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The bus to Mumbai
 The bus is already full as early as an hour before departure. A couple of stop sfurther on, the vehicle will be packed. Children are among the passengers.
Mahbubnagar Nagar bus depot (Telangana, ANDHRA PRADESH): THE mercury is coming up on 46°, maybe 47°C as the passengers arrive. It's the bus to Mumbai and its 58 seats will be more than full. Perhaps at the starting point itself. It's a temperature at which you hate everybody and arguments driven by colourful prose ring out in the bus depot (and on the buses). The travellers, like lakhs of others in this poorest of Andhra Pradesh's districts, are voting with their feet. Most of them are tiny farmers and landless workers. The biggest group consists of Lambada adivasis. There are many poor dalits too. All getting out of a situation they find intolerable. In some estimates, close to a third of the district's populace could be working outside it just now. > Since they're doing so in May, the cliché of drought presents itself at once. The problem with that notion is that an even larger number of people migrate from here in the period from November to January. There are three unusual passengers on the Mumbai bus today. Ramulu, Secretary of the Andhra Pradesh Agricultural Workers Union in this district. Venugopal, a reporter with Prajashakti , a Telugu daily. And yours truly. This way, the travellers are our captives. For some hours, anyway. Now we can check if they are "fleeing the drought" that's believed to be the sole cause of distress here. Why check? And why Mahbubnagar? Because it's less than a hundred kilometres from the State capital. Which is where the country's most celebrated chief minister sits. The crisis in the State's agriculture — and governance — is real. It has gripped this district for some time now. But with a national media reluctant to see that Andhra Pradesh is somewhat bigger than Hyderabad, Mr. Naidu's policies have not faced the scrutiny they deserve. The extent of the distress-driven exodus is not agreed on, though. "There have been migrations from Mahbubnagar for a long time," says District Collector Madhusudhan Rao. And in that sense, he's right. However, he sees no reason to conclude that they have been much worse this season. In fact, "more work and grain is reaching the villages in this period". Are migrations no greater, really? When I tried making it to Mumbai from here in 1993, I was told then there was one bus from the region weekly. Today, there are 32 to 34 buses a week going straight to Mumbai from here. If the two more routes the Andhra Pradesh State Road Transport Corporation is planning come through, that number could cross 45 buses weekly. Then there are the private bus services to Mumbai. And tens of thousands also take the trains each season. More have done so this year. All three trains going to Mumbai via Thandur are running full every day. "About 65 per cent of this village has gone out looking for work on those buses," Chennaiah had laughed. That was in Kanimetta village of the Kothakota mandal the day before. He himself was a low-level labour recruiter. "That route to Mumbai is our lifeline." "Mumbai" really means several stops in Maharashtra, including Pune and Thane. People are leaving Mahbubnagar in very large numbers. Many do so each year, anyway, as the Collector points out. But the flow has been getting worse in recent years And it's certainly heavier in this one. 7 A large part of the RTC's revenue here comes from the Mumbai route. And it's clear that there are often over 100 passengers on those 58-seat buses. Which means some people are standing for much of that 18-hour journey. And then there are the huge numbers from this district heading for Hyderabad. Also, to at least 30 other destinations ranging from Gujarat to Rajasthan, even Orissa. What accounts for this desperate out-migration? "Without Mumbai and Pune, we cannot survive," says Pandu Nayak, a Lambada adivasi. In Perkiveed tanda (colony) of the Koilkonda mandal where he's from, "Our households are deep in debt. Our children, starving". Venkataiah, from the same tanda adds: "Any chance of agriculture here is finished. The costs are simply too high. If you are a labourer, it's worse. In a month, you cannot find more than three or four days of work. All this makes life too hard. And now there is no water either. The government does nothing." ("Venkataiah" is not at all a typical Lambada name. But many in that community adopt such "mainstream" names when they venture out. Letting people know you're an adivasi is asking to be exploited.) What he's telling us pretty much matches with what we've already seen. In the villages of Gurrakonda, Kondapur or Vepur, for instance. People here are in deep distress. What little work there is, is in the hands of contractors who have cornered government projects. They prefer labourers from outside as such a group would be more submissive. Hence, not many from the district can find work here. Mahbubnagar's workers have been the backbone of some of the toughest construction projects in dozens of cities in other States. There, their labour is sought after. Here, they are kept idle. However, the same contractors of Telangana will use thousands of these men and women in Rajasthan or Orissa. Cut off and alone in those States, they are more dependent and pliant. Countless households lie locked up. Thousands of others have just the oldest member of the family left behind. The mass migrations destroy any chance of education for the children who accompany their parents for months at a time. (This is A.P.'s worst district in terms of literacy.) While agriculture has done badly countrywide, it has sunk in this State. And that for some time now. Growth in agriculture last year was minus 17.06 per cent. And it wasn't just the drought. Mahbubnagar has done badly in good monsoon years, too. Other States have faced worse droughts without agriculture caving in to the extent it has in Andhra Pradesh. Often, too, migrants are leaving from relatively water surplus regions of the State. The country has seen many policies hostile to small farmers and landless workers this past decade. But here, they've been extra harsh. This State leads in farmers' suicides. There's a steely ruthlessness towards the rural poor. The year 2001 saw rice exported to overseas markets at Rs. 5.45 a kilogram. It was a time of widespread hunger and distress. Yet, the State sold rice to its own poor at Rs. 6.40 a kg. Some of the "exports" were rejected as "unfit for humans". It was after this that food-for-work programmes began here in that season. Huge power tariff hikes, soaring input costs, fake pesticides, all these brought small farmers to their knees. Massive corruption in the food-for-work-programme hasn't helped either. It's all added up to an awful crisis.
 Labourers from Mahbubnagar travel to nearly 30 destinations across the country to find work. Meanwhile, contractors bring in workers from other States to work in Mahbubnagar.
Debt-driven small farmers and landless workers have left this district in larger numbers this season. About two lakh people migrating seasonally has never been seen as an issue. The estimates of those on the move now vary vastly. From six lakhs to eight to 10 lakhs, according to claims in the Telugu press. Where they are going, there is at least better money. "Yes, we earn more in Mumbai than here," says Venkataiah. "But the moment we are back we have to pay our creditors much of what we save." He could earn up to Rs. 250 in a single day in Mumbai as a carpenter. And he finds work on "maybe 15 days in a month. Twenty if I'm lucky". However "don't forget our loans here", he says. That lands them in an unending trap. Every single person going to Mumbai is also in debt. "Whatever we earn in Mumbai, most of that goes in repaying our loans." We are on the road to Mumbai. Even as we sit in different parts of the bus, speaking to migrants, drivers Fashiuddin and Sattar prove a mine of information. They've done this route many times and know their passengers. Fashiuddin gives us a virtual disaster tour. He points to streams that have died, tanks that have dried. The lack of repairs to tanks and canals. The devastated fields, the impossibility of keeping your farm running. "These are really hard working people, sir. But who cares for them? They cannot find work here. There is nothing done to give them employment. They are poor and in debt. On top of all of that comes the drought." He's clear that there is a significant man-made element to the crisis. "If only there was an attempt to give them some work," he says. "That's why they go to Mumbai," he adds. "Most of them will go and work in building construction, brick making and roads." Patterns change according to where more construction is taking place. "Eighty per cent of this bus will empty at Pune," predicts Sattar. He's speaking as he helps a young woman with a two-month old baby board the bus at a stop. There's a delay, with several tearful family farewells enacted at the same time. Sattar mixes sympathy with an ability to plug the farewell routines swiftly. Our surprise find on board is M. Ganesh, a 20-year-old student. A Telugu whose family is in Mahbubnagar, he studies in Mumbai and stays there with his brother. Ganesh is proud to be a card-carrying Shiv Sainik. He is a bit bewildered when we ask him about Sena chief Thackeray's latest call for ridding Mumbai of "outsiders", especially poor ones landing up in the metro seeking work. "I've heard nothing about this," he says. "I've been away. But I will enquire about it when I get there." In their destination towns, the migrants will live in appalling conditions. On the street, in soul-breaking slums or, at best, in filthy chawls . "Still, it's better than going hungry here," says Nagesh Goud on the bus. "At least we earn something." Increasingly, a large part of that something gets chewed up in medical costs. One of the biggest problems faced by the district's poor workers is rising health expenses. Every migrant you speak to confirms he or she has had more than one episode of jaram (fever). "A visit to a doctor in Mumbai could cost between Rs. 40 to Rs. 100," says Nagesh. "That's not counting the medicines." The children fall ill very often. Most people cannot cope with the medical costs. And many have taken ailments from the cities back home to their villages. The general immunity of a population that's undernourished and overworked seems to be in decline. Yet, many more venture out to evade hunger and misery. With a population of some 34 lakhs and perhaps close to a third of that ending up outside, Mahbubnagar is in big trouble. Some other districts, too, face similar hardships. Software is not the only thing A.P. exports. Nor hi-tech brains to the United States. Misery-driven migrations, hunger, and distress are among its other major products. (To be continued)
Date:08/06/2003 The wrong route out?
THE bus we're on is one of about 34 leaving the Mahbubnagar region direct for Mumbai each week. That's against just about one a week, a decade ago. People are leaving in the droves. Drought? Mahbubnagar does have a problem. Quite a bit of that, though, is about the control, distribution and the use of water. At 634 mm, the average rainfall of the last 14 years here is close to 30 mm above normal. The official figures, at least. There have been deficit years. And a couple of truly awful ones — as in a lot of other districts. This year, district Collector Madhusudhan Rao says, "the deficit is eight per cent so far". Unpleasant, but not crushing. However, it hurts a lot more when that comes among the many other problems Mahbubnagar has. Problems that are not seasonal. For instance, a social backwardness that has lakhs of people in bondage. (This is a district where some workers still have to present their landlord with a pair of sandals each year, and where teashops routinely use separate glasses for dalits and upper caste customers when serving beverages.) Our bus has more than a few dalit passengers. None of them can enter the temples in their villages. Forget about having their weddings in them. Or take the issue of debt. Every migrant on our bus is steeped in it. "We'll be paying that forever," says Venkataiah, a Lambada adivasi, with a rueful smile. "How can we ever make it up?" The huge lack of employment in the district hits everything. Even the women's self help groups (SHGs) at the village level. "Each member is to deposit one rupee daily from her earnings into the group fund," Subhadramma had told us in Vepur. "In theory that's fine," this landless worker had said. "One rupee a day, 30 days, Rs. 30. But when we earn only Rs.12 or Rs.15 a day, that single rupee counts. So what happens when we find work for less than 10 days in a month?" What happens is that the self help group flounders, especially with many members migrating — and several others borrowing to make their payments and their spouses running up other debts. It's a district where mass migrations have destroyed the chance of large numbers of children becoming literate, let alone getting an education. "Of course we take the small ones and go," Sarnamma had told us in Gurrakonda village. "How can we leave them behind?" With their parents on the move for up to nine months a year, these children will end up becoming an army of hard-core illiterates. Their chances of climbing out of poverty, devastated. Every family on the bus has at least one very small child with it. Often more. It's a district where a small group of powerful feudals controls most resources. Including water. The shortages of water for the poor often arise from this control. Unequal sharing further shatters the small farms. Even if they are not big "droughts" in an absolute sense, these shortages cause huge damage. They certainly lead to even more out-migration. Development here has often been based on strategies that have boomeranged. May be on plans once aimed at a more prosperous section that have also caught on down the line. With the poor imitating the rich. Every small farmer you meet has spent a fortune on borewells. "That is a major cost," Chandraiah, a farmer had told us in Gurrakonda. He still thinks it's a good idea to sink more. "Yes, that has been a big route to debt," he adds. The focus here has rarely been on equity or on a fair deal for the poor. In water, it's been more about extraction, as Collector Madhusudhan Rao's figures show: "In the mid-1980s, the district had 97 per cent open (or traditional) wells and just three per cent borewells. By 2001-02, that figure had been reversed. Now it was 97 per cent borewells and three per cent open wells." Desperation has also led to the borewells being sunk deeper. Debt has swollen with their number. Inequality, always a feature of this region, has widened sharply this past decade. And with it, despair. New forms of bondage have emerged. Quite a bit of these find reflection in the labour-contract systems. And in the migrations themselves. Many of those on the bus to Mumbai are in the clutches of contractors. Here in Mahbubnagar, and also often in those towns outside the State where they seek work. The old Palamuuru contract labour system, as it is called, is quite alive. But it's also gained new features.
All the workers at this site in Mahbubnagar are from outsied the district.
There are over one million human beings from here who have, at some point in their lives, worked outside Mahbubnagar. All have tasted the contractor raj that runs the district. And that is an extensive many-layered system. Large contractors do not directly hire labour. "They first farm out chunks of their projects to others," says Ramulu of the Agricultural Workers Union. "For instance, if your clout has landed you a canal contract, you give out some kilometres of work on it to different sub-contractors. The sub-contractors then contact the gumpu maistrys or group labour contractors. These are men who have within their control several team leaders or maistrys who can bring dozens — some times even hundreds — of workers to them. Each of these maistrys is capable of raising teams of workers from different villages. "Each team has a panni maistry, or work leader who acts as a sort of disciplinarian. What the contractors do is to pay an advance to the gumpu maistry. He in turn gives out some of this to the regular maistrys , and so on down the line. Finally, a small part of the money goes to the workers who make the journey to Mumbai or elsewhere." The workers might get a small advance ranging from Rs. 4,000 to Rs. 10,000. That's a fraction of what the middlemen get down the line. The maistry recruiting in Kanimetta village could have got Rs. 20 to Rs. 40,000. The gumpu maistry above him, a lot more. But that small advance at the bottom binds the debt-strapped workers. If they're doing hard labour in another part of the State or within Mahbubnagar itself, they haven't a hope of getting the minimum wage. Already, at the Jurala canal lining works, we've met some earning less than Rs. 45 where the wage ought to be Rs. 83. If they're going outside the State to Mumbai, they would earn much more. But a lot of that will disappear on their return. "We have to pay up a good bit to our local creditors," says Venkataiah. "That is, if they are to allow us to live in any degree of peace in the village." Often the principal sum has been repaid many times over. But the exorbitant interest rates — 60 per cent or higher — keep them in debt. At least two-thirds of what he earns in Mumbai goes in debt repayment on his return. Besides, he's spent a lot on health and other expenses in Mumbai. Venkataiah, at least, goes out as a carpenter. And yet he's left with almost nothing. The less skilled ones have it much worse. The contractor fraternity has worked out an effective system that delivers for it. This accounts, in part, for the large numbers of people on the 34 buses that leave the region every day. The system has a simple rule. Never use local labour if you can help it, no matter how good they are. "Local labour tends to go to weddings and festivals," explains Chandrashekhar Reddy. He is an outspoken and important contractor on the Jurala works project. "Labour from outside is more easy to discipline. I have workers from Bihar, Orissa and elsewhere. Where this company goes, they go." And so, on his canal lining project, you can find workers from these States. Also many from other parts of Andhra Pradesh, like Khammam. But fewer from Mahbubnagar. As another contractor put it: "Outside labour does not know the local language. They are more dependent." They are thus harder to unionise. They can be put through wretched working conditions without a chance of redress. The press tends to get mobilised, if at all, when the affected workers are local. Those from outside carry little clout. At some of the work sites, then, pregnant women have worked right up to the day of delivery. And resumed work less than 10 days later. Mahbubnagar labour itself goes to at least 30 cities across the country. Fulfilling similar strategies for the same or different contractors over there. "We've built skyscrapers in Mumbai and apartment blocks in Pune," Sailu in Kondapur village had told us. "But in Mahbubnagar we have no work." Madhusudhan Rao lists a series of projects and works that are on in the district. He believes that "anyone who wants work in Mahbubnagar can find it now." Those crowding the buses and trains believe otherwise. Employment on the projects is controlled by the contractors to whom they are given. "They won't pay us anything liveable here," says Nagesh Goud. Nor do the food-for-work programmes, to the extent they exist, fill the need. The long lines at the gruel centres in several villages make that clear. Agriculture has taken a severe beating and not just because of a drought. The rise in the costs of inputs have crushed small farmers. So has the collapse of rural credit. Bus drivers Fashiuddin and Sattar know well how many small farmers travel with them each time they take the route out of Mahbubnagar. "Farming," says Fashiuddin "is a mess." "Every single cost has gone up," Chandraiah, a farmer in Gurrakonda had told us. "A bag of ammonia phosphate costs three times what it did in 1991. The cost of paddy seed has doubled. That of electricity has risen manifold. Farming has become too difficult." "With those costs, we need credit. But if you are a small farmer like I am, with two acres, that's impossible," Chennaiah in Vepur village had said. "If we go to the bank, we are turned away. But the bigger landowners are well connected. My request for Rs. 20,000 will be turned down. The landlord, however will get, say, Rs. 60,000. He uses what he needs of it. Then he loans me that Rs. 20,000 — at a rate of interest much higher than that of the bank." There's a constant propaganda, however, that leaves quite a few villagers believing the rains, new irrigation schemes and relief works could end their problems. It's a claim forever drummed in by many, from the MP and MLAs and local politicians down to the village elite. Because that line results in projects. And projects result in contracts. And contracts result in money for the right people. Sure, the water shortage hits the poor. But Mahbubnagar's distress is a complex mesh. It rests on one of the most oppressive and structured systems of labour exploitation. On its complicated contractor-maistry mafia. It feeds on the death of small farms driven by the policies of the last 12 years. On the crisis of agriculture itself in the region. It is fuelled by the social backwardness of centuries. And driven by the dismal human development record of the past decade. The lack of employment spurs the mass human migrations that so debilitate the district. "What are all those provisions doing on your dashboard?" I ask bus driver Fashiuddin as we get off. "Oh those," he smiles. "We'll do our own cooking when we get to the Kurla bus depot in Mumbai. I like Maharashtra — but their food! They don't use any chilli at all unlike in our meals at home. So we take all our stuff and cook it there. With plenty of chilli." At least some things about Mahbubnagar remain delightfully true to its home State . (Concluded) The first part of this article appeared in The Hindu, Sunday Magazine, issue dated June 1, 2003. P. Sainath is one of the two recipients of the A.H. Boerma Award, 2001, granted for his contribution in changing the nature of the development debate on food, hunger and rural development in the Indian media. © Copyright 2000 - 2004 The Hindu |
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