persian wheels attached to them.

Needless to say, Persian wheels no longer dot the landscape of Kolar. The biggest drawback of Persian wheels was its inability to draw water when the level is low. Several factors have contributed to the disappearance of the Persian Wheel from Kolar town. A few still exist in the upper regions, primarily because of the height of water tables.

However, even such systems are now under threat. Sustainability has been replaced with extractive paradigms, and the entry of bore wells has been the last straw. The Green Revolution, boosted by pump subsidies and unregulated ground water use, eliminated the Persian Wheels. The defunct wheels in Udaipur, Rajasthan, now exist as photo ops for foreign tourists, as deep in the semi - arid areas of Jodhpur, a much drier area as compared to Udaipur, bore wells dig deep and waters vegetables and opium.

Kolar is now slowly experiencing the same winds of change. Around the Persian Wheels still in use, we found wells with installed electric pumps. The beginning of the domino effect, as the water level starts receding; one Persian Wheel after the other will fall into disuse and for survival all will have to enter the pump race.

It’s a pity, as Persian Wheels are anchored in source sustainability. A dug well is an excellent health indicator of water table in an area. Simply because one can see the water tables fluctuate, one can adjust cropping patterns accordingly. A Persian wheel in conjunction with well water that it is used to tap, is a holistic system. It prioritizes proper water management to maintain water tables which in turn would run the wheel. Any component malfunctioning, will throw the entire system out of gear. This is unlike a bore well, which never tells how much is available. Its invisibility facilitates rampant extraction, the negative aspects of which have already affected people’s lives in various regions across the country. Granted, it provides freedom to farmers to grow cash crops and better their livelihoods, but its wealth based on damaging ecosystems and other marginalized sections in society.

Keeping in mind climate change concerns, Persian Wheels is a clean water harvesting technology with zero GHG emission. But such esoteric debates rarely work on farmers who are pushed at all ends to adopt technologies that aim to maximize today’s gain at tomorrow’s loss.

What would keep such systems ticking? S. Vishwanath and his Rainwater Club are looking into reviving and conserving such systems. It will be interesting to work out an incentives mechanism that allows local farmers to keep the Persian Wheel going. What can it be? Ecotourism? The scenic landscape of Kolar, which already has tourism attractions like rappelling and active indigenous theatre groups can attach the Persian wheels to an overall package with homestays and local cuisine thrown in.
Wishful thinking? But then it was W.B Yeats who said that in dreams begin responsibilities. Perhaps it’s a good place to start from.

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Published in Civil Society, Vol 5, No 10, August 2008

For more pics, log on to:

http://amitangshu.multiply.com/photos/album/35/Water_on_Wheels#

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Worshipping Nature

The graceful priestesses dance and lead a motley crew of young men and women. All are dressed in spotless white with a little bit of red and pink thrown in to add on to the charm. The fluidity of movement is breathtaking. Their ability to respond gracefully to the light beating of the drum is not restricted by their starched white phaneks (skirt). The background music is a simplistic mosaic composed of the pena (an indigenous string instrument) small cymbals, and a drum. Lost in the heady brew of a rich and ancient culture, they slowly proceed to enact the entire history of mankind through songs and dance. And through this, the festival of Lai Haraoba unfolds in front of us.

When translated into plain English Lai Haraoba means “merry making of the Gods”. Generally a post harvest summer festival, it’s celebrated through songs, dance and is the most integral part of Maiba/ Maibis’ (priests and priestesses) rituals to honour the deity of the forest known as Umang Lai/Lairenbi. These patches of forests known as ‘Umang Lai Khubams’ are the sacred groves of Manipur. In traditional Meitei belief systems, sacred groves are cultural cornerstones and every village needs to include an ‘Umang Lai Khubam’ which ideally should be bordering the village, becoming abodes of deities who then exerts their divine powers and protects the resident villagers from evil.

The event we are witness to is called Maibi Jagoi. The dance depicts the beginning of creation by supreme God Aditya Shidaba. The narration initially traverses the cosmos and ends up spanning the chronological history of man. A Pre-Hindu dance form untouched by Vaishnavism unlike other Manipuri dance forms, it retains an animistic spirit that’s rooted to this earth. Such animistic belief systems were spread out all across North Eastern states at one point of time. Historical research points towards erosion of such systems with entry of colonialism and Christianity. Rapid shrinkage of sacred groves especially in Meghalaya and Nagaland are well known examples. However, Manipur remained an abode of pantheism. Even conversion of the Manipuri king in the 17th Century to Vaishanivism (an issue that remains contentious even today), didn’t radically alter the cultural milieu. The largely eco centric vaishnavite belief system overlapped with that of the extant animistic one. This resulted in retention of many local customs and practices that forge the Meitei identity.

Biodiversity expert Dr. N. Rajendro Singh informs that close to 364 sacred groves exist in Manipur today. Apart from being treasure troves of local biodiversity they are also an integral part of the cultural and ecological landscape of Manipur. The totems and taboos that administer the worship of sacred groves also ensure protection of all species within. Each of the 7 salai (clan) that make up the Meitei race are governed by a set of rules that bans consumption or use of specific plant and animal species. All clans are banned from felling trees on Friday as it is believed that Gods take rest on them on that day. Similarly in the month of Mera (September-October) eating of fish is taboo for vaishnav meitei’s as Krishna is supposed to take the very form. Numerous practices such as these are excellent examples of humanity’s co existence with nature.

Such practice not only fosters a reciprocal man – nature relationship, but also extends to clans and races. A rich history of cultural events showcases the brotherhood that existed between the valley and hill people, unlike today. N. Shakmacha Singh, an anthropologist, narrates a popular story of two brothers who parted in search of livelihoods, elder went to the hills and younger, the valley. Both discovered what they were looking for and stayed back. The cultural festival of Mera (September) Wayungba is an observance of that very relationship. Meiteis in the valley erects a bamboo pole in the courtyard with a lamp at the top and keeps it there for a month. The belief goes that, the lamp is an indication to the elder brother in the hills that all is well and that the younger sibling is safe and alive.

Things fall apart. The meitei world is no longer an island of autochthonous eco-centric culture. Ganjendra Singh, who manages a troupe of Manipuri cultural performers, feels that the knowledge behind cultural practices is dying out. In this part of the world, as in so many other places, culture is intrinsically linked to biodiversity. When one goes, so will the other. Many think that a monochromatic amorphous North East may help foster unity. But it’s this cultural polychrome that makes the seven sisters so enchanting. And it seems that respect for one’s own culture as well as others may be a way out of conflict.

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Amitangshu Acharya and Soibam Haripriya are Development Professionals working with NGO’s in New Delhi. The views and opinions expressed in this article are theirs and not necessarily those of their organisations.

An End to Nostalgia

Rediscovering the past begins at a four point crossing. Cast by incandescent street lamps and glaring headlights, a hundred shadows rush around, ignoring the smell of roadside food stalls and urinals while stepping arrogantly on fresh spit stains. Standing in the middle of that mayhem, it struck me that I was in love with this chaos and that I owe my identity to this essence of survival and adventure that floats in the city air.

From crowded streets the scene shifts to deserted lanes. We walk, under a setting sun, retracing steps to an innocent past. For a moment, we plunge through time and space as sparkling eyes and slight twitch of the lips at the corner promises deliverance. Then darkness and unforgivable memories crept in and we became strangers, again. The lanes which had previously lit up in the glow of our conversations receded into nothingness. But in those precious two hours, I watched, mesmerized, as she played on an invisible flute with her gossamer fingers and broke into divine laughter. Only solace was those stolen glances, each of them an unsaid prayer and we bid farewell in the afterglow of lost love and flickering street lights.

The lump of ganja stuck at the end point of a pair of an old rusty scissor burst into a bright blue green flame. The aroma spread through the room, wafted across the ceiling and finally decided to linger near the black and white Beatles and Louis Armstrong posters. Glazed eyes looked on with anxious impatience as naughty dark and small granules struck the smooth surface of virgin white filter paper. Music from Zabriski Point helps coalesce vaporous illusions. The pain of reminiscence dulled somewhat and after a long time I listened to Neil Diamond at midnight, dry eyed.

Street corners are pregnant with memories. My identity is forged by the metallic gleam of traffic in hurried afternoons, hutments of pavement dwellers outside hospitals and a myriad other colours and sounds. The old locality seemed alien. The usual warmth of homecoming was missing along with the people who provided it. The Tamil family, who introduced me to the magic of vada and uppma, had gone back to their homeland, perhaps realizing that an insulated middle class Bengali neighborhood disapproves proximity to other cultures. Following their footsteps was the Bihari family from Assam. The pretty, bright eyed and pugnacious sisters got married and went off, leaving behind a rusty bicycle which was once a terror to the neighborhood boys. All, except me, as I was the privileged one, and was frequently invited for evening tea and snacks as the rest of the gang watched, emerald hued.

In a brightly lit bookshop in Park Street, friends sign marriage papers over steaming cups of coffee. Carefree glances and jokes veil excited apprehension. Such events rekindle hope in a worn and burnt out heart. Inadvertently, I end up looking at the base of the mug, hoping to see that mystical animal shape that would offer clues to life in an immediate future. It suddenly seems funny that my whole life seems to be encompassed in a coffee cup and I become conscious of my unexciting existence.

One orchestrated bandh and two threatened ones, none of which made a difference to me or the cause they were meant for. I wondered as to whether it was linked to the overall moral bankruptcy of a politically polarized and volatile state where synthesis has been replaced with the synthetic. In dimly lit bars my friends scoff at my concern for farmers losing lands to industries and future of food security. Difference in perceptions seems to have sharpened over the years. Urban Kolkata, addicted to glitzy malls and silvery flyovers, is no longer sensitive to the struggles of an agrarian Bengal. My romanticism ends then and there when I realize that all cities are the same. Heartless, wasteful and arrogant.

Was it Buddha who said that realization of truth and knowledge of self is path to ultimate freedom? My philosophy has become hazy over the last few years. But it didn’t come in the way of enjoying my new found bliss. As the train left the old railway station with its wheels and pistons gyrating over the rusty dew coated tracks, I experienced something new. The burden of heartaches seems to have lifted from my soul.

And it felt good to be free.