Those Who Did Not Die: Impact of the Agrarian Crisis on Women in Punjab 2012038147, 9788132109501

Table of contents :
Cover
Contents
List of Tables
Foreword
To the Fellow Travellers
Introduction
1 - An Outline of the Crisis in Punjab
2 - Dynamics of Women’s Labour
3 - Dowry in Dire Times
4 - ILL Health in an Ailing Economy
5 - Fragmentation of the Family
6 - Taking Decisions, Voicing Expectations
Conclusion
Bibliography
Index
About the Author

Citation preview

Those Who Did Not Die

ii  Those Who Did Not Die

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Those Who Did Not Die Impact of the Agrarian Crisis on Women in Punjab

Ranjana Padhi

Copyright © Ranjana Padhi, 2012 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilised in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. First published in 2012 by Sage Publications India Pvt Ltd B1/I-1 Mohan Cooperative Industrial Area Mathura Road, New Delhi 110  044, India www.sagepub.in Sage Publications Inc 2455 Teller Road Thousand Oaks, California 91320, USA Sage Publications Ltd 1 Oliver’s Yard, 55 City Road London EC1Y 1SP, United Kingdom Sage Publications Asia-Pacific Pte Ltd 33 Pekin Street #02-01 Far East Square Singapore 048763 Published by Vivek Mehra for SAGE Publications India Pvt Ltd, typeset in 10/12 Sabon by Tantla Composition Pvt Ltd, Chandigarh and printed at Chaman Enterprises, New Delhi. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Padhi, Ranjana, 1961–   Those who did not die: impact of the agrarian crisis on women in Punjab/ Ranjana Padhi.    p. cm.   Includes bibliographical references.   1. Rural women—India—Punjab—Social conditions.  2. Rural women— India—Punjab—Economic conditions.  3. Women agricultural labor—India— Punjab.  4. Agriculture—Social aspects—India—Punjab.  I. Title. HQ1744.P86P33   305.40954'552—dc23   2012   2012038147 ISBN: 978-81-321-0950-1 (HB) The Sage Team: Rudra Narayan Sharma, Pranab Jyoti Sarma and Nand Kumar Jha Cover illustration by Karen Haydock.

Contents List of Tables vi Foreword by Uma Chakravartiviii To the Fellow Travellers xii Introduction  xiv 1. An Outline of the Crisis in Punjab 

1

2. Dynamics of Women’s Labour

33

3. Dowry in Dire Times

61

4. Ill Health in an Ailing Economy

82

5. Fragmentation of the Family

112

6. Taking Decisions, Voicing Expectations 

136

Conclusion Bibliography Index About the Author

164 175 179 183

List of Tables I.1 I.2

Profile of Women Interviewed Number of Blocks and Villages Covered in the Survey

Overview of Peasant Suicides by Landholding Category, 2000 to 2006 1.2 Suicides by Farmers and Agricultural Labourers in Bhatinda and Sangrur Districts 1.3 Profile of the Deceased 1.4 Caste-wise Break-up of the Deceased 1.5 The Varied Causes of Suicide 1.6 Category-wise Farmers Who Have Taken Loans along with the Purpose of Loan 1.7 Landholding Pre- and Post-suicide across Categories in the Eight Districts 1.8 Decline in Landholding across Categories and Rise in Landlessness, Pre- and Post-suicide 1.9 Frequency and Amount of Land Sold After the Suicide, in Each District 1.10 Frequency and Amount of Land Sold after the Suicide, by Landholding Category

xxi xxiv

1.1

2.1

10 11 14 15 17 19 23 24 26 27

2.4

Ownership of Land by Respondents Post Incidence of Suicide in the Family Control of Land by Respondents Post Incidence of Suicide in the Family Agricultural Work Performed: Inside and Outside the House Kind of Work Performed Inside the House

47 55

4.1 4.2

Type of Illness as per Landholding Category Category of Illness and Type of Treatment

95 96

2.2 2.3

42 43



4.3 4.4 6.1 6.2 6.3 6.4 6.5

List of Tables  vii

Expenses on Various Types of Illness Mental Health Symptoms Expressed by All Women Participation of Other Members in Different Areas of Decision-making Profile of Respondents Who Take All Decisions in the Family Areas of Conflict in Life Current Sources of Support in Life Women’s Expectations from the Punjab Government

97 101 139 141 144 153 157

Foreword Sometime in the early 2000s, the People’s Union For Democratic Rights held a discussion on farmer suicides as part of the Ramanadham Memorial event held in September each year to keep up the democratic rights work of Dr Ramanadham, killed by the police in 1983 in Warangal, in Andhra Pradesh. The speakers included the well known economist Dr Gill from Punjab and the democratic rights activist Balagopal who forcefully presented a report on farmer’s suicides in Andhra Pradesh based on a fact finding conducted by democratic rights activists there. As we listened to the poignant account of the suicides, located in the crisis of the economy generated by the agrarian policies of the state, it became obvious to us that the general crisis in agriculture and the debt trap that sucked farmers into its vicious grip, was aggravated by the new privatised medical care as part of the globalisation/privatisation policies initiated by the state where treating even small and routinized illnesses such as dehydration could end up with a bill of thousands of rupees leading to despair because of the inability to borrow any further in a market where a man had ‘lost face’ because his loans were unpaid. The loss of self esteem was often the trigger for the suicide. Tragically, the failure of the state to provide healthcare, a fundamental right of citizens, had been turned into a private failure on the part of a man represented—and experienced as such too—as someone who was unable to provide for his family in a time of need. Adding to the debt trap was the private economy of dowry, not directly attributed to the state in any way but certainly promoted by the market, and terrifyingly held up in a vicious grip by a community based patriarchy that made marriage contingent upon economic transactions, which too fell upon the father of a girl to provide, subjecting him to a terrible sense of failure if he could not adequately do so. I remember saying at that meeting that while the democratic rights groups would take up the issues of the agricultural crisis and the lack of healthcare, both of which they would be able to pin on the state, what would we do about dowry? Was that to be left to the feminists to deal with? Were



Foreword  ix

the women’s groups alone to struggle against dowry? It appeared to me that a new sexual division of labour was operating in the world of struggles: were left and democratic groups only going to take on the struggles against the state and leave patriarchy and social reform to the feminists I asked. I got no answer to these questions then but Ranjana, who was at that meeting too, has found us all a way to think about the painful contradictions of our times by writing this book. She has done that by marvellously bringing together the ‘personal domain’ and the ‘political domain’, showing us that the personal is always the political and it is we who conveniently forget that early slogan of the women’s movement because we continue to create a hierarchy of analysis, and consequently a hierarchy of political action. After reading Ranjana’s work I hope that we will no longer do that: the two modes of analyses are so completely intertwined that there should only be one way of thinking about, and struggling against, the agricultural crisis that has swept across large parts of India which is playing havoc in the lives of women, men and children in rural India. It is a havoc that is compounded by a high incidence of cancer, attributable by some health analysts to a high use of chemical pesticides as part of the Green Revolution mode of agricultural development: many are dying of cancer and families trying to provide for the expensive private healthcare often find their men folk using the same pesticides to kill themselves, unable to bear the burdens of further debts they are required to enter into. An uncaring state takes no responsibility for the consequences it has generated through its development policies. In this work Ranjana shows how by bringing class analysis and gender analysis together within a single framework leads us to understand how burdensome patriarchy is for men even as it is so oppressive for women: notions of masculinity are a prison-house for men who begin to feel a sense of desperation about their ‘failure’ to support the family—in other words uphold their responsibility to provide for the family, especially the women who are regarded as ‘dependent’ on them for the ritual obligation of a father’s duty to perform the marriage of his daughter with its inevitable concomitant of a ‘suitable’ dowry upon which the social prestige of the family rests. Here, in a sensitive analysis, while patriarchy is constantly critiqued by Ranjana, she understands that its obligations upon men drives them to despair when they must uphold them even in times of dire financial crisis, created by a heartless political and economic

x  Those Who Did Not Die

system. Their sense of izzat is contingent upon raising money for a dowry—it must be literally ‘bought’ from society by the payment of a groom price to the family to which the groom belongs. It is a symbol of the upward social mobility aspirations of a family, otherwise trapped in an economy of debt, even as it only brings that status momentarily. Ranjana draws special attention to the terrible burdens carried by single sons as they raise loans for the marriages of their sisters, watched over by mothers who can do nothing to intervene and stop the cycle of suicides in the family. This grounds our understanding of a fragile masculinity in a material reality, something we have not seen in other studies of masculinity which are otherwise proliferating today. There are two central issues that Ranjana brings into this work on farmer suicides and the agrarian crisis which has suddenly and dramatically rewritten the euphoria of the ‘green revolution’ and its false promise of being able to sustain a capitalist economy that rests on credit which can easily be paid back with the boom expected at the end of the harvest. In fact these two issues have been ignored by economists: one the actual work women do within a farming economy; and two the cycle of economic transactions that hold up the ideology and material basis of marriage. Marriage itself, though insecurely poised in the fragile economy, and certainly unable to bear its original social contract of men ‘maintaining’ women, a highly insecure proposition in actuality, is tragically still the only destiny for women. Inevitably therefore, dowry is a central issue in Ranjana’s examination of the crisis in Punjab; while many have drawn attention to the boom period of the Green Revolution and the collapse of the agrarian economy after the boom few economists are engaging with today’s economic reality highlighted by the farmer’s suicides. Even fewer are looking at what happens to a family when the ‘man’ of the family kills himself, what happens to women and children who are left to cope with life and the debts that get left behind and relentlessly claim their due. Ranjana shows us how women cope, even as they experience a sense of helplessness. Already overworked through the labour they render within a patriarchal household which invisibilizes their labour as non-existent, the actual obligations of ‘house work’ that includes looking after cattle (apart from their work in the fields) cooking, cleaning, and care of children, the sick and the elderly they now must support the emotional stress of children and in-laws who have lost their primary provider, and also manage the pay back of



Foreword  xi

the debts that killed the ‘farmer’ in the first place. Then, they must take decisions to sell lands, marry off their daughters, become tenants first and then wage labourers in order to survive, borrow once more to keep the food, educational and health requirements of the household going. But as Ranjana tells us poignant stories of surviving the crisis, there are even more poignant stories in this work: of a 13 year old boy who kills himself because his family can no longer afford to send him to school, or a daughter who is married off without dowry after her father becomes one more name in the list of farmers who commit suicide; a year after her marriage, unable to bear the humiliation at her in laws place she too killed herself leaving the mother with a dead husband and a dead daughter. Some men kill themselves even before a daughter’s marriage unable to raise a dowry. We may recall that according to some anthropologists dowry is a form of pre-mortem payment to the daughter at her marriage that will cancel out her claim to a share of the property in the future. It is ironical therefore that this so called pre-mortem ‘gift’ leaves a residue in the natal family in the form of a debt cycle that can literally turn into a death trap for the family. And yet, a younger generation of women and men adhering to custom might even use emotional blackmail against mothers and other family members continuing to claim dowry and thus perpetuating the cycle of debt. Emotion is at the heart of material relations, a complex truth we need to acknowledge. Ever sensitive to the isolation and agony of women who must somehow find the strength to go on, Ranjana’s analysis manages to capture the subjective experiences of women and thereby refuses to turn the suicides into mere statistics erasing the realities of lived experience. So, among the many strengths of the book is its powerful documenting of women’s lives, its incredible archival value for history, even as its own stated focus is to find a way to struggle against the agrarian crisis in the Punjab, where too many have killed themselves and others desperately try and resist death. As ‘those who did not die’ these women and men and children enter history through Ranjana’s archiving of their pain and their courage. Punjab holds up a mirror to our conscience and the choices our political class has made in ‘the land of the five rivers’ compounding the irony of our times. Uma Chakravarti Feminist Historian, New Delhi

To the Fellow Travellers It is through the lived experiences of the women who participated in the interviews that the book attempts to draw political and humanitarian attention to the aftermath of peasant suicides in Punjab. Their sharing of information, thoughts and feelings is the most significant source of this work. I remain indebted to the women who allowed a glimpse of the past and its pain to the stranger in me. The entire field visits have been made possible with the active support extended by three peasant organizations namely, Bharatiya Kisan Union-Ekta (Ugrahan) that helped me cover a vast section of the Malwa region, Punjab Kisan Union that helped me design the formal questionnaire and begin the work in Mansa district, and Bharatiya Kisan Union-Ekta (Dakaunda) that helped me with the initial encouragement and identifying contacts. The openness and support of these unions helped me begin a journey that seemed so tough in its conception stage. My special thanks are to Sukhdev Singh Kokri (Moga); Jasbir Kaur Nat and Sudharshan Nat (Mansa); Kulwant Singh (Kishangarh) in Mansa district; and Jagmohan and Darshan Pal in Patiala for the intense discussions and providing answers to my many queries with much patience. I thank Sukhpal Singh (Punjab Agricultural University, Ludhiana), Jagdish Papra (Lehragaga) and Karam Barsat (Sangrur) for providing me with information and personal insights. I also thank Vijay Jawandhiya from the Vidharbha region for sharing critical insights. It is impossible for me to mention the number of comrades and friends at the block and village level who put in the hard work and time required to identify and help me visit the families. Some names include: Gurmeet Singh (Juj) in Ferozepur; Ruchi Gupta in Ludhiana; Pirthi Pal and Balraj Sharma in Sangrur district; Zohra Singh Nasrali (Punjab Khet Mazdoor Sangathan), Master Sukhdev Singh (Rampura) and Pawan Kumar and Nachhattar Singh Maan (Kotra Kaura) and Paramjeet Kaur (Bhuchokhurd) in Bhatinda district; Harbans Singh (Sonu) in Patiala; Manjit Singh (Ghaner) in



To the Fellow Travellers  xiii

Barnala district; Kashmir Singh in Patiala district; and Beant Kaur (Tamkot) in Mansa district. The traditional Punjabi hospitality and the warmth I received while staying in the houses of comrades will remain with me forever. I also thank the many women and children in these families, whose initial mild curiosity in my work, invariably leading to long conversations, widened the overall canvas in a significant manner. I thank Karen Haydock for the cover design; her many other illustrations were in my mind even as I began work in the Punjab. My most trying moments were with the presentation of the quantitative data. I thank Paramjeet Singh (Timmy) for helping present the data in tabular format. I thank Bina Laishram and Yusuf Mohammed for the support provided in data processing. Intense and engaging discussions with friends that started right from the very conception of the work continue still. I thank Uma Chakravarti, Rajesh Gupta, Nigamananda Sadangi, Mohan Mani, Mary John, Meena Gopal, Maheen, Davinder Kaur, Bhaswati, Arunesh Maiyar and Anil Sharma. Unknown to them, in the course of these discussions, each one became a reference point for decisions— big and small—almost like a group. Their comments and suggestions also wove into the text at every stage. I have drawn support and inspiration in countless ways. At the risk of leaving out some names, I must mention the following: Sujata Gothoskar, Sreerekha, Smriti Nevatia, Satnam Singh (Gurmeet), Sandhya Gokhale, Sadhana Arya, Rajinder Negi (Gudoo), Pradyumna Chaudhuri, Nirupama Singh, Nagraj Adve, Lata Singh, Kalpana Mehta, Hannah Jayapriya and D Manjit. Any mistake or oversight is thus not solely mine! Autonomous collectives, coalitions and movements that gave me space over the years to develop my political understanding are quite a few. Of these I cherish my years in Saheli the most. My parents, simple and compassionate with unquestionable integrity, continue to inspire me. And, I wish more daughters to get the same freedom as I did to continue unfettered in the search of a new society—of our own making.

Introduction Why I Wrote This Book We are learning to live in the midst of many harsh realities, each unique in its own way, of untold human suffering and indignity. Perhaps the most bizarre is how this country’s food producers are seeking pesticides or the noose to end their own lives. They are the producers of the food we daily consume. Agriculture continues to be our most basic source of sustenance even if buying what we require from the closest shop in a hectic metropolis is the closest some of us come to agriculture. Our alienation from wheat and paddy fields and the invisibility of the hard-working peasantry are both finally ending, however, as watching TV news over a plate of food is no longer easy in today’s times. News headlines flash suicides from the Vidharbha region of Maharashtra, and from many other states, from Kerala to Punjab. One need not be an economist or a sociologist to understand the contemporary crisis in agriculture; one just has to be human, as nothing connects us more to life than food. Whose toil has gone into the rice and rotis we eat—is the farmer who grew these cereals still alive? And if the person who grew this food is fighting a tough battle between life and death, there is something seriously amiss. To know more about this formidable reality, I had to take a few steps closer to the murky side of agriculture. The single question that haunted me to the point of distraction was the aftermath of a suicide: how were women coping with the tragic circumstances and, more importantly, meeting their own needs and those of their families? There’s no dearth of literature on the agrarian crisis in general and peasant suicides in particular. However, there’s no way we get to know about how women—who are an active part of the peasantry— experience the crisis. This study is an attempt to break a culture of silence by engaging in dialogue with the person concerned about the surrounding reality as seen and experienced by her in the aftermath of a suicide. There is a vexed ambiguity at work throughout. Whether



Introduction   xv

one is trying to make women more visible and to bring their voices into the public arena so as to make the picture of the devastating agrarian crisis more complete, or whether—more significantly—one is able to glimpse a way forward for women in the midst of the systemic injustice and deepening crisis in this predominantly poor and rural country. These questions, findings and observations that the book brings will, hopefully, add to the body of literature and research on the agrarian crisis as well as on peasant struggles in the Punjab and elsewhere. The spate of suicides by small and marginal farmers in several states of India reflects the crisis in Indian agriculture, unprecedented in post independence India. The quarter million1 suicides recorded so far call serious attention to the reality of lakhs more of the peasantry, especially agricultural labourers, on the brink of devastation in this country. The suicides of agricultural labourers continue to go unreported in almost all studies or news reports on peasant suicides. In Punjab, for instance, of a total of 2890 suicides in the two districts of Bhatinda and Sangrur, 61% were farmers and 39% were agricultural labourers.2 This phenomenon is largely seen as an outcome of policy failures related to agriculture, particularly in the post liberalization period. However, studies on Punjab, for example, suggest the need to understand the wider context of social changes taking place in rural Punjab in the past four decades. Studies on peasant suicides and indebtedness continue to render invisible the family and the household, with the agricultural labourer or farmer viewed solely as a producer of food selling his or her labour or produce. Yet a peasant—male or female—does not enter debt for the sake of agricultural inputs alone. Those dependent on agriculture depend on it to fulfil several needs even as they produce food for society at large—food for their own families, education or jobs for their children, marriage expenses, health care, along with dreams of a more dignified life for their near and dear ones. The working class and the peasantry hold on to their dreams with tenacity, even when these dreams seem to remain unfulfilled. The stakes in the sweeping economic changes are becoming heavy; therefore, the need to remain close to their aspirations more urgent, even if arduous—for in the interim the rising cost of agricultural inputs, volatile market prices, increasing debt, unforeseen weather conditions, failed crops, spurious seeds and a range of other factors take their toll.

xvi  Those Who Did Not Die

Inputs into agriculture far outweigh the income generated from agriculture. Being perceived as the head of the patriarchal family—as a father, son or brother—the male farmer is under tremendous pressure to make ends meet and fulfil all other responsibilities. When he is unable to perform the role of provider or karamdata, unable to look after everyone’s needs, a sense of futility keeps building up inside, which his already injured masculine pride prevents him from expressing or sharing with family members. The reasons for suicide become blurred as several factors overlap, and any one event can be a trigger point—low self-esteem, hurt pride, humiliation by recovery agents and arhtiyas all contribute. There is the torment of seeing one’s children not having enough to eat, or facing one’s inability to pay their school fees. The failure of crops or little or no payment from sale of crops as pending loans are cancelled against it often become the final straw. The land may have to be sold for payment of debts. Such a decision implies ignominy and defeat as family land in this country is so tied up to the identity of one’s family and ancestors. Women are, more often than not, shielded from these events. Often, it is only in the aftermath of a suicide that the father-in-law or a panchayat member or the arhtiya himself reveals the debts to the wife. These gendered spaces—between the public and the private—are costly and tragic. It is this false dichotomy between the social and economic or family and work that continues to inform perceptions, attitudes, policies, development programs and hence resource allocations. The ideological underpinnings of this dichotomy make things far too severe for women, especially those surviving the impact of suicides. From the microcosm of a specific suicide case to a larger view of society, the silences emanating from our structured realities are most damaging. The invisibility of women’s labour and the negation of contribution in sustaining the livelihoods of the household are as serious in the long-lived consequences as the distressed male farmer’s silence regarding the life-and-death turmoil he is undergoing. As these farmers die, do they damn the entire system that compels their exit? Their cries and longing for life simply signal attention to the plight of millions more of the peasantry that are surviving against all odds today in our society. Is resorting to suicide then an act of resistance in the face of increased exploitation of the peasantry? Or defeat at the hands of a murderous society and its institutions and cultural practices?



Introduction   xvii

Primarily, the intent of this book is to draw political and humanitarian attention to the aftermath of peasant suicides, particularly the coping strategies of women who are already marginalized in a deeply traditional and patriarchal society. As an urgent political task, I attempt to make the picture that meets the eye more complete. Women’s voices, and some broad data from the overall analysis, will speak to readers of the crisis from my precise point of entry into this region and the endless saga of its toiling class. Secondly, the dead end that widowhood signifies in this feudal-patriarchal society needs to be interrogated—especially, in this context, through the instances of widows running fatherless families. The growing number of “widows” in the Punjab is determined by processes that demand our attention—be it the political economy or cultural practices. What do these women have to say about their changed circumstances? Can we shift the lens to view the woman as survivor, even as she holds on to the fragile threads of existence despite colossal losses? More fervently than ever she holds on to her dreams of a future for herself and her children. What colour or hue will this future be, what shape? Finally, the impetus to begin documenting lives in this agrarian milieu came from a deep need to understand the deep distress and the fragmentation of the individual self in poverty experienced by the peasant community, especially after having toiled hard to make Punjab the bread basket of the country. The subjective reality of dispossession and the related psychological stress for entire communities need to be documented to reveal the extent of destruction capitalism brings in its pursuit. Perhaps the shocking figure of 77% Indians living on less than ` 20 per day makes for a truth not easy to bear.3 Perhaps empathy is a less difficult response than defeat for those of us who seek to build a different society. Perhaps persistent questioning has certain tenacity, and it was this that helped in finally taking me closer to a reality that is only a few hours away from the national capital in a geographical and spatial sense.

Why Look into the Punjab Living in Delhi, it was the proximity to Punjab that helped me decide that I did not have to go to the Vidharbha region when suicides were

xviii  Those Who Did Not Die

happening just six hours away. Many assumptions about the cradle of the Green Revolution along with its image of prosperity were being overturned or questioned in recent years. A close interaction with the state-created widows of Punjab in the aftermath of the anti-Sikh genocide of 1984—during which over 3,000 Sikhs were estimated to have been killed and thousands more rendered homeless with the complicity of the Indian state—had been a turning point in our student years in Delhi. Barely had we been able to absorb the enormity of the nationalist question in Punjab and the violence that carried on till the early 90s when, in an international seminar held in Delhi 1996, there was a presentation linking Punjab’s agrarian crisis to the question of Sikh nationhood and the fight for a separate Khalistan that was deeply critical of both.4 Looking back, it was possible to trace the widespread unrest among the peasantry, youth, teachers’ unions, in the years preceding Operation Bluestar. The deep rift between centre-state relations, and the emergence of the Akali Dal and its boosting of religious identity, had affected the work of many left democratic sections among the youth and peasantry. The model of the Green Revolution5 obviously had not escaped the tentacles of the acute agrarian crisis that was spreading across the country; at this crucial point, state repression also grew in an unimaginable manner. The discontent simmering among the peasantry, especially agricultural labourers, spilled out in large contingents as kisan rallies reached Delhi’s Boat Club area. Turban-clad farmers from the Punjab stood out in the melée, making one wonder. It was evident that the grinning Jat Sikh farmer symbolizing agricultural prosperity on calendar art was in revolt. The boast of a prosperous Punjab with its highest-in-the country per capita income was clearly just part of the Green Revolution propaganda. Perhaps the exposure to working class families during the intense phase of factory closures and forced evictions in the national capital from 1996 onwards, and to the way in which women coped in the aftermath, had already become the beginning of a search. My feminist convictions were taking me closer to understanding both the coping strategies of women in the face of changed realities as well as the impact of the policies of the neoliberal regime that was, and is, precipitating the dispossession of vast sections of the populace. With closer exposure to anti-displacement and anti-mining struggles in Orissa and elsewhere, one’s sheer inability to look more closely



Introduction   xix

at the situation of women in these regions became more frustrating. I have to confess that with jobs, livelihoods, natural resources, dwelling places and identity all at stake, it was often almost impossible to look at how women were differently impacted, despite all of one’s feminist training and rigour. Caught between activism and reading, the search for critical reflection had begun a clamour within that was hard to quieten. This reality could never be easily bridged with the intellectual climate in which one had to contend with the postmodernist assertions that were ceaselessly deconstructing all identities in writings, seminars and conferences. Passively, then, we were living through a general bewilderment as many actually queried who the ordinary woman was—aam aurat hai kaun? Many trees have since been felled in the cause of arguing that there is no such thing as “ordinary” and no generic “woman”. Many women of privilege have passionately critiqued such generalizations by subjecting the “ordinary woman” to many extraordinary critiques. And yet, my sense that we were losing feminist ground in the context of current realities filled me with a persistent, nagging confusion. An occasional article by feminist writers on assessing the relevance of socialist feminism in today’s context gave rise to some insights and further questions. Finally, in the midst of a public meeting on peasant suicides held by PUDR in 2004,6 something got resolved. I decided to go to Punjab and meet women who were surviving the impact of peasant suicides. I felt certain that by doing so I would at least be able to give a name or a face to the confusion that had come to live with me every waking hour. Going to Punjab to meet women in families that had seen peasant suicides was one way of directly acquainting myself with the efforts of women in dealing with the calamities wreaked by intensifying economic distress. There was no other way, no shortcut to understanding—from women’s point of view, specifically—the outcome of agricultural policies and their toll on the peasantry. The debate characterizing the Indian economy has its own variations and specificities among peasant organizations in Punjab. Even as it grapples with the current agrarian crisis, the debate, with its rich and long history, is determining joint alliances and strategies today as it has in the past. Discussions on women’s participation in agricultural labour and household labour in an agrarian society continue, however, to remain neglected. Entering this neglected area to look at women’s situation with the active support of different

xx  Those Who Did Not Die

peasant unions posed fewer problems. Since it was happening within the shared context of the overall agrarian crisis, examining existing power structures posed no problems. I was also goaded by my own concern, bordering on paranoia, about what was happening with women in the broader context of the systemic assault on people’s land, forests, labour and other resources by a state that had abdicated even the pretence of the welfare rhetoric that was common in the early decades after independence. Between action and writing, I took recourse to writing as it was a search that would clear many cobwebs for me in trying to understand the status of women in today’s context. At no point since independence have women had more at stake than the women of the peasantry and the working class today. And at no point in history has so much been written on women, or publishers striven so hard to add titles or include imprints on women’s oppression to their catalogues. Against this backdrop, I too am set to consume a few more reams of paper, even if only to assert that something significant continues to elude us. Let us first have a quick look at the profile of the women who speak in the chapters of this book.

Who Are the Women Interviewed The interviews were consciously confined to the wives, mothers and in rare cases other female relatives to gauge specifically women’s accounts and perceptions of the hardships and challenges. Majority of the respondents contacted were spouse of the deceased. Out of 136 respondents 92 (67.6%) were spouse of the deceased, followed by mother (20.6%). In the absence of the wife or the mother, some other woman relative of the deceased has been interviewed. This happened if the wife had gone out on work or to a relative’s place, or in a few cases, had left the in-laws after the suicide or in even fewer cases, when the wife is also not alive. In some cases, there is more than one suicide in the family and in some others both the wife and the mother speak. For purposes of quantifying data, the person most active in the conversation has been recorded as respondent while the discussions and statements as well as silences of the others has been incorporated



Introduction   xxi

into the overall analysis based on observations and perceptions of the family situation. With every suicide that takes place, there are a large number of affected people in each family—single or joint (Table I.1). Table I.1: Profile of Women Interviewed N = 136

%

Relationship with deceased Wife

98

67.60

Mother

28

20.60

Daughter

3

2.20

Sister

6

4.40

Sister in law

4

2.90

Daughter in law

3

2.20

Type of family Single

108

79.4

28

20.6

Up to 25 years

10

7.4

Joint Age group

7

25 to 35 years

31

22.8

35 to 50 years

54

39.7

50 to 60 years

23

16.9

> 60 years

18

13.2

Average age

46 years

Minimum age

16 years

Maximum age

90 years Caste

Jat

95

69.9

Majhabi

20

14.7

Ramdasia

10

7.4

Ravidasia

2

1.5

Bairagi

2

1.5

Other

7

5.1 (Table I.1 continued)

xxii  Those Who Did Not Die (Table I.1 continued) N = 136

%

Landless

57

49.1

Marginal, having less than 1 hectare

43

31.6

Small, having 1–2 hectares

18

13.2

Semi Medium, having 2–4 hectares

11

8.1

Medium, having 4–10 hectares

5

3.7

Large having more than 10 hectares

2

1.5

Landholding

Majority (62.5%) of the respondents were young, between 25 to 50 years of age. The average age of all the respondents was 46 years with maximum of 90 years and minimum 16 years. Two out of five respondent fall in the age bracket of between 35 to 50 years while over one out of five were between 25 to 35 years. Most of the respondents (80%) interviewed were living in the nuclear family. The fragmentation of landholdings has a definite impact on the viability of the family income. Joint families, amidst severe hardships, are still able to bear out the vagaries of fluctuating market prices, pressure of loans, harassment of arhtiya or loss of crop as opposed to nuclear families, especially in the aftermath of distress suicides. The learning and the exposure continued for me throughout the entire process as described below.

How I Went about It This is an attempt to bring to the fore the subjectivities of the survivors of “suicide families”, as they are called in the Punjab. These subjectivities fester amidst the harsh conditions already described in the vast range of existing literature pertaining to the agrarian crisis, both from academia as well as from peasant unions, not to forget the mainstream media’s daily reportage. The tyranny of statistical data, of realities depicted in tabular format, renders individuals invisible, while the fetish of narratives, images and voices that soars high in popularity often obliterates socio-economic contexts. The contours



Introduction   xxiii

of what lies in between these two seemingly irreconcilable entities often manifest in glimpses; the form eludes us still because it represents a reality that is yet to be seen in its entirety. Both represent lived experiences that constantly overlap in the day-to-day reality of the peasant family. And the vision of emancipatory action pulls us closer towards a hope of what could emerge from the enmeshing of the two—again awaiting a voice and a shape. I consciously restrained myself from adopting any one form or method entirely. My attempt was to take my feminist understanding to a new and difficult area and to look at how patriarchy plays out in the lives of the unprivileged there. Being ill-equipped with any new method of charting my way through such terrain, I have attempted to foreground women’s narratives while tabulating some data so as to render that which meets the eye or moves the heart into a form that can be shared with a wider audience. For example, contextualized data about insomnia and acute anxiety among women, or even about young girls being deprived of education in order to run the household, mitigates against the assumed normalcy of such phenomena. Or, the quantitative data helped document the alarming fact that the erosion of landholdings and other agricultural assets continues after a suicide in the family while it is more commonly known that a peasant suicide is often preceded by sale of family land. This, therefore, is not yet another report on peasant suicides; it simply traces the impact of those suicides on the rest of the peasant household, especially women. This could not be done without acquainting oneself with the existing literature on peasant suicides and indebtedness and to overcome a reading habit that was highly selective. My case is that the majority of women in our country, despite what the various ministries and studies by funding agencies hoarsely proclaim, are not on the path of empowerment. Women’s situation worsens as more and more women are becoming bereft of the means to take their lives forward. Even for those engaged in the process of seeking change, these structured barriers become insurmountable with changes ushered in by the economy or even, at other times, by conservative backlash. Making this case entailed using a structured questionnaire, interviews, field visits, meetings and discussions. At the same time, my own biases, assumptions and privileges could not be made invisible. As I stepped into the reality of peasant suicides with the support of peasant unions and academics, my preoccupations, both Marxist and feminist, were also clearly

xxiv  Those Who Did Not Die

stated. Yet, simply inching a bit closer to the lives and struggles of the peasantry made me question some dearly held assumptions and practices of feminist politics. Although I was certain that coming face-to-face with such a terrifying reality would be rewarding, I wondered—rewarding for whom? I did not even know whether my questions would remain the same by the end of the exercise. In the entire process, tested ideas, assumptions and experience were renewed. It was bewildering at times, but the terrain was not entirely unknown. No difficulty or barrier seemed insurmountable at any point; my keenness to get into this long overdue exercise opened up paths and spaces I had not envisaged. Visiting a total of 54 villages and conducting all the interviews was undoubtedly a rich experience; rendering it all into a report or book has had some limitations that are difficult to describe (Table I.2). I have attempted to put forward some narratives, some data and some insights gathered from the women of these districts, which occupy a large section of the Malwa region in the Punjab (see Map I.1). Names of almost all women who have been quoted have been changed to provide a semblance of anonymity. Each voice has been chosen that broadly represents the thoughts and dilemmas of many others like her. Accounts of unmitigated grief have been moderated with some generalizations and some ponderings. A preliminary visit to Sangrur district in 2006 had already brought me in contact with several families coping with the death of a husband or a son. This first set of interviews, put together, began to reveal an uncanny pattern of debts to be paid, children to be educated, arhtiyas to be kept at bay and a litany of health problems with the breaking down of the body and the mind, especially depression, which women were undergoing. The nonavailability of wage work was cited by some. The only income tended to be from the sale of milk. There was less ambiguity now about my assumptions. There Table I.2: Number of Blocks and Villages Covered in the Survey Total Ferozepur Muktsar Bhatinda Moga Mansa Sangrur Barnala Faridkot Blocks

17

1

2

2

1

2

5

2

2

Villages

54

9

4

8

3

7

12

5

6

136

10

12

29

11

37

19

7

11

Interviews



Introduction   xxv

Map I.1: The state of Punjab highlighting districts of the Malwa region covered in this survey

Source: Author. Note: This map is not to scale and does not indicate authentic boundaries.

was a growing certainty that more extensive fieldwork was needed. The questionnaire was already in the making as its first draft evolved during the interviews. I felt a greater urgency to place this draft before women’s groups. At the same time, linking my work with peasant unions was as important as I was sure that the findings of my fieldwork should be placed before the organized unions to elicit their response. I was sure that my fieldwork should take place within the purview of organized unions—the sharing of the findings and outcome of this research would be more meaningful if it could

xxvi  Those Who Did Not Die

be taken back to the field through them. I approached the peasant unions in late 2008. In addition to helping me identify villages I need to visit and prepare lists of suicide families in each block, peasant unions became a significant point of engagement for my own vexed questions on the linkages between gender, caste and class. There was no aspect of women’s lives as revealed in the interviews that I did not discuss with them. The unions, in turn, provided additional information. Even more crucially, the possibilities of organizing women or the difficulties in doing so were addressed by them during my interview visits. Differences of viewpoints did surface, but they seemed inconsequential in the face of the realities that these intense interviews began to unravel. More significantly, not once did I allow myself to forget the simple fact that I had come to see, write and report and it is the survey outcome that should speak. My interviews with the women would often be followed by the translator and accompanying comrades providing supplementary details about the suicide, indebtedness, litigation and family history. Seldom did the two renderings seem antagonistic. While making my notes fair in the early mornings, I would wonder at my otherwise questioning mind that was being transformed and trained in such a short time. I was so eager to simply absorb the nuanced and complex dimensions that the question of women’s subordination in an agrarian milieu represents. There was so much to absorb, comprehend and act upon. For instance, the single assumption that prevails throughout society and even among peasant unions is that of the peasant being male. In fact, the peasantry comprises every member of a peasant family or village; the participation of everyone in agriculture and reliance on it for sustenance makes the whole community part of the peasantry, despite the graded inequalities within. Further, the interchangeable use of “dalit” and “landless” to refer to the agricultural labourer persisted. Urging the respondents for information along the definitions I set would have perhaps been the biggest loss. This lack of precise terminology is ingrained in the depiction of local realities; it permeates the familiar world of those being interviewed. Despite becoming alert to these terms and their problematic usage, I desisted from freezing any categories. It was only while editing one’s notes that there is an attempt made to minimize the inconsistencies for the reader.



Introduction   xxvii

My belief that I understood Punjabi was shattered in the very first visit to Punjab; anxiety reared its head, making me wonder about entering into an area where the very language was so alien. My own quiet confidence through years of feminist work and interaction—of being able to easily open conversations with women, thus making it easier for them to open up—received a few deft blows. Even though being accompanied by union members helped in breaking through communication barriers, I had to keep a strict watch on my own reactions and processing of such difficulties, as when dialogue would break off midway, or make quantum leaps. Yet there were moments that were validating as well: on one occasion an elderly woman, weeping profusely, said, “Why does she need to know Punjabi? Being a woman is sufficient to know what these tears express.” Such interactions would deepen my resolve to attempt to understand the festering sorrow and deep pain of these women from whom I was so far removed by class, culture and language. A few times, I would be overawed to discover English expressions like “crisis”, “depression”, “education” and “technical training” used freely in the midst of the Punjabi dialect. Almost all families being interviewed were close to the peasant unions, if not direct members, and therefore easily used such expressions. Of course I did lose out on conversations between the translator and the respondent when the dialogues turned informal, that is outside the purview of a structured interview. Unlike in a working class area in Delhi or in a village in Orissa—where I could have read between the lines and gleaned a paragraph from a line spoken by a woman—I had, sadly, to be content with the reverse situation. In quiet alarm I witnessed paragraphs shrinking to a hurried synopsis, especially when my translator friends would become deeply engaged in conversation while I was left sipping hot sweet milky tea. When I would point this out later, mildly protesting, we would argue and laugh about the incident and try to figure out how to do the next few interviews. Having of necessity to work with different translators in each area also posed some difficulties initially, but helped largely in the long run as each person brought in their own additional inputs. Wage work, domestic violence, children’s education—these were some of the things that began entering my notes. When work truly began in full swing, from October 2008, I realized that not knowing the language actually had some advantages, as my other senses and perceptions were in full play. Especially in those moments before the

xxviii  Those Who Did Not Die

translation was done for me, I would be absorbing all the nonverbal clues in a more heightened manner than I might otherwise have done. I could “hear” more than what the words conveyed and saw much more happening around us in the households. The learning and exposure in between the interviews were so compelling and rich that I am sure that an anthropologist may have done more justice to the data. While waiting once to go for a public meeting for which buses had been arranged, I watched quietly as the women, hurriedly returning from the gurudwara or from tending to their livestock, gave tea to all and breakfast too. Lunch had to be packed too before boarding the bus. The men had been busy a few days before the event. Some women were very excited, while a few were ready to doze off from sheer fatigue after their morning chores—participating in rallies does not imply even minimally letting go of household routines. As the bus finally started, the political and the personal collapsed into one. Never once I was alone in such observations. The translator along with some women urged me to jot all this in my notebook. They insisted I write how much the women had done while the men had only organized the buses. Everyone laughed in unison. I said that there is a camera inside me, everything is being recorded. Such humour would be both subversive and engaging; it is beyond me to draw in more interesting detail of these moments. Or, at other times, the curious mixture of the religious, social and political would come together in intense moments, which I could scarcely absorb in their entirety. Once during an early morning ritual walk to the gurudwara, between muttering prayers, a woman shared a bit more of her life than what the questionnaire had elicited. Trying hard to follow the dialect, I heard the word “crisis” interspersed liberally in the low drone chanting of the morning prayer. I just felt the earth spin a bit faster, as all notions of formal and informal studies and research tools and attendant methodologies seemed to fly off wildly into the emerging dawn. Being immersed in such tragic circumstances and stories also took its toll. A single village has so many incidents of suicide that sometimes a single lane has a succession of houses, in each of which a family member has committed suicide. The community sense of loss and the deep anxiety of those living are palpable. There’s familiarity with suicide written on many other faces too, even those very young. A great deal of pain and anguish surfaces at times when peasant suicides, retrenchment, displacement, slum demolitions and



Introduction   xxix

factory closures are gaining momentum, but is there any method or tool to capture the emotional turmoil of entire communities? Unfortunately, relational affinities and emotional fulfilment of those directly impacted are overlooked; people become mere statistics used again and again, for revealing socio-economic-ecological disasters in studies. Bringing their voices and thought to such statistics continues to be seen as neutralizing the objectivity of the findings. What if we were to find ways to show the quantum of emotional suffering? This was one of the searching questions that remain with me to date. The intensity of these interviews affected my sleep and took grotesque forms in my dreams; they even made the days more sombre. I would occasionally take a long break so that I could engage again. And an intense sharing with friends and comrades in Punjab and Delhi always convinced me I had to take this work forward to its completion. There were two field visits in October and November 2008, when I spent a few more days in Ferozepur district and part of Mansa. The questionnaire was then openly shared with those I met from the peasant unions, and revised in collaboration with them. Most eager for feedback, I made the first presentation of the findings in a seminar organized by the School of Women’s Studies in Jadavpur University in December 2008. These 31 interviews were then discussed in an article sent to a journal so as to seek feedback and suggestions from friends and activists in other regions as well as formally commit myself to the research output.8 I took this discussion to both college students and to seminars. Any queries or doubts, and even the silences, helped me focus more and more on what was beginning to unravel before me. Then, in March 2009, I set out on the long stint with a revised questionnaire, summoning up all my inner resources to accost the whole sordid reality with even greater concentration. I used to be consumed with self-doubt, especially as the initial target of 50 interviews crossed 100. I went deep into the Malwa region and followed the gory trail of death and devastation and the nerve-racking daily battles of unions and families with the arhtiyas and recovery agents. This time, the districts covered included more of Mansa and Sangrur, Moga, Barnala, Muktsar and Bhatinda. I returned to Delhi for a short break and assumed I would not have to go on another field trip till I had done some work on my existing data. But I went to Faridkot in July 2009. This would make the sample set of districts of the Malwa region more contiguous (see Map I.1). With the help of friends, I had begun doing some amount

xxx  Those Who Did Not Die

of quantitative analysis of the figures gathered, and published the preliminary findings from a total of 125 interviews in some English dailies and web sites. Friends also helped in getting these translated into Punjabi, Hindi, Oriya and Kannada. This too helped in terms of providing an identifiable research output. What I was still resisting delving into were the long interviews and women’s narratives. By January 2010, I was beginning to get feedback with reference to the sample representing size of landholdings and detected some gaps. I began comparing my findings with other studies done on Punjab, and got back in touch with the unions. Soon I was in Sangrur once again to complete the last few interviews. This time there would be no returning to the field without first having a draft of the writing exercise—I often wondered whether it would be a study or a book or a survey. I finally chose 136 interviews from over 150, rejecting the ones that seemed incomplete in some important detail. The distance from the field at times seemed conducive to writing and reflecting, and at other times debilitating to the point where I would feel it was impossible to write even a page more without going back there. But commitments in Delhi and my own economic need for a steady job could not be kept at bay any longer. Reading the detailed interviews and making notes helped me begin to see the big picture. Finding my hypotheses and assumptions being validated by the women’s own narratives was cathartic, yet more tormenting than satisfying. Such moments reinforced my sense that this was not a study or a piece of research alone—an inexpressible sense that recurs even now. Any further comments on the methodology and its dilemmas or inadequacies are included as footnotes in their specific contexts, otherwise this experience of the interviews and all else would itself become the longest chapter.

Notes   1. The country has seen over a quarter of a million suicides between 1995 and 2010. The National Crime Records Bureau places the number for 2010 at 15, 964. This brings the cumulative 16-year old total from 1995—when the NCRB started recording farm suicide data—to 2,56,913. The last eight years have been the worst indicating an increase in the trend. P. Sainath; In 16 years, farm suicides cross a quarter million; The Hindu; October 29, 2011. New Delhi.



Introduction   xxxi

 2. Farmers’ and Agricultural Labourers’ Suicides due to Indebtedness in the Punjab State (Pilot survey in Bhatinda and Sangrur Districts), Submitted to the Government of India, Department of Economics and Sociology, Punjab Agricultural University, Ludhiana; April 2009.   3. Arjun Sengupta’s Report on Conditions of Work and Promotion of Livelihoods in the Unorganised Sector by NCEUS, Government of India, August 2007.  4. See article named Nationality Question in the Punjab, pages 182–204, in Symphony of Freedom; Papers on Nationality Question, Presented at The International Seminar, February 16–19, 1996, AIPRF, New Delhi.  5. The Green Revolution ushered in widespread changes in the 1960s in the institutional and economic infrastructure through massive public investment. Irrigation and power development, agricultural research and extension services and the strengthening of the co-operative credit structure characterized it. Punjab led the country’s Green Revolution and earned for itself the distinction of becoming India’s ‘bread basket’.  6. Agrarain Crisis and Farmers’ Lives, Dr Ramamdhanam Memorial meeting by PUDR, Nov 7, 2004, New Delhi. Speakers included Sucha Singh Gill, K Balagopal and Jayati Ghosh.   7. There’s ambiguity expressed about age as most women calculated it based on years of marriage or birth of the first child. There is plain hesitation too. At times, a woman would come up as we were leaving and whisper her age to me. Invariably otherwise, I got rounded numbers of 40 or 45 or say 60 or 70. The pattern was uncannily similar and there would be light laughter too.   8. On Women Surviving Farmer Suicides in Punjab, Economic and Political Weekly, May 9, 2009.

1 An Outline of the Crisis in Punjab Tu idhar udhar ki naa baat kar; Ye bata ki caravan kyon lutaa Enough of your mundane rhetoric Tell me why the caravan was looted (Ahmed Faraz)

Lying in the north-west of India, the state of Punjab is popularly characterized by three geographical divisions: the Malwa, Majha and Doaba regions. The Malwa region is in the southernmost part of Punjab to the south of the river Sutlej, encompassing 12 of the 22 districts of Punjab, namely, Ferozepur, Faridkot, Moga, Muktsar, Bhatinda, Sangrur, Mansa, Barnala, Ludhiana, Patiala, Fatehgarh Sahib and Ropar. This area has been most impacted by the Green Revolution and the processes that followed since the late 1960s. Today, Punjab’s agrarian crisis is most acute in this region. The study covers 8 districts of the Malwa region—Ferozepur, Muktsar, Bhatinda, Moga, Mansa, Sangrur, Barnala and Faridkot. Despite being a very dry and arid state, agriculture has been the mainstay of the people of Punjab. The dominant caste group among the peasantry comprises Jat Sikhs, along with Majhabis, Rai Sikhs, Ramdasias, Ravidasias, Bairagi and others. The bulk of the landless agricultural labourers are Dalits who form a significant part of this study. However, Jats continue to steadily join the ranks of the landless in the present crisis, even if caste restrictions and the traditional Jat honour prevent them from taking up wage work.1 Just as the process of depeasantization that has set in today is an outcome of state policies and big capital, similarly, historically, agricultural production was intensified overnight with the colonial

2  Those Who Did Not Die

policies of the British who wanted both a market for their commodities and more importantly, the siphoning of agricultural produce as raw material for their industries. Canal irrigation was developed in Punjab and over 10 million acres of wastelands were colonized and converted into fertile productive agriculture. The major crops then were chiefly wheat, cotton and oilseeds. This plunder of both agricultural produce as well as making Punjab a significant point in the global military strategy by the British in the colonial period has been well documented.2 It thus becomes essential to see the unfolding of the deep crisis in agriculture based on the broad contours of the current study and other recent studies. The untold trajectories of women or the landless or the Dalits can only be gleaned in fragments from the overall context; the context becomes a backdrop against which this study will portray the lives of the disenfranchised invisible subjects of this state and its history.

The Roots of the Current Agrarian Crisis in Punjab After India’s independence, the deep fragmentation that is caused in society by the advent of capitalist intensive agriculture became evident in the state of Punjab. Both research and ground reality show how it is the Green Revolution and the measures undertaken then that led to the rapid deterioration of soil conditions, increased demand of high-cost pesticides and fertilizers, and a network of institutional funding that extended to non-institutional sources too; the latter subsequently brought almost the entire farming community into the vicious grip of indebtedness. The replacing of human labour with machinery, reliance on institutional and non-institutional sources of funding, and purchase of seeds, fertilizers and pesticides—all happened around the same time in Punjab with the ushering in of the Green Revolution that was paving the way for the economic reforms that were to take place in the country some years later. The sheer inability of the small and marginal farmer to have access to the technology and infrastructure that modernization of agriculture entailed became obvious in the first phase of the Green Revolution. Falling prey to the increasing power of the arhtiya3 also began seeing the inability of loan repayment, the consequent exodus of the small

An Outline of the Crisis in Punjab  3

peasant from agriculture and increase in landlessness. In this way, the self-reliance and independence of the peasantry was dealt many deft blows by both state and capitalism. A crisis was manufactured, and sustained, so that the liberalization of the economy in the early 1990s was the last blow in Punjab where the exploitation of the land, soil and the peasantry had already taken place to the hilt by the mindless pursuit of profit in the Green Revolution phase. The Green Revolution was, and continues to be, characterized by large-scale mechanization and commercialization of agriculture through investment of capital with the sole aim of multiplying agricultural productivity of specific crops, irrespective of all other costs involved—visible and invisible. Capitalist–intensive agriculture is typically signified by the reliance on huge amounts of cash to buy all agricultural inputs, such as seeds, fertilizers, pesticides and electric power. It entails profits to companies that provide these inputs. It also reinforces an inequality in terms of purchase of labour power so that certain skills and tasks, like manual harvesting or cotton-picking, continue to remain at the bottom of the hierarchy. And the providers of such labour are cut off from all other access to agricultural produce as the wage labour system makes a commodity of human labour alienating people’s dependence on agriculture.4 Ecological devastation was being ushered in with the heavy use of chemical fertilizers and pesticides that wreaked havoc on the soil, air and water sources. The so-called high-yielding varieties of seeds and the consequent destruction of genetic diversity are well documented. Besides, under the Green Revolution, multiple uses of plant biomass were sacrificed through the promotion of a single use of a crop with unsustainable use of fertilizers and water. High productivity in certain crops was achieved at the cost of decrease of biomass for animals and soil and the decrease of ecosystem productivity caused by the overexploitation of resources.5 Punjab had a wide variety of crops but soon became the biggest producer of wheat, and also rice. The promoting of monoculture has had devastating implications on soil quality. The soil no longer was sustaining itself through its own rich self-preserving organic inputs; it became dependent on fertilizers and pesticides bought with money. As deterioration set in rapidly, demands for such inputs increased. This is often referred to by the peasants as the soil becoming intoxicated with money and demanding more money.

4  Those Who Did Not Die

Over time, the fragmentation of all mutually dependent relations was setting in, even if there were graded inequalities inherent in those relations within the economy. But breakdown was happening in myriad ways where this modernization entailed the severing of mutually dependent ties and collective human endeavours. Those with even sizeable landholdings could also no longer sustain themselves on agricultural income alone; middle and big farmers were forced to survive by investing in non-agricultural sources of income or investing in distant countries. As for small and marginal farmers, who had already been marginalized in the Green Revolution phase, their plight worsened even more sharply.

The 1990s and Beyond: The Crisis Intensifies Agrarian distress has certainly intensified across the country in the reforms period, beginning with the early 1990s. Overall public spending on agriculture has been reduced: the spending on agriculture, allied activities, irrigation and flood control of 15 major states fell from the already low 3.48% of gross domestic product (GDP) in 1990–91 to 2.16% in 2003–04. Spending by the Centre has also declined.6 Institutional sources of credit and other inputs like fertilizers, pesticides and seeds have declined. Extension systems are in complete disarray. There has been indiscriminate abandoning of state support systems and outright privatization of many related agricultural activities such as development and distribution of seeds.7 A large number of peasant suicides have been reported from states that are relatively agriculturally developed, that have seen strong peasant movements, where the leadership of political parties has come predominantly from farming communities.8 Among other reasons, these are the states that heralded the Green Revolution and that subsequently bore its long-term effects of devastation. The commercialization of agriculture is happening simultaneously with the decline in public investment. In Punjab, the economic reforms of the early 1990s ushered in by the liberalization of the economy intensified a crisis that was already beginning to be manifest. The tremendous pressure borne by the small and semi-medium farmers was becoming evident from the early 1980s itself; some of the suicides in this study have happened in that period too. Till date,

An Outline of the Crisis in Punjab  5

people’s response to peasant suicides in Punjab is met with shock and disbelief as the state is popularly associated with agricultural prosperity. The reality of distress suicides among peasant sections is particularly poignant since the state has contributed to national food production in a major way. Punjab occupies only 1.5% of the geographical area of the country and provides 13% of the national food grain output and 40% to the central pool. It has the largest proportion of cultivable area, 85%, compared to the national average of 52%. Clearly, it is the back-breaking labour of the peasantry that made Punjab the granary of the country, and clearer still is the fact that the majority of the people have not been able to improve their lives.9 Suicide is a symptom of a deeper malaise that is spread across the state. Faces showing malnourishment, disease and sleep deprivation stare at you in almost every family. People are either overworked and undernourished or, perhaps worse, have nothing to do and filled with an inertia that breeds hopelessness and deep anxiety. This is akin to a living death; a fate worse than death perhaps when faced with an emptiness that is all encompassing.10 Suicides of arhtiyas are reported once in a rare while in the local papers. The machines and tractors that stood Punjab proud for its mechanization of agriculture as the model of the Green Revolution lie idle in huge numbers. 11 Recovery agents and arhtiyas work round the clock to retrieve loans while peasant unions stand in protection of the people. Many families spoke how the arhtiya has stopped visiting them because of the union; prevention of mortgage of land rests on the same protection. However, this situation of inherent antagonism does deteriorate into violent confrontation at times. Prithpal Singh Alisher, block president of BKU Ekta (Dakonda), was gunned down and several injured by hired goons of arhtiyas in broad daylight on 11 October 2010 at village Biroke Khurd near Budhlada. They were protesting against the auction of land of an indebted peasant. This happened in the presence of revenue and police officials. Sadhu Singh Takhtpura, state organizing secretary of the BKU Ekta (Ugrahan), was brutally attacked and killed on 16 October 2010 in village Bhindi Aulakh of Amritsar district. He was mobilizing peasants against illegal and forcible land-grabbing by a set of powerful Akali leaders, police officials and contractors.12 Many stakeholders are involved in giving peasant unions a tough run; arhtiyas are backed by the nexus of big landlords with bureaucrats, police and contractors.

6  Those Who Did Not Die

Therefore, the issue of direct payment system to curtail the power of the moneylenders (arhtiyas)—a bill to that effect has been introduced in the Punjab—is under hot dispute.13 Bureaucrats, big farmers and ministers—all have stakes as they continue to thrive on the interest of loans, especially in this crisis condition. The construction industry is at work, of course, as you can see new and emerging mansions coming up in Mansa, Bhatinda or any of the nearby towns. Private nursing homes and educational institutes too are mushrooming as they become the most lucrative business venture. The ethos and spaces of an agrarian milieu that had some semblance of protection for farmers in a traditional system are getting fast eroded pushing the most vulnerable sections into the clutches of a moneyed economy. Reliance on the market to fulfil basic necessities brings in perils of a different order from which there is no escape, especially for the agricultural poor. The reliance of the peasant household on daily needs for consumption purposes, in the case of Punjab, also comes from ration shops and grocery stores that are tied up with the same moneylenders who provide assistance for purchase of agricultural inputs. The availability of ready cash before each harvest season made the peasantry increasingly dependent on bank loans and private moneylenders at high interest rate. The rate of interest imposed by private money lenders can range from 18 to 24%. The commercialization of agriculture in this way reduces each producer to a sole individual whose access to credit and ability to pay back determines all else. The peasant movements were facing the toughest challenges even as they continued to remain dominated by big farmers. The support of the landless, small and marginal farmers was scarce. The political support of those who represented the peasants in the assembly or in the parliament continued to be elusive. It is clear that the production of food has become very expensive and the peasantry cannot continue to bear the cost. Today, therefore, large sections of marginal and small farmers, as well as the landless, are part of the active resistance. A report14 brought out by the Punjab State Farmers Commission confirms how since the late 1990s, in particular, there has been declining productivity, increasing costs and declining profitability. The number of marginal and small farmers was 5 lakh in Punjab in 1991, and it declined to 3 lakh in 2001. Finding it hard to live

An Outline of the Crisis in Punjab  7

on farming alone, they leave farming. Their number seems to have decreased even more since 2001. This shift in the rural economy from the agricultural sector to the non-agricultural sector is of major concern as there is a very low growth rate in the secondary and tertiary sectors.15 The rise in the rentier class too is not fully accounted for because small and marginal farmers are increasingly giving away the scarce and tiny landholdings on rent to bigger farmers—what is referred to as reverse tenancy. However, there is considerable unemployment in the rural economy that official unpublished estimates indicate as 24 lakh in the rural sector from a total of 35 lakh persons unemployed in Punjab.16 A steady increase in peasant suicides over the years clearly reveals the dehumanizing conditions faced by these families and their reliance on debts—both institutional and non-institutional sources—to eke out an existence. The Green Revolution also led to changing social norms— lavish spending in ceremonies, dowry where even a tractor bought through institutional credit would be used for dowry—was most evident in the Malwa region. Even though agricultural incomes declined, aspirations and social norms continue to persist, as we shall see in Chapter 3. It is beyond the scope of this study to critically assess the symptomatic manifestation of what construes a crisis in agriculture as it happens in myriad ways that is yet to be studied or understood in its entirety. However, speaking strictly in terms of an economic crisis, the two frequently used indicators to assess the agrarian crisis in existing research are restricted to peasant suicides and extent of indebtedness that we shall examine now. This helps contextualize my survey findings too.

Extent of Peasant Indebtedness There are two studies from Punjab Agricultural University, Ludhiana and Institute for Development and Communication, Chandigarh, in recent years that map the extent of indebtedness in the Punjab peasantry. The most recently concluded study of Professor Shergill17 provides us data based on a survey of 300 farm households in 30 villages during the year 2007–08. The study presents the following main findings:

8  Those Who Did Not Die

• The last decade has seen a five-time increase in the debt burden of peasants, from ` 5,700.91 crores in 1997 to approximately ` 30,394.12 crore in 2008. • Almost 96% farm households were facing indebtedness of various magnitudes. • The debt per household averaged approximately ` 3.05 lakh while debt per acre of operational holdings was ` 28,708. • Over 72% households had debt levels per acre owned of more than ` 20,000. • More significantly, almost 60% of the indebted farmers are marginal and small peasants. • Most of these debt-trapped families belong to the Malwa region. The sources of debt are plenty with private moneylenders or arhtiyas taking the lead. Thus, the share of commission agents and moneylenders is estimated at 43.46%, of commercial banks at 31.78% and of cooperative credit institutions at 18.91%. The remaining debts accrue from friends and relatives at 3.16%, government at 0.08% and others at 2.71%.18 Unlike the all-India situation, the study conducted by the Punjab State Farmers’ Commission, Government of Punjab, found a sharp decline in the number of marginal and small holdings in the state. This study was conducted in the year 200719 over 600 peasant households in 11 districts. Data was collected for the agricultural year 2005–06 measuring indebtedness as loans outstanding as of 31 March 2006. The study had made these major findings: • The proportion of indebted farm households has been found to be 88.33%. • The percentage of indebted households was the highest (99%) among large peasants and lowest (80%) among marginal peasants. These proportions were 89, 91 and 92 among small, semi-medium and medium peasants. • The average amount of debt per sample household as of end March 2006 was ` 178,934. • Marginal peasants were almost three times more indebted on per hectare basis; this becomes even higher in the south-western region where indebtedness was five times more for marginal farmers.

An Outline of the Crisis in Punjab  9

• The proportion of indebtedness was the highest in the southwestern region, which constitutes the Malwa region. Once again, small and large peasants obtained 65% of their loans from institutional sources compared to semi-medium and medium peasants who obtained less than 60% of loans from institutional sources. Among institutional loans, commercial banks provided 72% and cooperatives 28% of loans. Among non-institutional sources, the commission agent or arhtiya was the major source of credit and provided about 32% of total farm credit.20 It is evident that large sections of the Punjab peasantry are in the grip of severe indebtedness. Of the interviews I conducted, there were a large number of indebted households among the landless labourers too, and these families almost entirely belonged to Dalit families. Although my study was not meant to measure the extent of indebtedness, the findings make sense in the context of the data given above. Gradual sale of land to repay debts, becoming landless and causes of suicide deemed economic enmeshing with social and psychological distress seem to be the reality when one meets families in the post-suicide scenario. The toll of the capitalist-intensive agricultural practices and the notorious role of the Green Revolution reveal effects that are both immediate and long term. This will be briefly discussed in the extent of sale of land and other distress indicators in the survey findings. A quick look at the trends in suicide is essential too as causes of suicide become clearer.

Some Recent Aspects of Peasant Suicides in Punjab, Landless and Landed The picture of the exact number of suicides in Punjab is yet to emerge clear. The reports of Association for Democratic Rights (AFDR) and Professor Iyer are the earliest reports in the state. An initial study done by the Bharatiya Kisan Union (Ugrahan) showed that 13,000 farmers committed suicide between 2001 and 2005, on average over seven suicides a day over that five-year period. Dr Bhangoo has done a study in 2006 with a modest sample size.21 An overview of peasant suicides related to type of landholdings reveals a high rate of suicides among the landless and marginal and small farmers too,

10  Those Who Did Not Die

belying the popular assumption that suicide happens from hurt pride or humiliation at sale of land. See Table 1.1 that provides an overview of peasant suicides as documented in earlier studies in Punjab. Though Dr Bhangoo’s study has a modest sample size, it reveals how landholding size-wise distribution of the deceased indicates that marginal farmers, small farmers, semi-medium farmers and landless agricultural labourers were more vulnerable to suicides as compared to large farmers. Economic distress, impoverishment and indebtedness have been precipitating factors among this class of rural people for suicides. It was interesting to note that per household and per hectare debt burden increased over time of all farmer categories except large farmers. The analysis of burden of debt on different landholding categories reveal light debt burden on large farmers, even lighter than that of landless agricultural labourers. Small, marginal, semi-medium and medium farmers were heavily burdened as their share was found to be 95% in total outstanding debt. Table 1.1: Overview of Peasant Suicides by Landholding Category, 2000 to 2006 Size (in Acres)

Bhangoo (2006)

AFDR (2000)

Iyer and Manick (2000)

No. of Percentage No. of Percentage No. of Cases Cases Cases

Percentage

Landless

 6

12

12

15.2

25

31.25

Marginal Farmers (0–2.5)

 9

18

30

38.0

26

32.50

Small Farmers (2.5–5)

11

22

14

17.6

17

21.25

Semi-medium Farmers (5–10)

17

34

15

19.0

10

12.5

Medium Farmers (10–25)

 6

12

 6

7.7

 2

2.5

Large Farmers (above 25)

 1

2

 2

2.5

–

–

Total

50

100

79

100

80

100

Sources: The data in table have been culled out from: Bhangoo, ‘Farmers’ Suicides in Punjab’, 2006; Suicides in Rural areas of Punjab: A Report (in Punjabi), Ludhiana, Association for Democratic Rights, 2000; and K. Gopal Iyer and M.S. Manick, Indebtedness, Impoverishment, and Suicides in Rural Punjab (New Delhi: India Publishers and Distributors, 2000).

An Outline of the Crisis in Punjab  11

The trend in suicides is assessed most accurately in the census-like survey carried out by Punjab Agricultural University on each and every household in Bhatinda and Sangrur districts (see Table 1.2).22 The occurrence of suicide among agricultural labourers is significantly high too, corresponding with the findings of my own study. This indicates the dire need to probe deeper into the indebtedness as well as other deteriorating conditions among the vast sections of the agricultural labourers. Thus, of a total of 2,890 suicides in these two districts, 1,757 (61%) were farmers and 1,133 (39%) were agricultural labourers. In the case of farmers, 1,288 suicides (73%) were due to indebtedness, while 469 (27%) were due to other reasons. In the case of agricultural labourers, 671 suicides (59%) were due to indebtedness, while the remaining 462 (41%) were due to other reasons. Even before the report was officially published, the media reported how women farmers too are committing suicide. According to the report discussed above, 33 women farmers and 23 women agricultural labourers in Sangrur district committed suicide out of indebtedness. The maximum number, nine, was reported from Lehragaga block of Table 1.2: Suicides by Farmers and Agricultural Labourers in Bhatinda and Sangrur Districts Reason for Suicide

Farmers

Agricultural Labourers

Number

Average Debt (in `)

Number

Average Debt (in `)

Debt

550

294,907

277

47,347

Other Reasons

223

85,825

206

5,468

Total

773

–

483

–

Debt

738

336,220

394

70,036

Other Reasons

246

79,335

256

9,598

650

–

1,133

–

Bhatinda District:

Sangrur District:

Total Grand Total

984 1,757

–

Source: Farmers’ and Agricultural Labourers’ Suicides due to Indebtedness in the Punjab State (Pilot survey in Bhatinda and Sangrur Districts), Final report submitted to the Government of India, Department of Economics and Sociology, Punjab Agricultural University, Ludhiana; April 2009.

12  Those Who Did Not Die

the district. From Bhatinda district, a total of 23 women farmers and 26 women agricultural labourers committed suicide. The maximum cases were from the Talwandi Sabo block.23 The reasons of suicide seem to be the same. It is perhaps the first report of its kind that reported the suicides of women. Such deaths often go unreported in a society where pattas do not exist in women’s names for the landed or government schemes are invariably in the names of men.24 However, it becomes important to question the category of ‘Other reasons’ as there is a dire need to assess the effects of the agrarian crisis in terms ecological, social and psychological. The reasons of suicide are embedded in the same agricultural milieu. The current study intends to look at this very area to contextualize suicides within the family and community set-up.

Findings of My Survey It is against this backdrop that the data from my study will be presented in the following sections. A considerable section of families interviewed have been from landless families that rely on wage labour that is largely seasonal. A small section of the landless also happens to be Jat Sikhs who have become landless over a period of time because of the mounting crisis. There are two assumptions that inform my study. First, the impact of the agrarian crisis is borne by all sections of the peasantry, and that a large section dependent on agricultural labour and other agriculture-related occupations and livelihoods are as severely affected, if not more. Second, though indebtedness is a major component of suicides related to agrarian distress, reasons invariably presented as ‘other’ contain within them a number of economic and social obligations that a peasant household fulfil.25 These two assumptions are crucial to critically understand studies on indebtedness that somehow continue to reinforce the separation of the economic from the social. The imperative underlying what constitutes the reasons for suicide helps the state get rid of any responsibility as reasons other than ‘agricultural’ and ‘economic’ are made null and void.26 This separation further invisibilizes the misery and suffering of the peasantry as determined by oppressive social structures like caste, patriarchy and capitalism that determine their purchasing power and chances of survival. I will show the profile of the deceased and the current

An Outline of the Crisis in Punjab  13

status of the surviving families and then explore the causes of suicide. Importantly, I also show (Table 1.8) and discuss continued land alienation and decline in landholdings among peasant households even after the suicide has taken place. This will set the context for the next few chapters that will show how capitalism has a bearing on various social relations, especially in a state like Punjab where the modernization of agriculture is happening in a deeply traditional feudal society.

Who Are the Deceased? A look at the profile of the deceased and then the causes of suicide as narrated and perceived by the women respondents will provide an understanding of the rapidly changing contours of the peasantry in Punjab. The aftermath of a suicide is marked with the further erosion of family assets, such as sale of land and, at times, farmer families becoming landless too. In addition to the decline in status of farmers, in terms of landholding, there are other problems that beset the entire community. Where the agrarian crisis is concerned, peasant suicide is the symptom. Usually, it is the outcome of a combination of reasons or untenable circumstances that a family puts up with. It might be years of economic distress without any relief and having put up with many demands around oneself. However, what triggers the act of suicide can be an immediate event. It is not within the scope of this study to probe more deeply into the psychological aspects of peasant suicide. However, without even attempting to do so, a simple overview of these causes reveal to us aspects of the agrarian crisis as lived out in the daily lives of both farmers and agricultural labourers. Let us have a look at the profile of the deceased (see Table 1.3). Most of the farmers (95%) were below 60 years. In fact, over 3 out of 5 (63%) were in the age group of 18 to 40 years and other 3 out of 10 (31.6%) were between 40 and 60. The average age of the deceased was 38 years with the oldest 71 years old and the youngest, a mere 13. Three of the deceased were less than 18 years when they committed suicide and other four were above 60 years. Being a predominantly agricultural economy with Jat Sikhs dominating the agriculture scene, the sample of 136 families largely comprises Jat Sikhs and Dalits with Hindus and others falling into the

14  Those Who Did Not Die Table 1.3: Profile of the Deceased Characteristics

N = 136

Percentage

Age group (years) up to 18

3

2.2

> 18–40

86

63.2

> 40–60

43

31.6

4

2.9

> 60 Average age (years)

38 yrs

Caste Jat

95

69.9

Majhabi

20

14.7

Ramdasia

10

7.4

Ravidasia

2

1.5

Bairagi

2

1.5

Other

7

5.1

Landless

35

25.7

Marginal (less than 2.5 acres)

36

26.5

Small (2.5–5 acres)

28

20.6

Semi-medium (5–10 acres)

25

18.4

Medium (10–25 acres)

10

7.4

2

1.5

Landholding

Large (more than 25 acres)

‘Other’ category. The current population of Punjab is 2,77,04,234 (Census of India 2011). The Sikhs constitute over 63% largely based in the rural areas. Whereas the Hindus with a population of 34% are concentrated in urban Punjab. Interestingly, the relationship of landlessness with being Dalit emerges most clearly right from the beginning in the sample as will be shown later. Table 1.4 lists the caste-wise break-up of the families covered in the survey.27 This is representative only of my survey sample and not of the districts mentioned. Around 70% of the deceased were from the Jat Community. In fact, all the 10 families in Ferozepur covered in the study were from

0 0%

7

5.1%

Count

(Percentage)

Total

10

0 0%

2 1.5%

Count (Percentage)

Bairagi

136

0 0%

2 1.5%

Count (Percentage)

Ravidasia

Count

0 0%

10 7.4%

Count (Percentage)

Ramdasia

Other

0 0.0%

20 14.7%

Count (Percentage)

Majhabi

10 100%

95 69.9%

Count (Percentage)

Ferozepur

Total

Jat

Table 1.4: Caste-wise Break-up of the Deceased

12

0%

0

0 0%

0 0%

0 0%

4 33%

8 67%

Muktsar

29

14%

4

0 0%

0 0%

5 17%

4 14%

16 55%

Bhatinda

11

9%

1

0 0%

1 9%

1 9%

4 36%

4 36%

Moga

37

0%

0

1 3%

1 2%

3 8%

3 8%

29 78%

Mansa

19

5%

1

1 5%

0 0%

1 5%

0 0%

16 84%

Sangrur

7

14%

1

0 0%

0 0%

0 0%

0 0%

6 85%

Barnala

11

0%

0

0 0%

0 0%

0 0%

5 45%

6 55%

Faridkot

16  Those Who Did Not Die

the Jat community. Even in Muktsar, Mansa, Sangrur and Barnala, over two-third of the families covered were from the Jat communities. However, there are suicides occurring in the Dalit families too, which, almost entirely, is the landless section. • Overall, 20 (14.7%) of the deceased belonged to Majhabi Sikhs. This was mainly found in Muktsar and Moga districts where over one third of the deceased belonged to the Majhabi Sikhs. • Altogether 10 (7.4%) of the deceased were from the Ramdasia community and majority of them were from district Bhatinda, followed by districts Moga and Mansa.

Multiple Causes of Suicide The major reasons turn out to be increased indebtedness, harassment by bank agents and arhityas, crop failure and desperation at the lack of viable solutions. Loss of male pride and humiliation in the inability to fend for families or retain family land makes them vulnerable to suicide. This study also covers families where suicides have taken place among landless labourers too.28 The breakdown of the agrarian system makes this section experience the most acute distress, as it is dependent on wage labour on the agricultural economy; it is now perennially short of income to meet the most basic needs. Since there is often a combination of reasons in which families cope with distress, one attempted to collect multiple reasons from the respondent as she recalled or was aware of. However, the trigger point for suicide would be one of these reasons (see Table 1.5). If we look at the various causes taken together which prompted the victim, then loan pressure could be considered the major cause followed by mental tension and harassment by the loan agency (arhtiya or bank recovery agent). Loan pressure was reported by 107 (78.7%) of the 136 respondents being interviewed in the eight districts of Punjab. Mental tension accounted for the second main reason as the cause for suicide where 92 (67.6%) of 136 associated this as a reason along with other reasons. Harassment by loan agency was reported by 66 families (48.5%). In most of the districts covered, this reason was reported as the second main cause for triggering

An Outline of the Crisis in Punjab  17 Table 1.5: The Varied Causes of Suicide Total Loan pressure

Count Percentage of total

107 78.7%

Mental tension

Count Percentage of total

92 67.6%

Harassment by loan agency

Count Percentage of total

66 48.5%

Family tension

Count Percentage of total

41 30.1%

Others

Count Percentage of total

34 25%

Crop failure

Count Percentage of total

24 17.6%

Non-payment of crop by arhtiyas

Count Percentage of total

1 13.97%

Alcoholism

Count Percentage of total

17 12.5%

Drug addiction

Count Percentage of total

8 5.9%

the suicide, except in Ferozepur and Sangrur. In Ferozepur two respondents indicated harassment by loan agency as the cause of suicide. In Sangrur it was crop failure cited as the second main reason for triggering the suicide. Non-payment of crops by the arhtiya was the other cause indicated by 14% of respondents interviewed. This was mainly reported in the districts of Bhatinda and Barnala. Nearly 17.6% of the respondents also cited crop failure as the major cause of suicide. This was reported by over a third in Sangrur and over 40% households in Muktsar. This is significant as it suggests that in 82% of cases, the main source of agricultural income was not hit, implying that it is the terms of trade under capitalist agriculture that runs against them. However, in the case of district Ferozepur and Bhatinda, it was mental tension which could be considered as the most important cause, whereas in district Faridkot, harassment by the loan agency was reported as the most important cause, when all the reasons are taken together.

18  Those Who Did Not Die

Ironically, in Punjab, as in all other states where peasant suicides are happening, the gift of the Green Revolution—the high-cost pesticides—has turned out to be the noose too to vanquish life itself of the peasant. Ostensibly to increase crop yield (more to prevent damage, not increase yield), it seems to have become the easiest means available for the distressed peasant to put an end to his life. Over 70% of the deceased in this survey had resorted to death by consuming pesticide, popularly referred to as ‘spray’ by everyone. Suicide of all categories has been many times accompanied with high alcohol intake and/or drugs, though not quantified. Even then, half of the deaths in the ‘Other’ category are a result of consuming an overdose of drugs for intoxication, usually allopathic medicines. The other half is of peasants who have willed themselves to death by retreating into a complete silence without food or water in some cases.29 This very thin line between suicide and heart failure is the reality of lakhs of peasants and labourers today. In this manner, it would be impossible to estimate the huge number undergoing deep anxiety and sleeplessness, fighting feelings of suicide, not eating or not communicating. Table 1.6 lists the purpose of loans along with the category of landholdings. It shows how and why loans grow and what seems ostensibly spent on agriculture is actually taken or used for fulfilling basic family needs—small and big. The above table shows that over 9 out of every 10 farmers contacted had taken loan for some purpose. All the semi-medium farmers’ families contacted had taken loan. This was followed by marginal and small farmers (almost 95% of farmers contacted), landless farmers (90%) and medium farmers (80%). Out of the two large farmers’ families contacted, only one had taken loan. Agricultural activity was reported to be the major purpose for taking loan, as this was reported by over 31% of the farmers contacted and is the only one dominant across all categories. Agricultural loans continue to be understood as being restricted to the purchase of machinery or tractors, seeds and fertilizers or installing pumps at deeper levels. For a section of the landless, loans taken from non-institutional sources, for purposes of different kinds of earning arrangements, have also been referred to as agricultural loans in this survey. This is because it is also referred to as money required for hiring of labour or hiring of tractors and combine harvesters; for

4

1

125

Medium

Total

11

Semi-medium

Large

41

17

Marginal

Small

51

Landless

No.

91.9%

50.0%

80.0%

100.0%

94.4%

95.3%

89.5%

Percentage

31.5%

50.0%

50.0%

45.5%

40.6%

38.2%

15.2%

Agriculture Purpose (Percentage)

15.5%

0.0%

12.5%

9.1%

15.6%

15.8%

17.7%

13.2%

50.0%

12.5%

13.6%

6.3%

17.1%

11.4%

12.3%

0.0%

0.0%

0.0%

3.1%

7.9%

25.3%

Household (Percentage)

Purpose of Loan House Loan Building repayment (Percentage) (Percentage)

Table 1.6: Category-wise Farmers Who Have Taken Loans along with the Purpose of Loan

6.4%

0.0%

0.0%

4.5%

3.1%

7.9%

7.6%

Medical (Percentage)

13.7%

0.0%

12.5%

13.6%

18.8%

9.2%

16.5%

7.3%

0.0%

12.5%

13.6%

12.5%

3.9%

6.3%

Marriage Other in family (Percentage) (Percentage)

20  Those Who Did Not Die

some among the landless, it can mean leasing of land or hiring of agricultural implements too. Building of houses (15.5%) and marriage in the family (13.7%) were other two important reasons cited. Over 13% had also taken loan for repayment of earlier loans. This is the vicious debt trap where earnings simply go into regular interest payments or partial repayment of pending loans. This was found to be highest among marginal farmers (17%), barring the single large farmer family. The above analysis also shows that loan for marriage in the family was reported by almost all the categories of farmers. However, the trend was reported higher in the case of landless and small farmers. As we shall see in Chapter 3, while only 13.7% state marriage in the family as a loan purpose, almost half of the indebted families have spent loan money on these social occasions. Around 6.4% had also taken loan to meet medical expenses in family. This was reported higher by the landless and marginal farmers’ families. Again, agricultural loans are used for meeting health expenses too. With the percentage of loans being the highest in the case of the landless for household expenses (25.3%), it is obvious that most of it is used for consumption and daily expenses. The plight of the landless is precarious as these families are so dependent on petty loans throughout the year for sheer survival and basic needs. There are other equally important reasons for which loans had been taken. Over 7.3% loans were related to litigation expenses, migration, setting up of a mill or buying a truck and importantly, for education expenses of children.

Profile of Families at the Time of Suicide In the interviews of women in the aftermath of a suicide, attempt was made to precisely assess the landholding at the time of the death of the person as well as in the current time, after some years, when the interview is taking place. These two sets of data have been compared to further show the manner in which landlessness increases in some categories as well as the extent to which sale of land continues for most categories even after a suicide. This brings out the alarming fact that erosion of landholdings and other agricultural assets

An Outline of the Crisis in Punjab  21

continues after the suicide in any family. And sale of land for debt repayment is often known to precede a suicide too; in many cases, suicides have occurred after a person has sold some part of the land in debt repayment. Over half of the respondents (52.2%), at the time of suicide of the family member, were—either landless or had land less than a hectare (2.5 acres). Other one-fifth belonged to the category of small farmers, having land between 1 to 2 hectares (2.5–5 acres). Therefore, over 70% families covered in the study were either landless or had land less than five acres. Given the reality of poverty, these happen to be the poorest of households visited in the state.30 As such, the poverty level of farm households, across the country, is more than that of all rural households. • Overall 35 (25.7%) of the households covered during the survey were landless. However, this was found to be higher in the districts of Faridkot, Moga and Bhatinda where more than 40% of these households had no land. Similarly, in district Muktsar also, one-third of the households were landless at the time of suicide. • Similarly, 36 (26.5%) of the total families covered in the survey belonged to the marginal landowner, having less than 2.5 acres of land, at the time of suicide. Their proportion was higher in the districts of Barnala (43%), Mansa (40.5%) and Ferozepur (30%). • Twenty-eight (20.6%) households covered in the study belonged to the category of small farmers at the time of suicide in their family, having land between 1 to 2 hectares. The proportion of this category was found to be higher in districts of Faridkot, Barnala and Ferozepur, which was in the range of 27.3%–30%. However, in terms of number, 8 (21.6%) of the 37 households covered in Mansa belonged to the marginal farmers. • Altogether, there were 25 (18.4%) families falling under the category of semi-medium farmers (having land between 2 to 4 hectares) at the time of suicide. Their proportion was found to be highest in districts of Sangrur (31.6%), followed by Barnala (28.6%). In terms of number, six families, each in the districts of Sangrur, Mansa and Bhatinda, were found in the same category at the time of suicide in their family.

22  Those Who Did Not Die

• The overall proportion of medium farmers’ households (having land between 4 to 10 hectares) was 7.4%. None of the households in this category were found in the districts of Moga, Barnala and Faridkot. • Only two of the families, in the district of Sangrur, had land more than 10 hectares at the time of suicide.

Post-suicide Scenario If we compare the landholding situation of the same families after the occurrence of suicide or at the time of survey, it shows a very disturbing scenario (see Table 1.7). • Landholding size has decreased across all categories. • Most of the small, semi-medium and medium farmers covered under the study have sold their land. • Landlessness has increased across categories, especially in Bhatinda and Mansa.

Increase in Landlessness Overall there has been 63% increase in the number of landless households, from 35 to 57, after the occurrence of suicide in the sample covered in the study. The proportion of the landless households in the total households covered increased from 25.7% before the occurrence of suicide to 42% after the incidence of suicide. Table 1.8 reveals some extremely important findings, which has a bearing not only for the households or areas surveyed, but beyond. For one, it indicated a sharp increase in landlessness, post suicide. Post suicide, landlessness within my sample had spread to all districts, indicative of its spread and intensification. Second, it suggested a decline in landholding among all categories of farmers. As can be seen above, a significant section among the marginal farmers had joined the landless; the number of small farmers had shrunk to merely eight, with many of them becoming marginal farmers; most of who were semi-medium farmers had become small, marginal or even landless.

Total

Large (more than 25 acres)

Medium (10–25 acres)

Semi-medium (5–10 acres)

Small (2.5–5 acres)

Marginal (less than 2.5 acres)

Landless

3 3 30% 0 0 0.0%

25

11 8%

10 5 4% 2 2 1.5%

Pre-suicide

Post-suicide Percentage of total

Pre-suicide

Post-suicide

Percentage of total

Pre-suicide

Post-suicide

Percentage of total

136

0 0%

18 14.3%

Post-suicide Percentage of total

Each district

1

28

Pre-suicide

3

10

2 20%

3

4 40%

36

43 31.6%

Post-suicide Percentage of total

0 1 10%

Pre-suicide

Ferozepur

Total

35 57 42%

Pre-suicide Post-suicide Percentage of total

Table 1.7: Landholding Pre- and Post-suicide across Categories in the Eight Districts

12

0.0%

0

0

0%

0

2

2 16%

3

0 0%

2

3 25%

1

4 7 58%

Muktsar

29

0.0%

0

0

0%

0

1

2 7%

6

2 7%

4

5 17%

5

13 20 69%

Bhatinda

11

0.0%

0

0

0%

0

0

1 9%

1

0 0%

2

3 27%

3

5 7 64%

Moga

36

0.0%

0

0

3%

1

2

3 8%

6

5 14%

8

17 46%

15

6 10 30%

Mansa

20

10.5%

2

2

5%

1

2

2 11%

6

8 42%

4

3 16%

3

2 4 16%

Sangrur

7

0.0%

0

0

0%

0

0

1 14%

2

1 14%

2

4 57%

3

0 1 14%

Barnala

11

0.0%

0

0

0%

0

0

0 0%

0

0 0%

3

4 36%

3

5 7 64%

Faridkot

35 (Percentage)

36 (Percentage)

28 (Percentage)

25 (Percentage)

10 (Percentage)

2 (Percentage)

136

Marginal

Small

Semi-medium

Medium

Large

Total

Number

Landless

Category (pre-suicide)

10 40.00% 0 0% 0 0%

4 16% 1 10% 0 0% 18

8 28.6%

16 57.1%

13.2%

0 0%

22 61.1%

43

0 0%

0 0%

31.6%

Small

Marginal

8.1%

11

0 0%

4 40%

7 28.00%

0 0.0%

0 0%

0 0%

Semi-medium

3.7%

5

0 0%

5 50%

0 0.00%

0 0.0%

0 0%

0 0%

Medium

Category (post-suicide)

Table 1.8: Decline in Landholding across Categories and Rise in Landlessness, Pre- and Post-suicide

1.0%

2

2 100%

0 0%

0 0.00%

0 0.0%

0 0%

0 0%

Large

41.9%

57

0 0%

0 0%

4 16.00%

4 14.3%

14 38.9%

35 100%

Landless

An Outline of the Crisis in Punjab  25

Basically, other than the large farmers, whose sample was too low to make any observation, significant numbers in all other categories of farmers’ households have either sold their land entirely or some proportion of their total land. Marginal farmers are more likely to sell their entire landholding to repay debts, given the small landholdings they have to start with. Of the 36 families covered, 22 (as much as 61.1%) had sold their entire land. In the case of 25 semi-medium farmers’ households covered in the study, 4 (16%) became landless, 10 (40%) became small farmers and other 4 became marginal farmers after the incidence of suicide in their families. Similarly, 4 (14.3%) of the small farmers’ households covered became landless and 57% became marginal after the incidence of suicide. The impact was however less severe on the medium farmers’ families. Out of the 10 households covered, 4 became semi-medium and another 1 became marginal farmer after the incidence of suicide. Its broader implications lie in the fact that it means that the conditions that led to the suicide in the first place continue to be a burden on the bereaved household. And two, more widely, it suggests a process of immiseration, whereby a significant number and proportion of farmers are steadily and relentlessly being forced into landlessness, being pushed out of farming, possibly even out of agriculture. Out of the 101 landed famers’ households covered in the study, 90% had sold their entire or some amount of land (see Table 1.9). In the districts of Muktsar, Bhatinda, Moga and Barnala, sale of land was reported by all the landed farmers’ households covered during the survey. The total amount of land sold after the incidence of suicide by the 101 landed families covered in the study is 228 acres. On an average, 2.26 acres of land per household was sold after the incidence of suicide in the family with a maximum of 14 acres (reported in district Bhatinda). Given that 5.3 acres is an average, it is indicative of the fact that even those with over 5 acres of land in Muktsar are not finding agriculture viable, a fact that is likely to apply even to those with higher landholding. All the small and semi-medium farmers’ households covered in this study had sold their land after the suicide in their family, whereas 86% and 70% of the marginal and medium farmers, respectively, had sold their land (see Table 1.10). In the case of semi-medium farmers’ households, on an average, 4.4 acres per farmers’ household sale of land was reported, followed by 2.5 acres per farmer household in

Total land sold

Max

Average

Count

Total

1.54 5.50 15.38

2.26

14.00

228.23

10

9 90.0%

91 90.1%

Count Col (Percentage)

Yes

101

1 10.0%

10 9.9%

Count Col (Percentage)

No

Ferozepur

Total

16

16 100.0%

0 0.0%

Bhatinda

6

6 100.0%

0 0.0%

Moga

42.50

10.00

5.31

56.35

14.00

3.52

5.82

1.75

0.97

Amount of land sold (in acres)

8

8 100.0%

0 0.0%

Muktsar

Frequency of farmers who sold their land

Table 1.9: Frequency and Amount of Land Sold After the Suicide, in Each District

49.90

5.00

1.61

31

26 83.9%

5 16.1%

Mansa

28.10

10.00

1.65

17

14 82.4%

3 17.6%

Sangrur

21.20

9.00

3.03

7

7 100.0%

0 0.0%

Barnala

9.00

2.50

1.50

6

5 83.3

1 16.7%

Faridkot

An Outline of the Crisis in Punjab  27 Table 1.10: Frequency and Amount of Land Sold after the Suicide, by Landholding Category Frequency of farmers who sold their land Total

Marginal

Small

Semi- Medium Large medium

No

Count Col (Percentage)

10 9.9%

5 13.9%

0 0%

0 0%

3 30%

2 100%

Yes

Count Col (Percentage)

91 90.1%

31 28 86.1% 100%

25 100%

7 70%

0 0%

10

2

Total Count

101

36

28

25

Amount of land sold Average Max Total land sold

2.26

0.83

14.00

2.50

228.23

29.94

2.26

4.39

2.51

0.00

5.00

10.00

14.00

0.00

63.37 109.82

25.11

0.00

the case of medium farmers’ households and 2.3 acres per farmer household in the case of small farmers’ households. Given that these are averages, this suggests that farmers in these categories are being forced to sell a significant proportion of their land—in average terms, at least a quarter of their land among what are now marginal farmers, and over 30% among small farmers and semi-medium farmers. Altogether, over 100 acres of land was sold by semi-medium farmers’ households covered after the incidence of suicide in their families, followed by over 63 acres by the small farmers’ households. It is in this manner that the process of depeasantization continues. Sale of land continues even after the death of a farmer. In this process of land alienation, there is an increase of land concentration with better-off farmers; those who find farming unviable continuously sell parcels of their land to larger farmers who continue to reap benefits. The logical end of this process is greater amounts of land being concentrated in the hands of a very few, whereas the vast majority will either practise a subsistence agriculture—if they can—or move out of agriculture altogether. Even across the country, there has been a decline in the number of total operational holdings (plots actually tilled) by 41 lakh between 1992 and 2003. For these households, agriculture is simply not worth their while. With rising input costs, it’s been most difficult for those with small plots of land to carry on: operational holdings below one acre have declined by 47 lakh

28  Those Who Did Not Die

in this period.31 And a disproportionately high number of marginal and small holdings are owned by Dalits, Adivasis, lower backwards and other disadvantaged sections. The process of depeasantization that began in the early 1990s in Punjab has only increased much more since 2000. A study done by Punjab State Farmers Commission with Punjab Agricultural University showed that among the farmers earlier operating up to 4 hectares (10 acres), 22% joined the labour market, 23% took up low-paid private/government jobs and 27% started some low-skill self-employed work. Around 23% of those who left farming were not satisfied. Those who sold land to repay debts were worse off. Around 10% were living on very meagre land rent as ‘distress rentiers’. Only 8.7% large farmers sold land in contrast to 36% of their smaller counterparts. The absolute gain of large farmers is evident in several ways. Over 70% of large farmers who left farming were fully satisfied. However, among the small and marginal farmers, only 26% were satisfied and 23% were dissatisfied. Around 24% were still unsettled and wanted to change to a new occupation or profession.32 All assumptions of who are the most affected seemed to be changing even as the survey was beginning. The lives of the landless dependent on agriculture—both in cash and in kind—need to be documented as in the current study. Clear traces of bonded labour continue to exist in parts of the Malwa region, even in the families one met, as loans are taken from farmers on whose lands these families work. Suicides have happened here too. The magnitude of the crisis across the country is so unimaginable that no study can capture it in entirety. In this predominantly rural country, about 650 million people are dependent on agriculture alone for their livelihoods; and we 1.2 billion for our access to food. The well-orchestrated attack on agrarian India is reflected in the fact that the average monthly per capita expenditure of rural India is an unbelievably low ` 503 even in the year 2007. This average includes rich farmers and large landowners; millions of rural people get to spend much lower than even that each month.33 Punjab, the land of prosperity, is also drawn into this whirlpool of chronic want and deprivation. As expected, while meeting comrades and friends in the peasant unions, one was continually drawn into the debate over whether we see Punjab as a semi-feudal or capitalist economy. The debate continues undeterred, often determining both alliances and strategies, in

An Outline of the Crisis in Punjab  29

the midst of much hectic organizational work too. Undoubtedly, the legacy of the debate on the mode of production in India is a long and vexed one; in the case of Punjab, the modernization of agriculture that began in the late 1960s entailed the advent of capitalist-intensive agriculture. But the horrors of the clash of a traditional society with a growing moneyed economy are evident to all sections of the peasant movements. In such a context, the semi-feudal/capitalist economy binary neither captures the lives of ordinary people and their daily concerns nor the transition processes and its impact on entrenched social norms, including its gender dimensions. Even before the propaganda of prosperity in Punjab could be sufficiently unmasked in this country, the state has witnessed the exodus of thousands of farmers and labourers from agricultural production. Capital accumulation today marked by the mindless plunder of resources, exploitation of labour and capture of world markets is unprecedented; however, the current form of capitalism seems to be revealing aspects that have a significant bearing on the prevalent Marxist feminist understanding of women’s role with respect to production and social reproduction. Capitalism seems no longer keen on the reproduction of a section of its labour force as it vanquishes entire communities of the peasantry and the working class. The emergence of a modern economy in a feudal traditional set-up has untold repercussions on all sections of the peasantry. The plight of Dalit and landless agricultural labourers, marginal farmers, women, youth, children and the elderly needs close scrutiny in the context of agrarian crisis; these overlapping categories are as much a part of the peasantry as the farmer who ploughs the field or takes the produce to the mandi or signs or leaves a thumb impression on the dotted lines of loan papers of banks or private money lenders. The next few chapters will narrate the repercussions of agrarian distress on women and families through use of testimonies, more data and some reflections.

Notes   1. The humiliation associated with working on another’s field is confined to the home state only; otherwise the willingness to migrate to distant shores to take up work of any kind is reflected in the growing numbers of Sikhs in western countries, especially Canada. Such migration is more widespread from the Doaba region. There are preferred categories of work that a peasant can take up outside

30  Those Who Did Not Die agriculture, of which joining the army is held in high esteem followed by working with the government.  2. Three objectives characterized British policies in Punjab: First, Punjab was developed as an ideal colonial market for the British to sell their manufactured goods and purchase cheap raw materials for their industries. Second, the spearheading of the armed struggle against the British by the Bengal army in 1857, mainly from Oudh, resulted in Punjab becoming the recruiting base for the British Indian army. Young men from the state also made up the bulk of the cannon fodder in the two world wars, a trend that continued well past national independence. Finally, Punjab was strategically thought of as an effective barrier to tsarist Russian expansion. Consequently, a network of military cantonments was built across Punjab and the North Western Frontier Province. See Master Hari Singh, ‘Introduction’ in Agrarian Scene in British Punjab (New Delhi: The People’s Publishing House, 1983).   3. The commission agent or mediator between farmers and buyers for the marketing of agricultural produce and is linked to both the credit market and the product market.   4. Earlier labourers lived off the vegetables, fodder, some grains, et cetera, from the medium or large farmer. Though I was still able to see some Dalit landless people being able to bring home some gaajar or muli or saag from the fields even now, many people opined that the sharing of agricultural produce was more widespread earlier. The sheer lack of access to fodder makes it difficult for many to engage in livestock today as a source of income.  5. See pages 72–74 in Vandana Shiva, The Violence of the Green Revolution (Mapusa, Goa: Other India Press, 1992). The book is a passionate critique of the Green Revolution with well-researched facts and literature.  6. Perspectives, Abandoned: Development and Displacement, appendix 11, pp. 185–186, quoting RBI figures.   7. D. Narasimha Reddy and Srijit Mishra have discussed in detail how these changes have been most disastrous for a small farmer–based agriculture as in India. See D. Narasimha Reddy and Srijit Mishra, ‘Chapter 1: Agriculture in the Reforms Regime’, in D. Narasimha Reddy and Srijit Mishra (eds), Agrarian Crisis in India (New Delhi: OUP, 2010), 16.  8. K.C. Suri, ‘Political Economy of Agrarian Distress’, Economic and Political Weekly, (22 April 2006), Special Issue on Suicides by Farmers.  9. This thought is most well expressed in a memorandum submitted to the Government of Punjab on 13 September, by the BKU (Ugrahan). The existence of life on earth is made possible by the hard labour of the peasantry in the production of food. The labour of the peasantry holds society together. However, the same peasantry that produces food for society and gives life to its inhabitants is languishing today in misery. Peasants are committing suicides as they are unable to deal with the high-priced inputs as well as the fluctuating minimum support price. It is the companies that are prospering from the high prices. The state is directly responsible for the misery that the hard-working peasantry is undergoing. 10. The extent of utilization of family labour in the light of availability indicates that about 44% of the family labour remains unutilized in Punjab agriculture.  This proportion decreases with the farm size; it is about 49% on marginal farms followed by small, semi-medium, medium and large farms with 48%, 46%,

An Outline of the Crisis in Punjab  31 43% and 36%, respectively. See Sukhpal Singh, ‘Status of Agricultural Resources in Punjab: Need for Alternatives’, in R.S. Ghuman, Surjit Singh and J.S. Brar (eds), Globalization and Change, (New Delhi: Rawat Publications, 2010), 273. 11. An average farm-owning tractor has utilized tractor services to the extent of 19.15% of its normal use required, indicating that this costly capital remains idle for about 81% of its normal required use. See Sukhpal Singh, ‘Status of Agricultural Resources in Punjab’, 2010. 12. Narinder Kumar Jeet, A Trail of Blood Follows the Peasant Struggles in Punjab; Countercurrents.org (14 October 2010), available online at http://www. countercurrents.org. 13. Commission agents have been resenting the direct payment system of the produce to the farmers that the state government seems to be considering for implementation. Under the direct payment system, the peasant will get full payment of crops and be freed of the commission agent. Also the peasant would obtain better quality inputs and repay loans according to convenience. 14. Punjab State Farmers Commission and Punjab Agricultural University, Status of Farmers Who Left Farming in Punjab (Ludhiana, September, 2007). 15. Ranjit Singh Ghuman reveals, on the basis of empirical evidence, the wide variations that exist with regard to the proportion of rural non-farm workers between census data and ground realities. See Ranjit Singh Ghuman, ‘Rural Non-farm Employment Scenario’, Economic and Political Weekly, (8 October, 2005). 16. Sukhpal Singh, Manjeet Kaur and H S Kingra, ‘Indebtedness among Farmers in Punjab’, Economic and Political Weekly, (28 June, 2008). 17. I quote from summary findings presented by Professor Shergill at the session on Punjab Economy at the 52nd annual conference of the Indian Society of Labour Economics held at Patiala, 12 December 2009. Since then it has been published to the press too. See http://www.financialexpress.com/news/fivefold-raise-infarm-debt-in-punjab/562817/0 (accessed 10 February 2010). 18. Ibid. 19. This study was conducted by Punjab Agricultural University, Ludhiana on behalf of the Punjab State Farmers Commission, Government of Punjab. 20. Sukhpal Singh, Manjeet Kaur and H.S. Kingra, ‘Indebtedness among Farmers in Punjab’, Economic and Political Weekly, (28 June, 2008). 21. K.S. Bhangoo, ‘Farmers’ Suicides in Punjab: A Study of Bhatinda District’, Journal of Agricultural Development and Policy 18, nos. 1 & 2 (2006), 13–32. 22. Farmers’ and Agricultural Labourers’ Suicides due to Indebtedness in the Punjab State (Pilot survey in Bhatinda and Sangrur Districts), Final report submitted to the Government of Punjab, Department of Economics and Sociology, Punjab Agricultural University, Ludhiana, April 2009. 23. Anuradha Shukla, ‘Women Not Immune from Farm Suicides: PAU Study’, Hindustan Times, 19 April 2009, Chandigarh Edition. 24. Suicides by women farmers get reported occasionally. See P. Sainath, ‘How the Better Half Dies By’, August 2004, http://www.indiatogether.org/2004/aug/ psa-womenfarm.htm; Aparna Pallavi, ‘When the One Who Dies Is a Woman’, 18 September 2007, http://www.indiatogether.org/2007/sep/agr-womensui.htm (both accessed 2 December 2008). 25. Education of the young is yet another major source of expenditure that the privatization of education has made impossible for the poor peasantry. It is

32  Those Who Did Not Die unfortunately not covered in this study. Chapters 4 and 5 address how marriage costs and rising health care costs, respectively, lead to increased indebtedness. 26. P. Sainath has critically noted how the Maharashtra state government engages in much creative accounting while assessing which suicide is a farmer’s suicide. The government is free to interpret what constitutes a ‘genuine’ or ‘eligible’ farm suicide. The total number of suicides in six districts of the Vidharbha region between 2001 and 2006 were 15,890. For 2005, a column that begins at 2,425 ends with establishing 273 as genuine and due for compensation. See P. Sainath, ‘Maharashtra: “Graveyard of Farmers”’, The Hindu, 14 November, 2007. 27. Jat Sikhs form the most dominant community in Punjab, holding much of the political and economic power. The community is also characterized with a deep pride in identity and a conservative outlook.   Majhabi Sikhs are supposed to be descendents of the Chuhra caste who embraced Sikhism. Guru Gobind Singh apparently brought them into the faith in appreciation of their having carried the mutilated body of Guru Teg Bahadur from Delhi.   Ramdasia Sikhs seem to be a subcaste of Julahas (weaver). They had suffered immensely after the Industrial Revolution when weaving was under attack. They took onto farming as a profession.   Rai Sikhs trace their lineage to a Rajput clan. They are popularly known as the tigers of the borders. There is another version of their joining the Sikh faith after being prosecuted for not giving their daughters in marriage to Aurangzeb. 28. I was following the trail of suicides by word of mouth through peasant union contacts. In Ferozepur, the first district I had begun with, one began hearing of suicide incidents among the landless while leaving. My untested assumption that suicides happen within farming families for the typical ‘loss of pride’ and ‘fall in status’ received a jolt. One was able to look for and find such incidents subsequently, that is, in the next district Mansa. The inclusion of landless families was also dependent on the peasant unions being engaged in work among the landless. 29. See the section on ‘Mental Health of Suicide Group’ in Chapter 4. 30. At the national level, over 77% of farm households own less than five acres. The National Sample Survey (NSS) 61st Round had shown that the majority of farm households—89%—are marginal and small farmers. According to NSS 55th Round, the monthly per capita expenditure on food items of farm households was ` 278.74, while that of all rural households was ` 298.57, making it evident that households with less than 10 acres suffer from hunger and malnutrition. This consumption would characteristically be even less for women and girls in such households. See Maithreyi Krishnaraj and Aruna Kanchi, Women Farmers of India (New Delhi: National Book Trust, 2008), 8–9. 31. J.P. Singh, ‘Changing Agrarian Relations in Rural India’, Indian Journal of Agricultural Economics 61, no. 1 (January–March 2006), 43. 32. Karam Singh, Sukhpal Singh and H.S. Kingra, ‘Agrarian Crisis and Depeasantization in Punjab: Status of Small/Marginal Farmers Who Left Agriculture’, Indian Journal of Agriculture and Economics 64, no. 4 (October–December 2009), 601–03. 33. Of this ` 503, 60% is spent on food, and 18% on fuel, clothing and footwear; ` 34 is spent on health and ` 17 on education. See P. Sainath, ‘The Decade of Our Discontent’, The Hindu, 9 August 2007.

2 Dynamics of Women’s Labour Hum Mehnatkash is Duniya se Jab Apna Hissa Mangenge Ek Baag Nahi, Ek Khet nahi Hum Saari Duniya Mangenge Neither an orchard, nor some land We, the toiling masses The day we ask for our share Claim we shall the entire world (Faiz Ahmed Faiz)

If we assume patriarchy as exploitation and control of women’s labour and sexuality, the role of women in times of agrarian distress becomes one of persistently negotiating with the same in day-to-day life and in specific situations and contexts within the household and outside. From ownership to land and access to wage work to fulfilling household responsibilities, women’s position is continuously being determined in relation to the patrilocal, patrilineal family, in a society that is deeply segregated with class and caste divisions. Amongst the women interviewed, the specific ramifications of class and caste are clearly evident, giving an insight into the larger social order and the tumultuous economic changes taking place across agrarian societies such as in Punjab, and reshaping women’s lives. Negotiating with patriarchy often implies the loss of small gains and advances made by women and facing newer hardships. This chapter will outline the separate and overlapping issues in the domain of women’s labour, encompassing areas of both production and social reproduction, to show how distress has deepened and the struggle for survival become a more uphill task. The analysis also brings into light the voices of women respondents—whether they are Jat-Sikh women, who had participated in agricultural production

34  Those Who Did Not Die

before mechanization took place; or Dalit landless labourers, who are dependent on seasonal wage labour that is increasingly becoming scarce; or young girls aspiring to step out of the agrarian economy. A predominantly agrarian mode of production and current sweeping changes in it are determining their lives. Despite a significant retreat of Jat-Sikh women from agricultural work, one came across a few women who are still involved in the back-breaking labour that family labour with own farm entails. Gurvinder Kaur1 of Muktsar district, in her early 50s, is engaged in all aspects of agricultural work on her 2 acres of land. Her husband had consumed pesticide and put an end to his life in 2003 due to the pressure of loan and harassment from the arhtiya. After every harvest, she repays the loan of ` 2.5 lakhs in instalments. There’s hardly anything left to live on from the ` 20,000 that she makes twice a year. It seems that nothing is working out fine for her. But I keep my spirits up for my children. Our livelihood is at stake. Agriculture is not enough to sustain us. We spend more than what we get. I am still in debt. The peasant union has put a case on the arhtiya so he is quiet for now. Before that he was after our life to usurp the land. What will eventually happen to our land is still uncertain, though. We spend so much on pumps and electricity, but the water supply is simply not sufficient. The land will never become what it was earlier.

Although Gurvinder Kaur involves her two sons in the agricultural work, she is keen that they adopt other skills to make their living. She invests in their education with searing doubts of how rewarding that will be. One of my sons is in Class X and the other in Class VIII. But who gives a damn to studies where the children of small farmers are concerned? People say Class X is nothing today. But I only know with what difficulty I have brought him up to Class X … It has become possible through my sweat and blood. I am fighting hard not to sell the land just for their sake.

She explained that being farmers, they can only take up a government job or join the army.

Dynamics of Women’s Labour  35

It is taboo for us to do any agriculture-related work in another’s field. We can do cotton-picking only in our own fields. Even if we have one or two acres, we are zamindars, different from mazdoors.

The caste and community identity she takes pride in places additional burden on her and most women like her. She conceded that sometimes small farmers were left with no other option but to sell their land to big farmers, ‘but in that case, everything is lost. No one will marry my sons.’ Selling the land is unthinkable for her. She is planning well ahead to sustain the family, protect her sense of Jat honour and working towards making her sons move away from agriculture. Keeping herself afloat with such tenacity, she has come to command respect from everyone in her village. Harjinder Kaur with 3 acres in Ferozepur district is engaged in direct agricultural production along with her three school-going daughters. She lost her son in 2005 when he consumed an overdose of some addictive substance; he was seemingly quite disturbed for a long time. Even though, the mother and her three daughters look after everything from the vegetable garden to livestock and housework; the daughters are looked upon as a liability and it is the husband who has wrested for himself the power to take all decisions, including who she is supposed to vote for. Her biggest concern today is whether they will be able to get another loan for the marriage of their daughters. Being productive in earning their livelihood does not necessarily liberate women from perceiving daughters as liability on whom money will be spent to make them ‘settle’ down or send them to their ‘own house’. Even as she recounted the changes in agricultural production processes of the last three decades in rather clear and pragmatic terms, she kept insisting that they were illiterate and helpless. Needless to say, chronic economic hardship erodes spaces that can nurture one’s self-esteem or pride in labour. For some who have married young and lost their husbands at a young age, the situation becomes a trap. A 29-year-old woman with two sons in Mansa district works all day long with her father-in-law. She was 19, when her husband committed suicide in 1999. They have 2.5 acres of land. She helps with household work and livestock too. She seemed sad and said she was terribly lonely.

36  Those Who Did Not Die

I do all the work but I have no choice. I was married at 17 and now I am feeling stuck because of the children. But even after working so hard I am not sure whether my children have any future. Decision-making is not in my hands. I only work….

These voices reflect the unknown side of an unfolding agrarian crisis, underlining the new challenges in women’s role and participation in agricultural labour. These voices also indicate how the absence of the recognition of women’s labour constricts their life prospects even more in times of distress. In all three cases cited above, women’s contribution to household labour has shrunken even as they began participating fully in earning activities or ‘productive’ labour and other women members take on that role in the family. The latter becomes even more of an uphill task with the entire agricultural system being on the verge of collapse. To add to the woes, the uncertainty of the future of their children continues to torment them. Gurvinder Kaur’s determination to get her sons married without having to sell the land and Harjinder Kaur’s hopes of a fresh loan to get her daughters married keep them working hard round the year. That their children will have a more redeeming future, especially the hard-working daughters of Harjinder Kaur who have to be married with loans, seems unlikely. Was this the life that the now 29-year-old woman had chosen for herself? The use of the feminist concept ‘women’s choice’ thus wears thin in the context of crisis—both economic and social—leading to newer vulnerabilities, more burdens and hard work in women’s daily lives and impacting the possibilities of a better future for their children. Despite completely engaging themselves in agricultural production, the women have to deal with real hard bargains in life. Evidently, the non-recognition and self-perceptions surrounding women’s work affect their future prospects and self-esteem, as they are torn between the socially segregated areas of production and social reproduction. Land is livelihood for women in predominantly agrarian societies. If dwindling agricultural income, rising input costs, deteriorating soil quality and depleting water tables are the cause of worry, the struggle for livelihood and the future of children have also become far more pressing concerns. No amount of hard work seems to ensure their survival and their children’s in the face of an economy that is placing insurmountable hurdles before the peasant community. It needs to be reiterated that these three women are but a few compared to most

Dynamics of Women’s Labour  37

women from peasant families. For many more, the bargain with life and life choices is much harder and more arduous. To understand the lives of the landless and other farmers—who depend solely on their physical labour—we need to locate the same within the context of the nature of women’s labour in Punjab.

What Is Women’s Labour Mechanization of agricultural production is the most significant feature of the capital-intensive agriculture ushered in by the Green Revolution in Punjab. The measures adopted and innovations introduced in this process of mechanization impacted the labour and therefore the lives of women and Dalits in the most adverse manner. The impact has been felt differently in different areas depending on the range of agricultural activities women were directly involved in. Studies have shown the first impact of the Green Revolution has been on the gross value product of each worker and that with the economic development of an area, participation in farm work by women declines.2 A large number of labour-saving mechanical innovations were introduced in Punjab that had a significant bearing on female work participation rate. Some of these include the introduction of pump sets, wheat threshers, tractors and wheat reapers. When social relations are weak and class inequalities are deepening, technology per se can be of precious little use. In a deeply traditional and feudal society like Punjab that continues to be a predominantly agricultural society, the adverse impact was borne mostly by two sections—landless agricultural labourers, including women, who are largely Dalits and families with marginal, small or medium landholdings across different castes. Those with large landholdings certainly benefited because of the increase in agricultural yield that generated plenty of surplus. More importantly, such sections even directed their investment in non-agricultural areas because of which their dependence on agriculture eased relatively, even while their profits swelled. Investing in other areas secured them financially with the next generation being able to move out of agriculture. However, for the vast majority that was and still is dependent on agriculture, the existing structured inequalities in social and economic relations

38  Those Who Did Not Die

got even further aggravated. This became evident gradually over a period of years. And the chronic and characteristic devaluation of women’s labour that patriarchy holds in its vicious grip in both feudal and capitalist modes of production plunged into an even deeper abyss as this chapter will explore. Before outlining the impact of peasant suicides on women’s labour, it becomes essential to briefly reiterate the feminist understanding of women’s labour, especially in the context of women in agricultural society. Changing feminist categorization of the relations between production and social reproduction has marked the crucial point of departure for a more comprehensive understanding of what constitutes ‘work’ in society. The rich and critical inputs of feminism over the years to the Marxist understanding of labour have seen the demarcations between certain categories become more specific: work/ labour; skilled/unskilled; visible/invisible; paid/unpaid; organized/unorganized; recognition/non-recognition, formal/informal and so on. However, the redefinition of these categories has made a slow impact on feminist movements and broader class struggles and has, at times, been completely abandoned in political practice. In India, much analysis has gone into ways of assessing women’s labour in terms of quantum as well as value without seeking ways to effectively question the persistent sexual division of labour. The spelling out of the routine and daily chores of women involved in the running of the household and family involves cooking, sweeping, washing; childbirth and child rearing; caring and nursing of the elderly; collecting fuel or fodder or both; vegetable growing and so on.3 There are differing combinations of these tasks depending on whether it is rural or urban setting and whether a woman is single, a mother, a daughter-in-law or a mother-in-law. Some of these tasks run for a period of few years while some are life-long depending on the woman’s age and the presence of other women in the family. Peculiarly, some of these tasks come back again in old age in times of crisis as we will see later in this chapter. It is difficult to surmise the extent to which other family members involve themselves in household work. Or, what are the other ways in which one makes household work an essential component of life to participate in; or whether it continues to be regarded as cheap labour that can be bought at the cheapest rates. A small section of women, especially in towns and cities, have resorted to hiring domestic labour along with the purchased household

Dynamics of Women’s Labour  39

gadgets and machines too. Of this small section, a tiny minuscule of women has also been able to free themselves notionally of the overall responsibility of the household and its domestic chores and gadgets. This may be through domestic ‘management’ involving male members, either through assertion or struggle. Sadly otherwise, the reality has remained the same for the vast majority of women in society. Meanwhile, it is even worse for domestic workers. Hired domestic workers continue to be badly paid with the most uncertain of terms and work conditions while at the same time replicating the entire litany of tasks in running their own households before going to and after returning from ‘work’. Or, at times, their tiny daughters take on the mother’s responsibilities. And, therefore, if we look at women in the context of agricultural society, we see how work further intensifies with women also being crucially linked to agricultural ‘activities’ whether they are landed or landless; however, agricultural ‘production’ continues to be portrayed significantly as a male domain in popular perception. The devaluation of women’s labour in this society manifests in women’s labour being unpaid and invisible most times, low wages, lack of access to paid work as well as exclusion from decisionmaking processes. Women’s agricultural activities are invisible and unpaid for the landed while paid agricultural labour implies unequal wages for women workers. In both cases, the daily drudgery of back-breaking domestic labour and caring for livestock and poultry gets taken for granted as women’s work. In the context of a deepening agricultural crisis, the labour of women—as well as of the landless as an entire significant section of the populace—faces several more hurdles, making it impossible to sustain lives and livelihoods. To understand this more closely, let us have a look at the lives and livelihood for various sections of women and the issues involved.

Peasant Women or Wives of Farmers Dependence on land is fraught with perils of a different order as all peasant struggles and studies on agrarian crisis reflect. In India, rural women face more obstacles than men owing to male preference in inheritance practices, male privilege in marriage, gender

40  Those Who Did Not Die

inequality in the land market or male bias in state land-distribution programs. In most cultures, as in Punjab, inheritance practices are patrilineal. Customary laws, often related to marriage, bar women from obtaining primary rights to land. Rather, they only have use rights through their fathers, husbands and brothers. However, access is not ownership. Women’s secondary rights become weaker when norms of social protection diminish. There are cases where pattas prove women’s ownership on paper, but the control of the land and agricultural produce is often in the hands of the brother-in-law or the father-in-law after the death of the husband. Often this is the case even when households of brothers run independently. Land-use patterns vary. In contrast to the situation of those directly engaged in farming, most women who own land either lease it out to collect money or the agricultural produce, let brother-in-laws manage the land or, at times, supervise the labour of sons or of hired labour, as shown in our study. Women gain control of the land and its produce under dire circumstances. Take the example of one of the three families with medium-size landholdings. Fifty-year-old Kulvinder Kaur, a Jat-Sikh woman, who lost her 31-year-old son in 2007, is engaged in intense agricultural work in addition to housework and caring of livestock. Having 13 acres, she hires male labourers and manages them. She is nursing two sick people in the family— husband and father-in-law. Peculiarly, there is no ownership of land, but she has complete control over it because of the frail health of the men and their growing physical inability to look after the land any more. Her husband suffers acute anxiety and low feelings due to his son’s suicide. Kulvinder Kaur too has had her share of three or four surgeries for which she has incurred debts too, but she is holding the land, the family, the hired labour, the animals and the sickness of the two men together by working day and night. Perhaps by the dint of her labour, she will actually manage to return the loan. One cannot fail to notice that it is only under these dire conditions and tragic circumstances—where male members are incapacitated—that women seem to be taking all decisions. Two women with over 10 acres of land in their name in Mamdot block of Ferozepur have a different story to tell. The land is in their name, but the decisions pertaining to sale of assets, fresh debts or newer investment are done by the brothers-in-law.4 The decision-making and control of one’s own assets for women is often determined by the family set-up.

Dynamics of Women’s Labour  41

Ownership and Control of Land During the course of the survey, women were asked whether the land was in their name and also whether they are involved in taking decisions and so on. In other words, the decision regarding the land, which was in their name, rests with them or not. Overall, it was found that of the total 79 respondents who owned land, 34 (43%) respondents reported that the land was in their name (see Table 2.1). However, out of these 34 respondents only 23 (67.6%) reported that they control decision-making related to the land. Therefore, over 32% of the women despite having land in their name have no control over the land. Ownership of land by the women was found to be highest in the case of medium farmers; although only five women from medium farm holding size were contacted during the survey. Three of them reported that the land was in their name. All of them were spouse of the deceased farmers, mostly (two, 66.7%) in the age group of over 25 to35 years. Two of them were staying in the joint family. However, only one of them, spouse of the deceased and over 60 years of age, reported that she has the control over the land. Therefore, the other two, despite having land in their name, were not in control of their land. Control of land was found to be highest among the small farmers. All the nine women, who had reported that land was in their name, had control over their land. Almost all of them were spouses of deceased farmers, in the age group of over 35 to 50 years of age. None of them were staying in the joint family (see Table 2.2). In the case of marginal farmers’ household, 17 (40%) reported that land was in their name. Most of them (88.2%) were spouses of the deceased, in the age group of over 35 to 50 years (58.8%) and staying in the single family (82.4%). However, 11 (65%) reported that they control decisions related to the land. Again, most of them (81.8%) were spouses of the deceased in the age group of over 35 to 50 years and staying in the single family (81.8%). Therefore, ownership and control over land was mostly found in the cases where the respondents are spouses and outside the joint family households. It is only in one rare case that a woman was found to be managing her land in addition to the land of her brother-in-law. When Mithu

9 50.0% 6 54.5% 2 40.0%

Count 18 Row (Percentage) 100.0%

Count 11 Row (Percentage) 100.0%

Count 5 Row (Percentage) 100.0%

Count 2 2 Row (Percentage) 100.0% 100.0%

Count 79 Row (Percentage) 100.0%

Small

Semimedium

Medium

Large

Total

45 57.0%

26 60.5%

No

4 80.0%

8 88.9%

15 88.2%

Wife

34 43.0%

0 0.0% 30 88.2%

n/a n/a 4 11.8%

n/a n/a

0 0.0%

1 20.0%

1 11.1%

2 11.8%

Mother

Relation with Deceased

3 3 60.0% 100.0%

5 45.5%

9 50.0%

17 39.5%

Yes

Ownership of Land

Count 43 Row (Percentage) 100.0%

Total

Marginal

Category of Farmers (after Suicide)

Table 2.1: Ownership of Land by Respondents Post Incidence of Suicide in the Family

9 26.5%

n/a n/a

2 66.7%

2 40.0%

2 22.2%

3 17.6%

18 52.9%

n/a n/a

0 0.0%

2 40.0%

6 66.7%

10 58.8%

3 8.8%

n/a n/a

0 0.0%

1 20.0%

1 11.1%

1 5.9%

>25–35 > 35–50 > 50–60 years years years

Age of the Respondents

14 82.4%

Single

4 11.8%

n/a n/a

1 33.3%

0 0.0%

27 79.4%

n/a n/a

1 33.3%

3 60.0%

0 9 0.0% 100.0%

3 17.6%

> 60 years

7 20.6%

n/a n/a

2 66.7%

2 40.0%

0 0.0%

3 17.6%

Joint

Type of Family

2 40.0%

23 67.6%

3 60.0% 2 66.7% 11 32.4%

Count 5 Row (Percentage) 100.0%

Count 3 Row (Percentage) 100.0%

Count 34 Row (Percentage) 100.0%

Semimedium

Medium

Total

1 50.0%

8 88.9%

9 81.8%

Wife

19 82.6%

17.4%

4

0 0.0%

1 50.0%

1 11.1%

2 18.2% 6 66.7%

7 63.6%

13.0%

3

0 0.0%

65.2%

15

0 0.0%

0 2 0.0% 100.0%

2 22.2%

1 9.1%

2 8.7%

9 81.8%

Single

0 0.0%

3 13.0%

82.6%

19

0 0.0%

1 50.0%

17.4%

4

1 100.0%

1 50.0%

0 0.0%

2 18.2%

Joint

Type of Family

0 9 0.0% 100.0%

0 1 0.0% 100.0%

0 0.0%

1 11.1%

1 9.1%

> 60 years 2 18.2%

Age of the Respondents

Mother > 25–35 > 35–50 > 50–60 years years years

Relation with Deceased

1 1 33.3% 100.0%

0 9 0.0% 100.0%

Count 9 Row (Percentage) 100.0%

11 64.7%

Yes

Small

6 35.3%

No

Control of Land

Count 17 Row (Percentage) 100.0%

Total

Marginal

Category of Farmers (after Suicide)

Table 2.2: Control of Land by Respondents Post Incidence of Suicide in the Family

44  Those Who Did Not Die

Singh sold part of his land to the arhtiya and got nothing in return, he committed suicide. This was in January 2004. His wife in Mansa block today manages the remaining land along with 1.25 acres of her husband’s brother’s land. Her son is depressed and alcoholic. She says that she takes all decisions as there is no other choice and that often becomes the source of tension too. Being both vocal and hard-working, she keeps on at her work, taking decisions too, related to the land, the livestock, the children and even the grandchildren. However, the low status accorded to women often affects their own self-perceptions in cases despite their not being in a joint family. Yet women are not seen as farmers—only as farmers’ wives.5 In a few rare cases, where women have ownership as well as control, there is a strange peace too of being ‘free’ of facing the daily tyranny of a violent and alcoholic husband. Kuljit Kaur, who is almost 40 now, is bringing up four children with the active support of her mother who helps her at every stage and is a strong moral support. Even this is rare by itself—getting the support of a mother or father. She has 3.5 acres land. Her husband sold off almost 1.5 acres of land for loan repayment and became alcoholic. Such was his dependence that there was no house left in the village from where he had not begged money to buy liquor. He would even sell off household items and used to inflict frequent violence on his wife. He committed suicide in 2005. Collecting the agricultural produce from her brother-in-law twice every year, Kuljit Kaur manages the livestock and other agriculture-related work from home. She plans other small investment and the education and future of the children. Although she feels overburdened, her relief in being able to gain some modicum over her life, assets and children is too evident to all. In cases where the husband had died long back, women appear to acquire some say in decision-making in matters pertaining to the land, but not ownership. However, such a situation is of no relief for marginal or small farmers because decisions around landholdings of a few kanals6 or 2 acres involve its lease out and collection of money twice a year. In such cases, the land is usually leased out. For over 50% of women in this survey with marginal or small landholdings, the income earned is between ` 10,000 to a maximum of ` 12,000 per acre twice a year, after meeting all costs. This is far from adequate to meet even the bare essentials in life. Daily expenditure is thus met by selling milk. The support of the panchayat or the peasant

Dynamics of Women’s Labour  45

organization in leasing out/leasing in land does prevail in the absence of a brother-in-law or father-in-law.7 Many Jat-Sikh women spoke of the impossibility of doing wage work because of the lack of social mobility. It is considered taboo for them to step out for work, especially in other people’s fields. However, when one is completely abandoned by family, there are few options left. In one case, a 65-year-old Jat-Sikh woman, who has nobody to look after her, undertakes wage work. She has overcome caste norms since there is no one left in her family. Also, no one else in the community cares for her. She earns ` 450 per month making cow-dung; ` 300 from someone who owns 12 buffaloes and ` 150 from someone with 5 buffaloes. The rate is usually ` 25 per month per buffalo. Though she is over with this paid livestock care work by 12 noon, the work is intense for her age. She wishes to undertake cotton-picking to augment her income, but the bruises on her hands do not permit it. Seeking other avenues of income is unthinkable even for the few who have managed school or a bit of college education. A 23-yearold girl began working in a beauty parlour for sometime after her father’s death, but her brother did not find it acceptable and she had to give it up. The wage work is accepted by Jat-Sikh women only in exceptional circumstances, especially in the face of starvation. Otherwise, they are not able to muster courage to go against caste norms that place tremendous restraint on their mobility. A 38-yearold woman in Mansa district, Charanjit Kaur, lost her husband in 1998. According to her, if she ever undertakes paid work, she will surely be ostracized from the village. ‘Man to kartaa hai … kaam nahin karenge to khaayenge kya’(I do wish … but how will I eat if I don’t work?), she asked. Her land is largely used to grow fodder for the livestock, which is her only means of living. This fear of being socially ostracized or uncertainty of familial approval was voiced by many women. Some like Charanjit were forthright while many others would express it in oblique manner. While the perils of capital-intensive agriculture threw many male farmers into starvation or suicide, for women in this scenario the situation becomes even more vulnerable. There have been cases where some Jat-Sikh women were disinherited by their in-laws after the death of a husband. The traditional patriarchal family has little interest in a daughter-in-law, especially when she is childless or more specifically without a son. So deep is the conditioning

46  Those Who Did Not Die

of a woman’s place in the house that even the self-perceptions of most of these women are quite negative, including their own response to women working outside the household. Regarding work, most women lightly negate the work they do or see it as something not worth mentioning. Therefore, though tending to livestock and fodder collection are pure economic activities that rest primarily on women, they do not see themselves as being earning members of the family. It is assumed by most women to be extended household work. If one were to therefore assess what the modernization of agriculture meant for women in Punjab, it simply threw them into a deeper abyss. First, as wheat sowing and wheat and paddy harvesting got mechanized, vast numbers of people found themselves thrown out from the process of agricultural production, especially those with small or marginal landholdings. In this way, large numbers of Jat-Sikh women got confined to the household. Second, the capital-intensive nature of agriculture put farmers into deep indebtedness, where thousands of thousands had to move out of farming or take the extreme step of suicide in desperation. Women’s roles too are being transformed through these rapid changes in agriculture production and productivity, including the role of landless women dependent on agricultural wage labour. The hard-working peasant woman of Punjab is referred to as the farmer’s wife, who has to fill in applications for a paltry sum that is doled out as a widow’s pension. The social cost of modernization thus becomes damaging, particularly for women and the landless. The autonomy of peasant families being self-sufficient has been based on women’s labour in this agrarian milieu. Women have always been involved in a range of activities through direct participation in agricultural production and processes. Women’s work in some parts of the region covered in this study included preparing the fields for sowing, breaking clods with mallet, making embankments, following the plough-dropping seeds, ensuring water flow and supply, hoeing, weeding, harvesting, threshing, winnowing and transporting. In other areas, women were involved in picking cotton, plucking maize cobs and millet ear-heads, harvesting groundnut and stripping sugar cane before crushing.8 There is no doubt that some of these processes have been made redundant with mechanization. Cotton-picking continues till today with large participation of women and girls from even families with medium-size landholdings. According to the location, Table 2.3 shows the kind of agricultural work women are engaged in today, among both the landed

Total

Semi-medium, Medium and Large

Small

Marginal

Landless 3 7.0% 6

Count

Row (Percentage)

Count

9.6%

13

Row (Percentage)

Count

4 22.20%

Row (Percentage)

Count

33.3%

0.0%

Row (Percentage)

0

Row (Percentage)

Yes

38.2%

52

50.00%

9

38.9%

7

48.8%

21

26.3%

15

Earlier

Outside in Own Field

Count

Category

Table 2.3: Agricultural Work Performed: Inside and Outside the House

22.1%

30

33.30%

6

61.1%

11

30.2%

13

0.0%

0

Yes

39.7%

54

50.00%

9

38.9%

7

53.5%

23

26.3%

15

Earlier

Work Seasonal on Own Land (Unpaid)

32.4%

44

0.00%

0

0.0%

0

18.6%

8

63.2%

36

Yes

5.1

7

0.00%

0

0.0%

0

2.3%

1

10.5%

6

Earlier

Work Seasonal on Others’ Land (Paid)

136

 18

 18

 43

 57

Total Household

48  Those Who Did Not Die

and the landless. Over 50 women recall doing outdoor agricultural work in the fields. Almost all women above the age of 55, with any amount of landholding, recall doing outdoor agricultural work. A few as young as 40 years of age recall the same too. However, there is hesitation among younger women to talk about it, as it is associated with the sale of land, which is painful or humiliating to recall. Current hardships cloud the past and become an inexplicable barrier in recalling these memories or in even letting them to be seen as remotely redeeming; women’s own perception of labour in this manner is eroded. It is only women above the age of 60 or 65 who were able to recall those years with sheer nostalgia.9 A 70-year-old woman in Moga district said: I used to work a lot on the land. My daughters used to work with me too. It does not happen now with younger women. My daughter-in-law cannot even think of it now as no one works. In any case, there is no land left.

Yet another woman of the same age in the same district who had initially categorically stated that women did not work outside any more, later admitted: I used to do a lot of work outside and my health was so good too. Then, the machines came. After some years, the land got sold too. In any case, women do not go out to work anymore. Not from farmers’ families.

The reference today is clear in caste terms as it is largely the Dalit women who step out of their houses to work in the fields. For Jat women, the refrain that women do not work outside and the quick admission of having worked in the past invariably used to conclude with the lament of there being no land now in the present context. When the obstacles multiply, women get thrown out first from the production process.10 The grip of cultural conditioning against work outside the house persists as women are markers of their caste identity and family honour. The crisis in agriculture in this manner legitimizes women’s place being confined to the household; it even suggests how the family labour that agriculture entails is dependent on the ideal conditions too.

Dynamics of Women’s Labour  49

Jasbeer Kaur has 1 acre of land and four buffaloes. Her monthly income is ` 2,500. I used to work in the fields when we had 2.5 acres. Now only 1 acre is left. I make my living from selling milk. My son has a heart problem. Earlier my daughters used to work in the fields too. There’s nothing left now for my daughter-in-law to work on. We need land for fodder too. We all sit at home now. What to do? There’s so much work inside the house too.

Even worse is the plight of women who have leased out their 1 or 2 acres and also have no livestock work. Managing a meal is an ordeal as the annual income is at the most between ` 10,000 to ` 20,000. In this way, impoverishment and lack of work fuel feelings of negativity and deep anxiety. The relationship of work to good health is often ignored in cold statistics on unemployment. It is this relationship that gets fractured. The damage incurred, therefore, is far worse than what is assessed solely in economic terms.

Wage Work and Narrowing Options The entire population of the landless is dependent on wage work or seasonal labour related to agricultural production. With agricultural production going through such tumultuous changes in terms of its non-viability, those dependent on seasonal labour are severely affected too. Working in shellers, mills or garages, driving tractors or trucks and operating combine harvesters can be a source of income for men, but only up to a limited extent, while women’s dependence on agricultural activities for wages is floundering strictly in terms of non-availability of work. Women’s work has received a severe blow in the last decade or so. In the face of spiralling debts, some male members become bonded labour to a zamindar for anything between ` 18,000 to 20,000 annually to meet simple household requirements. Debts accumulate when this money runs out, making them vulnerable to abject humiliation and abuse. When a suicide takes place in such a situation or other similar situations, women try to eke out an existence from whatever work they can lay their hands on to look after themselves and their families. But what then

50  Those Who Did Not Die

becomes a harder reality to cope with is the non-availability of work options for wage workers. Among the Dalits that constitute 30% of the total number of respondents, two aspects of wage work were pointed out by most women, the increasing non-availability of wage work and the shockingly low wages offered when it is available compared to the spiralling costs of purchasing the bare essentials of life. Seasonal work is available during times of wheat and paddy harvesting as well as in cotton-picking. Yet another source of income lies in picking gaajar (carrot), muli (radish) and potatoes. Picking cow-dung fetches ` 25 per buffalo. Women earn between ` 200 to ` 450 each month through such work. Many women resort to sweeping and cleaning in others’ houses. Despite the low wages it offers, it becomes the only source of income, especially round the year, when seasonal wage labour is not available. Women in villages closer to Bhatinda, Moga and Barnala district towns have access to domestic work, usually at the rate of ` 300 or 350 per month. There are also many instances of women working in the houses of big or medium farmers. In such cases, in addition to the salary, they are able to get small supplies of grains or vegetables or saag. Although the absence of caste restrictions on their mobility enables a far greater degree of participation in agricultural activities, the non-availability of work is a reality they have to contend with. Some women have resorted to tailoring, embroidery or carpet-weaving in their own houses. Barring these few areas of work, one hardly came across any other kind of home-based work that women engage in to earn a living. Countless women opined how the options of getting some paid work—either at home or by traveling a bit outside—simply do not exist. Living within the limits of such paltry earnings of occasional wage work is too difficult.

Scarce Earnings Women work hard on less-paid work, in addition to the unpaid labour at home. The possibility of earning an adequate income to meet basic needs is therefore scarce or non-existent. The fact that making ends meet is impossible is evident from an interview with a landless Dalit woman, the only one in the sample who has a regular part-time job.

Dynamics of Women’s Labour  51

I work as a part-time sweeper in an office and earn monthly ` 750, of which I spend ` 8 every day on commuting to my workplace. When there is seasonal work available, I am able to earn another ` 50 daily … but that is only for three months in a year. Long back when work was available throughout the year I used to earn daily only ` 10, yet there was no shortage of food. Now it is the same namak and chutney with rotis everyday, unless I can pick up some saag in the season from the zamindar’s fields. There is no question of buying any vegetables ever.

Swaranjit Kaur belongs to a village in Mansa district where over 30 suicides have taken place. The precious little a sweeper’s fixed wage can afford, along with the earnings of seasonal labour in a deepening crisis time, simply indicates the more poignant reality of the landless Dalits. Combined with her daily chores and coping with the grief of her son’s suicide in 2003, she works round the clock. She is still relatively better off than the other Dalit women who depend solely on wage work. Most women spoke of the non-availability of wage work.

Non-availability of Work An overall look at the kind of work women are engaged in to be able to earn some income involves paddy sowing, which is seasonal and lasts for barely a month. Cotton-picking, similarly, provides work for less than 60 days. The Malwa region has far less scope for potato-picking, which is more popular in the Doaba region. Some women, who also engage in occasional construction work or in brick kilns, said that they got a maximum of 10 days of work a month or 120 days a year. The lean periods are increasingly witnessing a proliferation of religious gatherings and events. As a 43-year-old woman in Pitho village of Rampura block in Bhatinda district said in a very matter-of-fact manner: When farmers are resorting to wage work in thousands, how do you expect us labourers to get work. But the reality is that no one gets work. And there is no NREGA scheme here either. We want to work.

52  Those Who Did Not Die

Again another 35-year-old woman from Ajitwal village in Moga1 block said: I want to work but there is no work available. I have small children to feed. Even my husband would be so desperate for work always. For us women it becomes even more difficult.

Almost all women in this block stressed on non-availability of work. Some engage in spinning and weaving, but that too is so negligible. There used to be outlets of khadi board, but those too have become largely dysfunctional. The setting up of industrial centres in Ludhiana and Jalandhar and elsewhere made the supply of readymade items available at seemingly affordable rates. This, the spinning and weaving that used to take place in households, is far less and largely for one’s own domestic needs of a warm khes (thick cotton sheet) or duree (thin carpet) made from used clothes. It is no longer a viable means of earning an income. The ordeal becomes insurmountable as women enter old age. Years of housework and agricultural work do not assure even the most minimal security and often they are abandoned by the families. In a village in Nathana block, a 65-year-old woman of a Ramdasia Sikh family is alone ever since her husband committed suicide in 2000. She said that she certainly expected to live better and could earn too. Abandoned by children for the loans that she still carries, she is keen to work and wishes for at least some more space in her house to keep a buffalo and earn money from selling milk. Even those young Dalit girls who have managed to study up to Class 12 or entering college, determined to step beyond the familiar terrain of home and village, are at a complete loss. Two sisters aged 18 and 19 in a village in Mansa block shared how they cope with looking after the family ever since their 25-year-old brother consumed pesticide in June 2008. The mother is suffering from hepatitis; loans of up to ` 50,000 have been taken for her treatment and meeting household expenses. One of them said: We are keen to work. Our topmost worry is our parents—how to stop them from worrying. We keep thinking of how they become well after this tragedy and what the future will be like. But tell us what work we can do. One of us can leave the village, if required.

Dynamics of Women’s Labour  53

Uncannily enough, another two sisters, aged 18 and 19, in a village of Nathana block in Bhatinda district voiced a similar predicament. Their 23-old-brother, earning ` 1,800 per month from a private establishment, hung himself in January 2009. The mother earns ` 700 from an anganwadi centre while the father is in bed with a chronic spine problem. Both sisters are keen to work and stressed repeatedly: We are ready to do anything and go anywhere. You tell us where can we go? We can go to Ludhiana, Jalandhar or even Delhi.

They assured us all that they can be like sons too. Even as they were in tears, they said how determined they felt. They have been applying for work in different places and occasionally figure out the costs of going for an interview. They recalled: Our brother always said we could earn more than him because of our education. He took on responsibilities too early in life and therefore had hopes in our education.

The aspiration of these young girls to be independent as well as look after their parents is the voice of awakening of an entire new generation of women. What can society offer to the younger generation that is no longer willing to be seen as a burden for being women, but whose obstacles are many and new? These are searching questions that are the biggest challenge to both peasant unions and women’s organizations. Among the 19 landless Jat Sikhs, families have either sold all land in the process of debt repayment or the woman has been disinherited by her father-in-law. Of this, only one family had been landless right from the beginning. Those who have sold land face much inertia and depression as they used to work earlier in the fields or at home. Their self-image too is that of somehow letting life pass by as there is nothing to look forward to or engage with.

Women and the Household Taking time out for the interview was not easy for almost all women as they are engaged in intense domestic labour. The reality of a

54  Those Who Did Not Die

society with patrilocal families hits hard as one discusses work and responsibilities with these women. There’s deference to the elders and hushed voices, as they continue to be the Bahus. Since the seeming protection of a man or any semblance of intimacy that comes with the institution of marriage is denied, it seems as though the times have even made the ‘labour for love’ myth dated in the villages of Punjab. The normal chores include childcare, sometimes of grandchildren too. Table 2.4 shows the range of activities women are engaged in while running the household and looking after its members. There’s the cooking of all three meals or sometimes two only. There’s cleaning of the house, courtyard, cowshed, utensils, clothes and livestock. There’s milking, looking after the vegetable garden, fetching drinking water and collecting fodder. Sometimes there’s spinning and weaving going on through the afternoons. Looking after the elderly is a regular feature in many houses and, in some houses, there are in-laws or even grown-up children who are bedridden requiring constant nursing and attention. There’s processing of milk into makkhan (butter) and lassi and other milk products. There’s cleaning and cutting of saag for hours on end. The saag made might be the only food item with chapattis that lasts for three or four days, but it takes no less than half-a-day to make it. Sometimes, it is done in small instalments of time and, therefore, seems to take no time at all. As is true of women across the country, each or any set of these activities are dismissed most lightly. It is assumed by women to be routine work or ‘who else will do it’. Other members in the family smile fondly while discussing women’s household work; a smile validating the unquestioned normalcy of women’s work—an unspoken pact of women never stepping out of these roles. This sexual division of labour and its seeming normalcy thus continues to accord less value to these chores and tasks, effectively circumscribing women’s access to either recognition, wages or resources.11 And the security and protection of family and marriage wear thin in all these households in a uniquely different way. There’s neither emotional security nor any hope for the future, except for the small solace they draw from the children’s future, if any. Almost 96% of women spoke of doing housework—those who did not were either too ill or too old or both.12 Women’s work in this manner remains unmitigated of any concept of leisure, holidays or retirement, both at a practical as well as notional level. A young woman puts it so well:

93.0% 18

Row (Percentage)

Count

Total

Count

Row (Percentage)

96.3%

78.7%

107

72.20%

94.40% 131

13

83.3%

15

76.7%

33

80.7

46

Child care

17

100.0%

40

Count

Row (Percentage)

56 98.2

Count

House hold Work

Row (Percentage)

Count Semi-medium, Medium and Large Row (Percentage)

Small

Marginal

Landless

Category

Table 2.4: Kind of Work Performed inside the House

47.8%

65

61.10%

11

27.8%

5

51.2%

22

47.4

27

Nursing Child and Elderly

69.1%

94

72.20%

13

100.0%

18

90.7%

39

42.1

24

Managing Livestock

57.4%

78

44.40%

8

77.8%

14

76.7%

33

40.4

23

Collecting Fodder

30.9%

42

66.70%

12

55.6

10

34.9

15

8.8

5

Work in Veg Garden

136

  18

 18

 43

 57

Total

56  Those Who Did Not Die

I help my father-in-law with the agricultural work and do all the housework. Who else will do it? I do not get the happiness of either this house or my mother’s house. My mother in Sangrur keeps calling me as I am always so sad. But I look after the children, the buffaloes and my mother-in-law who is ill. Who will do all this in my absence? So I work all day. There is no time to think. No time for leisure or pleasure….

There might be nothing uncommon in young girls managing houses of the urban working-class families and rural peasantry, but the number today is increasing also because of the absence of anyone else to do this work.13 Sexual division of labour is replicated across societies and generations and the agricultural crisis pulls women down even more at such times. Young girls get involved in the running of the household and looking after siblings so that parents can continue to work. An 18-year-old in a village in Faridkot district is looking after the entire household of seven members, as this arrangement helps the adults go out on wage work. She was only 13 when she became a mother to her brother’s newborn. Her brother committed suicide and her sister-in-law supposedly ‘left’ the house. She shared how she always wanted to study, but her responsibilities in the house were important too. She was clearly aware of her role in the family that helped her parents earn a living. The positive self-esteem was rare; her coming to terms with it equally poignant. Most unsettling, however, was the inevitability of it as expressed by some of us discussing the hardships of the family as we left the house. The normalcy accorded to young girls trapped in housework is hard to challenge. In retrospect, the interview of Charanjit Kaur in Bhatinda district seems to set a pattern of women’s care work throughout the region— a district where one came across the highest incidence of prolonged and serious illnesses. Her 17-year-old son committed suicide way back in 1996. The problem had just begun with pests. At that time we did not understand crop failure. Both sale of land and the pressure of the arhtiya to return loans became unbearable for him although his father was there and two other brothers.

Dynamics of Women’s Labour  57

She said how her second son was bedridden for years and she was taking complete care of him. She has also nursed her husband for long years. There was total gloom in the house. They have 1 acre left. Both she and her youngest son do seasonal labour. She said: I have done seasonal labour for too many years—earlier on our land and now for others. I have looked after the house and the children and looked after my husband and son through illness and disease. There will never be any happiness or peace in this house. I do not sleep at all. My son here does not sleep either. Of what use has my work been I do not know but I cannot stop working either.

She gets a pension of ` 250 per month and makes ` 100 per day for two months of labour in a year. She said cotton-picking is bad for health, but she is too old now to worry about death. Her only concern is that the youngest son might remain unmarried since they have only 1 acre left. Being well over 70, Charanjit Kaur has combined caring and nursing along with housework and seasonal paid labour too. Like her, being primary caregivers in rearing and nurturing children and families, many women continue to do nursing and caring of the ill and the elderly right through their own old age too. The seeming protection of a family is missing, but all duties and responsibilities remain. Women’s role in social reproduction is uncannily similar in many ways and yet varies depending on the family situation. More than once, it was reported how young mothers faint in the midst of work from sheer weakness and fatigue. Lack of nutrition is most telling without having to ask women about it. There were a few cases of women well above 65 looking after small children, even as their own health was suffering. In one village, a 68-year-old woman is bringing up her 7-year-old grandson with the complete help of her neighbours. They are the only surviving members in the family. The prospects of a life or future seem so bleak that there is hardly a soul in harmony with the environment and the circumstances they are in. Often, one would accost women sitting quiet or in total inertia, where household work holds neither meaning nor purpose.

58  Those Who Did Not Die

Some Reflections It is so challenging to specify what exactly recognition of women’s work would entail as the lack of recognition affects women in terms that are not only legal and economic, but also social and psychological. Being both overworked and often undernourished, physical health is always at stake. In the context of agrarian distress, both household economy and household labour are deeply affected. Being indispensable for the household necessitates foreclosing many other options for one’s development in terms of capacities outside the domestic realm. The struggle for the recognition of women’s labour in all its ramifications, far from being out of place in a situation of chronic impoverishment and distress suicides, will actually provide a perspective to how women are struggling in the face of such challenging times. Recognition of their contribution would make women be seen less as victims of a stupendous calamity and more in the light of an invisible and unpaid workforce. If the recognition of women’s labour was more visible in society, the devaluation of women would be correspondingly less. And challenging the sexual division of labour would rescue men from the perceived failed project of being the breadwinners of the family and women from the increasing dependence on the institution of family and marriage. At both an ideological and practical level, this would mean one step higher in recognizing the perils of an agrarian crisis and arming oneself against the terrible times. In the absence of any such challenge, women are mired deeper in the stranglehold created by caste, class and patriarchy.

Notes   1. Names of almost all women who have been quoted have been changed to provide relative anonymity. Each voice that has been chosen broadly represents the plight and dilemmas of many others like her.   2. The authors had carried out a correlation analysis of the geographical differences and shown how the differences in work participation rates were largely associated with three factors. These include proportion of workers engaged in agriculture, literacy among females and gross value product per worker. See also,

Dynamics of Women’s Labour  59 Martin H. Billings and Arjan Singh, ‘Mechanisation and the Wheat Revolution, Effects on Female Labour in Punjab’, Economic and Political Weekly: Review of Agriculture (1970), A 169–74.   3. All such activities, both routine and recurring, involving the life and well-being of individuals in their feeding, nurturing and caring can be assumed to be within the realm of social reproduction. Such activities can be assumed by any collective, such as community and state, as well as by participation of all family members inhabiting the living space and benefiting from the living arrangement. However, women’s position in the family, religious-feudal ideology and the shift towards a more individualized society under modern capitalism—all serve to tighten the grip on women in these traditional roles.   4. In fact, in both cases, the nephews were keen to be part of the interview and said openly, ‘she does not know anything.’   5. Across large parts of the country, even as men move out of agriculture, women remain confined to it. Within the rural economy, 83% of women and 67% of men continue to remain in agriculture despite the decline in this sector’s share in total employment. While the total proportion of male workers in the primary sector went down from 83.3% in 1972–73 to 67.1% in 2004–05, the proportion of female workers in agriculture went down from 89.7% to 83.3% only during the same period. See Maithreyi Krishnaraj and Aruna Kanchi, ‘Chapter 3: Broad Trends in Women’s Employment in Agriculture’, in Women Farmers of India (New Delhi: National Book Trust, 2008), 44. Also see, Bina Agarwal, ‘Are we Not Peasants Too? Land Rights and Women’s Claims in India’, SEEDS (New York, Population Council, November 2002).   6. One kanal is one-eighth of an acre.   7. The support structures women have in this context are discussed in Chapter 6.   8 See, Billings and Singh, ‘Mechanisation and the Wheat Revolution’ 1970.   9. Although that used to happen only when they were prompted to share more. The hesitation could either be due to the all-pervasive sense of doom in the current times that blurs the past or because of the lack of recognition of one’s labour over the years as a peasant woman. 10. A Punjab Agricultural University (PAU) study demonstrates how women’s work participation has been on constant decline since 1990. Even activities like visiting the fields to provide food for men or engaging in outdoor agricultural activities has gone down from 59.72 and 33. 61 in the early 1990s to 42.50 and 24.44% in current times, respectively. See Maninder Kaur and Sukhdev Singh, ‘Socio-cultural Dynamics of Farms Families in Punjab: An Assessment’, Journal of Agricultural Development and Policy 18, no. 1 & 2 (January–December 2006), 111–21 [Ludhiana: Indian Society for Agricultural Development and Policy]. 11. As per the National Sample Survey Organisation (NSSO) survey, 2004–05, 57% of women in rural areas and 19% in urban areas were engaged in collection of fuel wood for household consumption; activities related to food processing, such as husking and grinding grain, were engaged in by 15% of women; maintaining kitchen gardens and looking after livestock occupied 60% in rural areas and 24%

60  Those Who Did Not Die in urban areas. Jayati Ghosh discusses how most such unpaid household-based activities of women are clearly economic in nature, which would be recognized as such in developed countries because they are being increasingly performed through paid contracts, thereby becoming marketed services. Jayati Ghosh, Never Done, Poorly Paid—Women’s Work in Globalising India (New Delhi: Women Unlimited, 2009), 161. 12. According to the 61st Round of the NSS, as much as 40% of rural women and 50% of urban women over five years of age were classified as engaged in domestic duties, of which 30.7% of rural and 46.8% of urban women did not engage in any other work other than domestic work. Krishnaraj and Kanchi, Women Farmers of India, 68. 13. As per the NSSO survey, 2004–05 again, in rural areas, around one-fourth of girls are not in school, but are working as part of their regular activity and, in urban areas, around 12% of girls are so engaged. Even among those who attend school, a significant number of girls engage in unpaid household labour; more than 75% of them are forced to do so because of the sheer absence of others to do this work. Ghosh, Never Done, Poorly Paid, 164.

3 Dowry in Dire Times Dulhan banke gori khadi hai Koi nahin apna kaisi ghadi hai Koi yahaan, koi wahaan, koi kahaan re Chal ree sajni, ab kya soche ... Standing in bridal attire What a moment, she belongs nowhere. The familiar left behind; the future unknown Time to move friend, too late to wonder ... (Majrooh Sultanpuri)

Leaving the natal home for a woman is the hour of dispossession as expressed in this popular Hindi song that is played out often in weddings. The house where she was born and grew up has ceased to belong to her and she is standing at the crossroads, uncertain of what the future holds for her in the house she is being sent to. Dispossessed, it’s more like a journey in the wilderness. There can be no view of dowry that does not relate to women’s subordinate position in society as determined by the institutions of marriage, family, property and inheritance. This chapter is about the twists and turns in the lives of dowry providers in a primarily agrarian society, where dispossession of the small peasantry and landless sections is at an all-time high. The practice emanates from the lavish weddings and dowry culture of the Jat Sikhs, which grew alongside the changes brought about by the Green Revolution in terms of aspirations for higher standard of living and consumption, particularly in the Malwa region.

The Landless and Rural Poor Veerpal Kaur in Moga district is a Majhabi Sikh who is well over 60 years of age. She worked in a brick kiln along with her husband

62  Those Who Did Not Die

for years. They were routinely subjected to abject humiliation for owing money to the owner. After getting the eldest daughter married, her husband committed suicide in 1995. The debts began accumulating in colossal proportions. Even after her husband’s suicide, she had no choice but to continue working in the same brick kiln for seven more years. In 2001 and 2002, she somehow married off two more daughters. By then, the interest on the loan alone had piled up so much that the principal sum looked a pittance. With a paltry income of ` 7 per 1,000 bricks, it was anyway hard for her to repay her debts. ‘Having three daughters and getting them married was my biggest tension. I was able to free myself finally when the owner realized that he would neither be able to extract more labour from me nor the loan amount’, she said. Finding work is the most difficult thing in her life even today. However, she is relieved that she does not have any more parental responsibilities and that she has finally been able to free herself of the brick kiln work. A 50-year-old Raja Sikh woman sells vegetables and pays most of the earnings to a zamindar (landlord) in the village for a loan taken for her daughter’s marriage in 2007. In 1998, her husband had committed suicide under pressure of loan repayment and harassment from another private moneylender. Already indebted, she has had to raise fresh loans to sustain her livelihood. This is the case of many other women as well. Jasmeet Kaur’s son committed suicide in January 2009. She and her husband live on a monthly income of ` 3,000 that they earn from daily wages. Of the ` 3 lakhs spent in 2007 for the marriage of their two daughters, there was still ` 1 lakh left to be repaid. They were repaying this loan, along with the interest to the zamindar, by the skin of their teeth. Interest rates vary from 18 to 24% per annum and become the sole factor in undoing families across these districts. There are many more families like these who are compelled to buy their izzat. Marriage without some minimal expenses and a dowry—however small—is unimaginable to them. Humiliations, caused by moneylenders, seem more bearable than the anxiety of not being able to get a daughter married, which is perceived as a failure on the part of the family, especially the male head. Over time, dowry has come to mean a ‘groom price’, where a groom—eligible or otherwise—carries a price. As this study shows,

Dowry in Dire Times  63

fetching a groom has become the most costly purchase for farmers and labourers, pushing them into deeper debts. As this chapter will unravel, the vast majority of people in this society invariably find it beyond their means to afford a ‘groom price’. Sometimes a loan incurred for marriages by Dalit families amounts to ` 3 lakhs or more, which, by any standards, is an astronomical sum for those who largely survive on wage labour. Somehow, they have also come under the trap of emulating the kind of lavish weddings thrown up by the landed and moneyed castes and classes. A woman in Muktsar district has kept the loan amount a secret as it happens often. Her husband had taken a big loan for their daughter’s marriage in 2001 from a zamindar and some relatives. He worked very hard to repay the loans, but never shared his anxieties with his wife or children. We had an inkling that he was sinking. Within a year, he succumbed. He hardly used to sleep for days on end before committing suicide. I lost a son too from heart attack. How do I know what troubled him. He never shared either, she rued.

She plans to return the ` 1 lakh loan from the daily wages that she and her two sons earn. ‘The harassment by the arhtiya has become a routine affair. It’s so humiliating when he comes claiming the money,’ she said. Consumed entirely by their own worries and inability to pay the debt, little is left to imagination as to what was going on in the minds of the father and the son. What then prompts such a big loan? Despite the crisis, aspirations and expectations that the Green Revolution gave rise to persist, even as practices, such as lavish weddings or ceremonies, had become a norm. Upward mobility is a part of this and paying a dowry is one of the most accepted indicators of the exalted social status. Of the respondents who are currently in debt (125), almost half have spent loan money on a marriage in the family. Around 37 used loan money to marry off daughters, at an average loan amount of ` 1.9 lakhs; 12 took loans to marry off sisters-in-law, at an average of ` 2.75 lakhs, as against only 4 who took loans for marrying off sons at an average loan of ` 1.1 lakhs. Of the families who have used loans for dowry and marriage, 22% have some amount of landholdings. Of greater concern is that 23% of landless labourers are also in debt owing to wedding expenses and dowry. There are a few Jat-Sikh families who have become landless after having sold off their land

64  Those Who Did Not Die

in the process of repaying loans. A woman in Faridkot district said how her husband committed suicide in 2007 after selling off even the remaining last acre of land. Exorbitant interest rates can inflate even a small loan to look much bigger. The ` 5 lakhs thus became ` 9 lakhs and the land was not enough. She and her son now take land on lease to cultivate. The loans taken for agricultural purpose ended up in being spent on the wedding of their children, as it happens in many cases. They had incurred an expenditure of ` 3.5 lakhs for the marriages of their daughter and a son in 1998 and 2001. Such are the compulsions of survival that they are still constantly in need of loans. In yet another Jat-Sikh family, Tej Kaur’s husband and his brother in Giddarbaha block of Muktsar district consumed pesticide in 1999. The American bollworm had largely destroyed all crops and he had accumulated debts of over ` 9 lakhs. Even after selling his entire 10 acres of land, he could not repay the loan amount. Left alone to fend for herself, Tej Kaur today earns monthly ` 1,500 by maintaining livestock. She had to again raise a loan of ` 1.5 lakhs in 2006 to get her daughter married. She is still repaying it. Unlike many, she wished that her daughter got a decent job somewhere and did not meet the same fate as hers. Her sisterin-law, who had two daughters in their late teens, wanted them to find a job too and seemed not so much worried about their marriage. Tej Kaur acknowledged that the dowry amount was beyond their means. ‘Even that has not secured her future, as she too is a farmer’s wife’, she said. Women like her, though few, are well aware of the perils of being dependent on marriage in the face of agrarian distress. Yet, they spend the last penny, even at the cost of getting indebted, to get their daughters married in the hope of securing their future. The cycle of taking loan thus continues and so does the repayment process. In a highly stratified society based on class—caste, the inability to arrange a dowry, therefore, can lead to continuous torment resulting in both low self-esteem and self-worth. The burden that patriarchy thus places on men and families to get daughters married, in the face of chronic want and deprivation, pushes families further into debts. Lacking access to institutional loans, the poor are left with no other option but to approach private moneylenders and zamindars, who, taking advantage of their helplessness, tend to suck them dry.

Dowry in Dire Times  65

There are cases of suicides occurring immediately after a wedding in a house. Under tremendous pressure from the moneylenders, Hardev Singh of Rampura block in Bhatinda district committed suicide soon after getting his eldest daughter married in February 2004. He had taken a loan of ` 2 lakhs and had also sold off his half acre land. He went through a bout of depression and alcoholism before taking the extreme step. Today, his wife survives on the meagre monthly income of ` 1,000 from the sale of milk. She has been facing constant harassment from the arhtiya. Anxiety has made her insomniac and she knows that she has to soon prepare for the marriage of her second daughter, who is 17 years old now. In a village of Nathana block in Bhatinda district, two Majhabi Sikhs ended their lives in the months of January and March 2009—Satpal Singh and Gora Singh. Satpal, 23, hung himself from a tree near his house in January. He had got his third sister married in October 2008 by taking a loan of ` 2 lakhs. His two other sisters were married earlier. He could not cope with the mental load of the loan with his measly monthly earning of ` 1,800. Even the income from cotton-picking work and his mother’s salary of ` 700 from the local anganwadi job were not sufficient. With the father suffering from a spinal illness, the entire family is grieving copiously for losing Satpal. The youngest two sisters are keen that they work to augment the family income. They pleaded with us to convince their parents to allow them to work. One of them is doing her graduation while the other one is in high school. This overriding pressure of a loan seems to have been the same reason for another family in the village. Gora Singh hung himself in March. He had taken a loan of ` 2 lakhs. He spent ` 1.5 lakhs each on the marriages of two daughters in 2007 and 2009. Being a daily wage worker, he used to get work for barely 60 days a year, his wife told. The bank agent had harassed him so much that he became silent. His wife was visibly under distress: ‘How do I pay the loan now? It is over ` 2 lakhs.’ In the nearby Rampura block of Bhatinda district, a suicide happened in February 2009 when a 40-year-old labourer ended his life on railway tracks. He had taken a loan of ` 1.5 lakhs for his sister’s marriage in October 2008. Both mother and wife of the deceased confirmed:

66  Those Who Did Not Die

Raising the loan for his sister’s wedding made him very anxious. He even stopped talking to people. There was no work available. He was such a perfectionist that he never wanted to fail in anything. But life gave him no respite.

The nine-year-old son suffers from fainting fits whenever they talk about his father. His wife seems broken. All these accounts, however heart-rending, seem to indicate how impossible it gets for any landless labourer to afford a dowry. It is a scourge that has come to claim the lives of the providers of dowry as much as it used to claim young brides. There are also cases of suicide happening in anticipation of a marriage—morbid and violent means to avoid indebtedness. One can well imagine the sense of futility of a suicide victim and the anguish and torment of those left behind. A 40-year-old labourer, belonging to the Misri caste, ended his life on the railway tracks in April 2008. With four daughters to look after and work being either scarce or unavailable, he always lived in acute anxiety. His wife was still in a shocked state as she narrated the incident of suicide. Immediately after the father’s suicide, the villagers helped in getting the two elder daughters married with minimal expenses. ‘That was the major source of tension for him’, the neighbours added. Getting a sister or a daughter married is evoking a pre-emptive violent response among men in the families—with suicides taking place in the face of inability to avail of credit for paying dowry. Another fallout of this indebtedness is that grown-up children are increasingly abandoning their parents, as they do not see any reason to feel burdened by family loans. In a village in Nathana block, a 65-year-old woman of a Ramdasia Sikh family is living alone ever since her husband committed suicide in 2000. He had got four sisters and two daughters married before his death. Of the last loan of ` 1.5 lakhs from a private moneylender, ` 70,000 still remains to be repaid. All debts were raised to arrange for dowry. Otherwise, we would have managed somehow, she admitted.

After taking loans for their sisters, her sons turned their backs on her. Even at this age, she continues to work as a daily wager whenever work is available to repay the loans. She fervently wished

Dowry in Dire Times  67

that if she had a little more space outside the house, she could have bought a buffalo to augment her income. It continues to be advocated by some today that dowry ostensibly compensates a girl for forfeiting her right to inheritance. Far from this holding true for even the propertied class, that has assets to pass on to daughters or withhold, this practice has become the biggest burden for the providers of dowry, especially those who are struggling to make ends meet for survival itself. These people are on the fringes of society eking out a bare existence. They are the nonpropertied class. It becomes more ironical therefore how or why there continues to be an imitation of a decrepit ritual that is supposedly meant to bid farewell to the daughter and retain property for the son. When there’s no property to give to sons or daughters, why spend on dowry money and wedding celebrations? This cultural practice imbibed from the feudal practices of the landed castes and classes is leading to the total impoverishment of a large section of agricultural labourers. Let us now have a look at the landed Jat-Sikh families and the trend in lavish weddings that they have brought into society.

Dowry as a ‘Status Symbol’ for Jat Sikhs The surplus of the Green Revolution made it possible for the landed peasantry in Punjab to indulge in lavish wedding celebrations. In the 1970s, grand wedding ceremonies and dowries thus became notorious in Punjab. The decorations, the pandals, the feasts, the costly gifts became the means to flaunt their newly acquired wealth. This pomposity of large and medium farmers got emulated in smaller measure by those with less landholdings. Such was the euphoria of the Green Revolution that even though input costs were sharply increasing, fresh debts were incurred with confidence. However, this euphoria did not last for long, as per acre yields also started dwindling. Today, many landed families look back at such extravagant weddings with the mixed feeling of guilt and nostalgia. Recollections of loans made for weddings and dowry are invariably mixed with other disasters and losses happening simultaneously. The crop failure in the late 1990s is still recalled with trauma. Unused tractors bring

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the memories back of those halcyon days when they used to travel in them to other villages to attend weddings. For many of them, old debts persist like a festering wound. Indebtedness in rural society is not a new phenomenon. What is new is that it has now begun to consume the lives of the landed peasantry. There were at least two cases of suicides committed in the immediate aftermath of a sister’s marriage amongst those with considerable landholdings. In 2007, 31-year-old Satnam Singh of Ferozepur district committed suicide. He was the only son in the family. The family had 13 acres of land. Apparently, the huge loan that he had raised for his sister’s marriage took a toll on him. He had collected money in small sums from many people. He even went to the extent of pleading with relatives not to bring gifts and instead simply give cash. He had also taken a big loan to arrange a car to be given as part of dowry. We ended up spending ` 7 lakhs. He always remained tense and quiet after that. I would often console him by saying that these were part of his responsibilities. One day, he went to the field and consumed pesticide. He came home on the scooter and just collapsed. We called the doctor, but by then it was too late. He was dead.

Two years earlier, in August 2005, 23-year-old Dhyan Singh in Sangrur district one day came from the fields complaining of stomach ache. He had consumed the dreaded ‘spray’ as pesticide is popularly referred to. His mother said that the marriage expenses of his sister were weighing on his mind. He had taken a fresh loan when he already had a debt of ` 60,000. Within a month of her son’s death, the mother was forced to take another loan of ` 1 lakh for agricultural purpose to be able to cultivate her 4 acres of land. This new loan helped her to partially repay the earlier one. And part of it was spent in getting her another daughter married. ‘Life has to continue and responsibilities fulfilled’, she says. The neighbours nod in unison to this practical wisdom, as it seems. Yet what cannot escape scrutiny in such cases is the additional pressure a brother feels for being the only son. Women avail of loans more than once. They do this when they need to marry off their daughters after the suicide of their husbands or sons. Baljit Kaur’s husband in Sangrur district committed suicide

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in 2001. He had sold off his 1.5 acres of land and returned part of the money that he owed to a moneylender. After his death, she took a loan of ` 2 lakhs. She got the 1 acre of mortgaged land back and also managed to get the elder daughter married. Even a simple marriage costs at least ` 2 lakhs, including the cost of gold jewellery. She is struggling to pay back the old loan, but she will need this much amount for the second daughter’s marriage as well. As in the case of the landless, there have been suicides happening among the landed peasantry in anticipation of a daughter’s marriage, to avoid further indebtedness. A 68-year-old woman of Nathana block in Bhatinda narrates how her 40-year-old son Buta Singh committed suicide by consuming pesticide in April 2007 when he had to get his daughter married. The joint family has 10 acres of land. He had taken a loan of ` 2 lakhs for the treatment of his ailing wife, who was suffering from cancer. She died in 2002. My granddaughter was staying in her maternal grandmother’s house. They had found a groom for her and my son was asked to arrange ` 3 lakhs. The humiliation of not being able to arrange such a large sum made him mentally upset.

The grandmother had to put together ` 2 lakhs to get her married. She is still repaying that loan. Are such suicides then an act of defiance? Even if families view it as failure or defeat on their part, the act of suicide, in a way, is a refusal to comply with society’s sordid norms.

Anticipation of Loans and Sale of Land for Future Understandably, there are many more such people who are in deep anxiety. They are clueless as to how to get their girls married without selling off their land or without entering fresh loans. Marriage without dowry seems inconceivable to them. In 1990, Chur Singh, a Jat Sikh, in Bhatinda district had consumed pesticide after selling 2 of 6 acres of his land for loan repayment. He had six daughters; two of whom were married in 2001 and 2004. His wife is in deep dilemma.

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My husband was always anxious. I have debts of over ` 2 lakhs on me from the two marriages. Only four acres of land is remaining with us now. Do I marry my girls or repay the loan or take more? To tell the truth, my only concern is how to do all this without having to sell off the land. We work day and night—me and my daughters—doing tailoring, embroidery, everything else to avoid taking further loan. Yet if it comes to it, I will sell the land. It may fetch a high price but that is all we have that gives us food to eat. My brother-in-law never married for lack of money. Every family here has similar problems. I am doing all I can. Every day of my life is like a battle. Who will marry my girls without a dowry?

The house was abuzz with activity like a mini production centre. Without it being part of the formal interview, around 21 women mentioned the possibility of a loan in the immediate future in order to get a daughter or sister married. Of this, only three were in joint families. The pressure on nuclear families is acute in the absence of any support or joint sharing of responsibility. Seven of these 21 families are entirely landless, five of whom are Jat-Sikh families that have sold land in earlier times and become landless now. If one had formally assessed loan requirements for future weddings in the family, the picture would be far more grim and so too the unending cycle of indebtedness. In Mansa district, Kuldeep Singh, age 26, is concerned that his second sister is being treated badly in marriage. He is equally worried about his youngest sister and says they need at least ` 3 lakhs more. He is against dowry for himself and hopes that his sister gets a decent job. ‘She is the only one in my family to be doing post-graduation’, he said with a pride in his voice. Born in the 1980s, he is an offspring of the Green Revolution that was just beginning to show its ugly face. He may have quietly accepted all male responsibilities of the family, yet he can see through its ironies.

Gifts and Social Obligations Far from being a one-time affair, expenses incurred on getting a daughter married are rather an unending process, involving gifts to

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the in-laws on special occasions, during visits to either of the two houses, and at the time of the birth of a grandchild, as is a norm in many other parts of the country. A young man committed suicide in Sangrur district. The marriage expenses of his sister were weighing on his mind. Within a month of her son’s death, the mother had to take a loan of ` 1 lakh to buy presents for her daughter who was pregnant and living with her. She also had to spend some money on the grandchild before sending the daughter to her in-laws. It is all part of the parampara (tradition). One has to do this much, she said. That too came from the current loan they were living on. ‘Nothing can be done, you only need to take loan to return loan’, she added. She was spending ` 12,000 every six months to return the loan. Gifts and visits have to continue; else parents are faced with the ignominy and bitter pain of not being able to see their married children.1 In 2007, within a year of her husband’s suicide, a landless woman in Bhatinda district entered a fresh loan of ` 50,000 for marriage of her niece. She does tailoring, along with her father, for livelihood. Everyday the moneylender is at her door to claim money. In Mansa district, a woman shared painfully how her daughter was demanding ` 30,000 for her own son’s wedding. There is no way she can pay this amount as she is already indebted. But she finds the pressure from her daughter unbearable as the latter has threatened to break off all relations. A Majhabi couple of ages 30 and 24, in Moga district, committed suicide together in 1994 within six months of their marriage. The loan incurred for the wedding had perhaps become too unbearable for him the young man. Two of his sisters were married around the same time with loans of ` 40,000 and ` 50,000 each. Now his father has incurred a fresh loan for his granddaughter, who has attained a marriageable age. He said: I had to give ` 80,000 for my granddaughter’s wedding. No one is free from these obligations even now. I had no option. If I did not pay the relations would have broken down completely and that would have been very humiliating. I have a monthly expenditure of ` 2,500 on my medicine and now this burden of loan.

Married sons listening to interviews of their mothers would quietly add how loans were incurred for their own marriages too. In a village in Mansa district, a man shared how they were forced to

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sell two buffaloes for ` 45,000 to meet his wedding expenses. That affected the income for a long time, as there was no milk to sell for meeting household expenses. A woman with 7 acres of land had to take a loan of ` 1.5 lakhs for her son’s wedding. She ended up spending much more. Matters are worse for Jat-Sikh families who had sold off all their land. Having no land left was the biggest humiliation the family of Parminder Kaur was facing within the village and the community in Sangrur district. Her husband sold off the entire 10 acres to repay debts and committed suicide in 2000. Her three sons now work as daily wagers, earning ` 70–80 per day. But there is no certainty of work through the month. Prospects of marriage are considerably lower for someone who has no land. This further aggravates their humiliation and isolation from the community. She is also deeply concerned and feels ashamed that she cannot get her sons married. In addition to the shame of becoming landless, some women spoke of being unable to even afford the expenses for their son’s wedding. The burden single sons feel in getting a sister married is more commonly spoken while the single son’s own failure to get married is rarely voiced or finds an expression. A 26-year-old son spoke of the loan incurred for his sister’s wedding and the inability to return the loan. He added further that he cannot think of his own marriage and wished that he was not the only son as the burden on him is enormous. It is not so hard to fathom how this burden of patriarchy on boys and young men shapes their own masculinity. The sense of deep failure comes directly from the perceived role of a son with duties and obligations to be fulfilled as a son and as a brother. It matters little if he is the son of a farmer who has committed suicide; his duties have to be fulfilled in any case. An entire generation of son-preference in practice has come to a strange impasse with the young carrying such a humongous burden. The humiliation associated with sale of land affects the younger generation deeply too. A woman in Bhatinda narrated how a loan of ` 3 lakhs was raised for her daughter’s marriage and other needs in 1994. After her husband’s suicide in 1996, she sold 3 acres of land. Her 17-year-old son Jaswinder was badly affected by the sale of land. From 4 acres to 1 acre, it amounted to a loss of social prestige, which added to his depression. I have two sons left and just an acre of land. No one is ready to marry my sons. I cannot sleep; neither can this son of mine. I have

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had to nurse my husband and now him. The other son is out on work. No one is there to marry him too. The crop failure in 1996 was shocking. It was too early then for us to understand what was happening, said Charanjit Kaur.

The demand for more money and gifts and consequent harassment of married daughters is part of the overall ordeal and tough struggle the families face. A marriage with a dowry is not a one-time event as gifts for specific occasions are expected by in-laws. Harjinder Kaur of Sangrur district got her two daughters married without dowry after her husband’s suicide in 2002. But the consequences turned out to be devastating. One of them was harassed continuously for not having brought enough dowry with her. She committed suicide. She was only 22. The suicide of her own husband followed by that of her daughter left her shaken. She said that there is no escape from dowry if you want your daughters to be safe. Fortunately, her younger daughter is able to understand her tension and anxiety and supports her in small ways, especially in keeping her emotionally stable. Extraction of dowry and gifts in marriage touch many crucial aspects of a society based on caste and class hierarchies. This old script plays out with far more devastating consequences for millions of people, who, today, are on the brink of survival. It is clear that jostling along with economic issues are the social needs of the institution of family that are no less economic. A combination of factors work at sustaining patriarchy, beginning from traditional and feudal practices to colonial policies, social customs, law and low status accorded to women’s contribution to processes of both social reproduction and production. This percolates down to every stratum in society in either viewing the birth of a girl as a misfortune or as a liability that can be met by collecting sufficient money. While writing on dowry in Punjab, in the context of the agrarian crisis, it becomes essential to anticipate the tricky areas. These social and cultural crimes of a sordid society are no less economic. However, it is the same patriarchal mindset that evaluates compensation for farmers’ suicide in assessing the reasons of suicide as strictly ‘agricultural’.2 It has become critical to reckon whether dowry is social or economic or perhaps both, as the toll it takes on the working class and small peasants is all too heavy to be allowed to pass over.

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Nothing ‘Social’ about the Dowry System Dowry is as economic an issue as property, inheritance and family status. Referring to it as just a ‘social’ practice aborts any attempt to question the phenomena that directly contribute to women’s devaluation in society. It also grossly undermines the implications of this cruel practice for the majority of non-propertied class, as the scourge has seeped down to the bottom-most strata of the class–caste hierarchies. The dispossession of daughters was aided by the misuse of technology a couple of decades back in this deeply male-obsessed society. Once again, the introduction of a law was sought to deem the practice of sex-determination tests illegal, with the passing of the Pre-conception and Pre-natal Diagnostic Techniques (Prohibition of Sex Selection) Act, 2001. However, till date, reports continue to pour in about the prevalence of these tests in the northern region. Therefore, today the abysmal sex ratio in Punjab, being 893 in comparison to the national average of 914 females per 1,000 male births, eloquently indicates how interrelated all these issues are in both the state and across the country. The sex ratio in the age group of 0 to 6 years drops down further to 846 in Punjab. The roots of son preference run very deep into the history of the state. Female infanticide was widely prevalent in Punjab as in other parts of north India. While the British brought about legislation against the same, their policies regarding land ownership had a direct bearing on further pushing down women’s status in society.3 As in the case of any ruling class where the nature of political domination has far-reaching negative impact on various marginalized sections, women’s status was being determined time and again by various statutes, laws and technological innovations. Modern India saw the passing of the Hindu Succession Act finally in 1956 that for years continued denying women any rights to agricultural land. A recent amendment to the Act (in 2005) has sought to remove the anti-woman bias by scrapping the clause on agricultural land. However, this is still not applicable in the case of Muslim, Christian and Adivasi women. And, of course, as seen in the previous chapter, land ownership and the actual control over land are the contending realities where women rarely, if ever, manage to have both ownership and legal control on par with male spouses.

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Dowry cannot ever be a substitute for inheritance. Till today, such arguments continue to be made, falsely urging to come to terms with whatever little it accords to women. There is also a common tendency to equate dowry with stridhan.4 Many even assert that women can claim their share of property from their natal homes. Reality is that they seldom do so. The little or no control women have over stridhan is well borne out in court disputes pertaining to divorce and maintenance. Experience has shown that recovering it, even through the law, is a big ordeal. Ranjana Sheel argues how stridhan epitomizes ‘the institutionalisation of permanent dependence of women’.5 She argues that stridhan includes gifts given to the bride alone by her natal as well as marital families; while the dowry is given to the entire family, including gifts to extended families. According to her, equating stridhan with dowry ‘glosses over the significant bearing of caste, hypergamy, and property upon dowry besides providing it with cultural sanction’.6 The devolution of property in a predominantly patrilineal society quickly lends itself to a rationalization of anti-women practices as commonsensical. Even the victims internalize the dominant ethos of this oppressive ideology and mould their behaviour accordingly. Even as women’s expectations from natal families remain low, they do feel the need for some kind of resource that can provide income in the aftermath of a suicide. However, the anxiety of straining emotional ties with brothers and their families prevents them from even remotely imagining that there’s any more obligation from parents or brothers. In her research based in Delhi, Srimati Basu has shown how sisters disinherit themselves to be able to retain the affection of brothers or conversely considered bad or greedy when they demand their share of natal property. Women seem to endorse a modicum of negotiations in the current order and fear [...] being turned into the haklenewali, the social stigma of being usurping and greedy. The apprehension of losing the symbolic space of love represented by the natal family, as a space women could fall back on in case of problems in the marital home, often make women decline natal property in favour of a dubious dependence on marital and affinal resources, that is, the investment of staying married.7

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Her findings show how despite women’s seeming aversion to property ‘in their refusals of natal inheritance, property was in fact extremely important for women in addressing their worries and dreams.’8 In the current context, we are discussing of women who are unable to assert their rights over family resources despite having legitimately higher claim as a ‘widow’ in a nuclear or a joint family. It is a context imbued with deeply troubling questions as land as a resource or asset in the agrarian set-up is becoming increasingly unviable as well as the fact that natal families of women are undergoing similar predicament in agricultural yield and sustainability. Yet, legal entitlements and social sanction of the same would enhance the possibility and potential of women acquiring a degree of autonomy in decision-making and finding ways out for themselves and children. That was definitely echoed by many of the respondents in Punjab, despite it not being part of the structured questionnaire. Therefore, endorsing dowry or dismissing it as a social issue blunts the dynamics of dowry in times when there is an ever-widening gap of disproportionate assets and property among women itself. Further, the Brahmanical origin of this system has gone much beyond the Hindu religion.9 Referring to dowry as a means to appease the in-laws or as a girl’s share of her natal family’s resources does not enable in ideologically questioning a practice that is based on disinheriting women and keeping them subordinate through cultural and social sanction. Both dowry and stridhan more often become exhibits of family’s status. Probably rich families spend huge amounts on the wedding of sons too. However, if we step beyond the small propertied class, we see the tyranny of dowry played out in the lives of the Dalits and landless and small peasants. The sustained resistance to Brahmanism and Brahmanical culture has ushered in egalitarian changes in some spheres, but marriage and dowry continue to exert the same old pressure on the same communities.10 Intensifying the struggle against dowry in such manner as to reach out to women from the economically most marginalized sections is fraught with many obstacles. This lacuna is amply evident in the history of the anti-dowry campaigns across the country as it addressed women’s equal share in resources and legal rights, often unattainable for the majority. The middle-class assertions of equal rights in property and matrimonial home needs to incorporate the reality of today’s young generation of women, especially the

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women from the industrial working class, the urban poor and the peasantry. We in the women’s movement need to look at dowry under this new regime of retrenchments, factory closures, joblessness, displacement and farmer suicides that today have reached epidemic proportions. Then perhaps the campaign against dowry will acquire renewed vigour from those sections of women it renders most vulnerable. And, of course, the rights of working class and peasant women then will per se address structured inequalities that are creating vast class and social divisions between women. Property as privilege needs to be questioned, thereby paving the way for possibilities of these women being able to carve a future without dependence on feudal and patriarchal structures. One of the most telling outcomes of the Punjab Land Alienation Act of 1900 was that of rendering land as a marketable commodity. As Veena Oldenberg has shown, the British resolve to rationalize and modernize the revenue deprived women of any legal rights to land. The rights of the male individual proprietor also brought to an end the claims of various other members to the use and produce of the land. The creation of male ownership or proprietor subsumed the many shareholders to that proprietor—including wives, minor children, widowed mothers and unmarried daughters.11 This persisted in the post-independence era too. When the Hindu Code Bill was being debated in the Constituent Assembly, representatives from Punjab were among the most vociferous in opposing property rights for women. Today, the livelihood and empowerment prospects of millions of women, who depend on agriculture for survival, are affected by their legal rights on land. For many, these prospects have been enhanced by the recent Hindu Succession (Amendment) Act 2005. We are yet to see how this works out in practice and implementation. Years of subjugation blunt the abilities of a woman to claim her due. The patriarchal family is also not all too willing to set aside the woman’s share, especially in the aftermath of the suicide of a son. Paradoxically, a woman who claims her due share is perceived as ‘bad’ or ‘demanding’, while the father-in-law who facilitates the same is regarded benevolent. Both want the same to happen, but roles are set by society and culture to live quietly or be doomed. The woman in such an instance can be seen to be breaking the family while the in-laws who ‘give’ her the due share are keeping the family together.

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Obviously, the prospect of immovable property moving out of the family is unsettling. Yet, it is redeeming to see women claiming their share in a few cases. These cases are few and far between, indicating clearly the possibilities of assertion as well as the obstacles. Some women are well aware of the rights, but have been unable to enter open litigation for fear of being socially isolated. There’s barely any support. Panchayats and peasant unions often play a role in securing her rights, but in more conciliatory terms. And, of course, while consciousness and struggle for equity have propped up their bargaining capacities, women with little land or the landless Dalit are faced with insurmountable obstacles of a new order. The context in which it is finally happening is deeply impacted with capital-intensive agricultural policies and practices that have made both land and agriculture unviable. Land as an asset is moving more into the hands of big landlords, while small and marginal farmers are moving out of agriculture in huge numbers after selling their land. A 16-year-old girl in high school in Mamdot block of Ferozepur district said that she was keen to study and work and not marry when her mother mentioned the wedding expenses that they would have to arrange for her in a couple of years. But the girl is more deeply disturbed by the family’s economic plight. She sharply opined: How do we return the debt of ` 2 lakhs? What land is there to sell? We have only six kanals. How do we survive afterwards? Even marriage or education is possible only if you sell land, and we have no land. So what do you expect us to do? There’s no solution at all. We barely get ` 20,000 annually from crops. Our daily expense is met from the sale of milk.12

Her concern was whether to sell the land for her marriage, or education or to repay debts. Upset as she was in asserting the total lack of choices, her statement is true of many such families one met. What does the future hold for this generation of young girls and boys? And who are the social and progressive forces that have a stake in their future? The peasant unions in Bhatinda have focused on boycott of dowry as part of their political programme. This is a good beginning. However, the only vital factor that would boost all such efforts and become a force to reckon with would be the active involvement of young women in rural Punjab.

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Dismissing it as a social issue, the most evasive response elicited during the interviews from both peasant union representatives and academics not only adds to the inability to tackle a problem which has gained new dimensions but also prevents understanding of the complexities involved. Hence the feeling that focusing on dowry as yet another reason of indebtedness for peasants and labourers might take the attention away from the pressing issues of non-availability of work, high-cost pesticides, volatile market prices, need for curbing the power of arhtiya through legislation, subsidized electricity, et cetera. Even in the course of presenting the preliminary findings of the current study, sections of the media were eager to posit the findings against the claims of peasant unions.13 The unions are focusing on forcing the state government to acknowledge that there indeed is a crisis and other concerns appear secondary. The reluctance of the state to bear liability is not new, but it also complicates the process of identifying what are the reasons for which the farmer committed suicide and how strictly it is related to the state of agriculture. In this troubling context of the dispossession of the peasantry, especially that of increasing landlessness, one cannot stop to wonder how or why the practice of dowry continues to go unquestioned by even the most progressive of minds. If it is emulation of practices of the rich and upper castes, then we need to think of a broad politics that affects the peasant household and retrieves agricultural labour movements and peasant movements from narrow economist demands. For equality to be realized, social structures have to be destabilized even if it means the deprivation of propertied privileges that is accrued for some women through patriarchal protection. From a progressive point of view—Marxist, feminist or socialist—the challenging of structures of a system based on privileges will impel us to find ways that enhance the possibilities of self-realization of the working class and peasant women. We need to take on the challenge of structures that keep women subordinate even as we address issues of land reform and agrarian change; not doing so otherwise is tantamount to our rulers, policymakers and the privileged upholding male supremacy vis-à-vis property. Fears of women’s right to agricultural land leading to greater land fragmentation has not prevented land fragmentation in any way. It is individual property rights based on lines of familial descent that need to be addressed, especially for the self-realization of the peasantry as a collective. Immediate demands need to synchronize with long-term interests of an egalitarian society.

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Otherwise, the efforts are too disparate, often playing into the hands of an economy and society that has no place for struggling women. This place becomes elusive in progressive mass movements too as it is difficult to address dowry without addressing the hegemony of institutionalized marriage and private property. The women’s movement has to overcome its class and caste barriers that are dividing women at an accelerated pace. And the peasant movement and other working class movements need to address patriarchy and the burden it places even on men of these sections. Finally, the question of creating the ground based on critique of marriage and family, as it operates in a feudal propertied society, will have to translate into political practice.

Notes   1. In a survey on the aftermath of factory closures in Delhi, women narrated how they are unable to visit their married daughters because of the ritual necessity of carrying gifts they can no longer afford … Unable to break from these age-old customs, these families see no hope of seeing their children again. On the brink of starvation, they cannot even afford to share their anxieties with family members elsewhere or draw solace from simply seeing the faces of loved ones. See, Things Fall Apart: Voices of Women Affected by the Closure of 168 Industries in Delhi, a report by Delhi Janwadi Adhikar Manch (March 1998), 11.   2. See note 26 in Chapter 1.   3. The British resolve to rationalize and modernize the revenue was particularly hard on women. Women, who had been co-partners in precolonial landholding arrangements soon became tenuous legal dependents of men, with their access to economic resources subordinated increasingly to the control and will of their husbands. The new laws ensured that women were no longer co-partners in precolonial landholding arrangement with landed property coming in exclusively in male hands, and holding the latter responsible for the payment of revenue, thereby making the Indian male the dominant legal subject. Veena Talwar Oldenburg, ‘Chapter 4: Engineering a Masculine World’, in Dowry Murder: The Imperial Origins of a Cultural Crime (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2002), 101.  4. Traditionally, stridhan was a means of security the woman relied on in the event of widowhood or divorce or any unforeseen disaster. It has come to mean the assets or wealth over which she alone has the right to sell, gift or mortgage. It includes all gifts, jewellery or money that the woman receives before, during and after the wedding, including the gifts the in-laws give her in the marriage ceremony.  5. Ranjana Sheel, The Political Economy of Dowry: Institutionalisation and Expansion in North India (Delhi: Manohar, 1999), 197.   6. Ibid., 197.

Dowry in Dire Times  81   7. Ibid., 223.  8. Srimati Basu, She Comes to Take Her Rights: Indian Women, Property and Propriety (New Delhi: Kali for Women, 2001), 222.   9. Dowry deaths, as have been proved in several studies, indicate (to quote Ranjana Kumari’s study published in 1999) that out of 150 cases, 68% were of girls belonging to Hindu families, 17% were Muslims and 15% were from Sikh families. The latter two were disproportionately higher given the population break-up in Delhi. Only 8% of these deaths were of upper-caste Hindus, the remaining belonged to lower-caste urban families. See, Expanding Dimensions of Dowry, a report by AIDWA (2003), 95. 10 In a survey of over 10,000 women across India, among several other dimensions of this practice, All India Democratic Women’s Association (AIDWA) has reported the prevalence of dowry increasing among Schedule Caste (SC), Schedule Tribe (ST) and Dalit communities. In the recent 10–15 years, there is a discernible tendency to imitate the upper castes, and the spread of the consumerist culture has also meant the demand of colour TV, fridge, motorcycle, cooler, et cetera. The rituals are also being imitated like showing the girl to the boy’s family or greeting the baraat (the bridegroom’s party of friends and relatives that accompanies him to the wedding ceremony at the house of the bride) with a good feast. This is also getting an edge with economically better-off Dalit families falling prey to such ways. See Expanding Dimensions of Dowry—A report by AIDWA, 2003. 11 Veena Talwar Oldenburg in Dowry Murder, The Imperial Origins of a Cultural Crime, p. 133. 12 In a few interviews, young school-going daughters would help in translating into Hindi what their mothers would speak. In the process, as in this case, they become part of the interview too. At times, listening to the mother in awe or in pride and, at other times, expressing their own thoughts too. There were moments that were intense and cathartic, no doubt. The girl in this interview was especially articulate when the men were not around, speaking often on behalf of the entire family. She said at the end, ‘Looking at our house no one believes how poor we are just because it is big. But we only live here. We actually have nothing; we buy nothing new ever.’ Again she thoughtfully added that even if a girl works or earns, she is seldom able to help her mother’s family. She seems to be the only source of inspiration for her mother and two brothers. Her mother with a quiet wisdom said that the plight of all poor peasant families is the same everywhere. 13 I have attended seminars and conferences in Punjab, and elsewhere too, where the ‘ignorance’ and ‘bad habits’ of the peasant are generalized as causes of the crisis. Such views often end with dowry costs being declared to be inevitable. Let me share here a typical instance of how a sceptical press is all set to blame the farmer just as other privileged sections do. As soon as the preliminary findings of the current study were presented in www.countercurrents.org/padhi131009.htm, the Chandigarh edition of Hindustan Times (HT) carried a special story ‘Dowry, not low returns, behind farmer suicides’ on 17 October 2009 on its front page. Dowry necessitates debts and the marginal farmers and landless suffer more is what my findings revealed. Yet, the heading was made deliberately misleading. In addition, the HT story had casually exaggerated the percentage of people indebted due to fulfilling dowry obligations as an additional factor.

4 Ill Health in an Ailing Economy Har Ek Jism Ghayal, Har Ek Rooh Pyaasi, Nigahon Mein Uljhan, Dilon Mein Udaasi, Yeh Duniya Hai Ya Aalam-e-Badhawasi, Yeh Duniya Agar Mil Bhi Jaye To Kya Hai. Each body injured, every soul parched Perplexed eyes, sorrow-laden hearts What world is this where only insanity prevails What worth it is to seek such a land (Sahir Ludhianvi)

The agrarian crisis in Punjab is affecting the peasantry in myriad ways—while acute anxiety, accompanied by sleeplessness or even palpitations in the chest, is common among women, it is alcoholism and dependence on drugs that are found to be rampant amongst men. Coping with many types of psychosomatic disorders, families end up incurring further expenditure on health care. The relentless rupturing of the tenuous body–mind relationship has left them stranded with feelings of extreme pessimism. Most of the ailments are clearly the direct product of their physical environment too. The intensive use of chemicals and pesticides has not only contaminated the soil, air and surface water, seemingly irreversibly, but also affected the groundwater used for drinking, resulting in the increasing occurrences of cancer.1 Once known for its prosperous agriculture and hard-working peasantry, Punjab today presents a gloomy example of how a combination of market and state forces can impact systemic inequality in varied ways. The commercialization of health care is posing the most formidable obstacle, adding to the multitude of problems that the poor are already faced with. There is an entire industry that is today thriving on miseries and illnesses of the masses to meet its own sinister

Ill Health in an Ailing Economy  83

ends—whether it is to make profits or exercise political clout. Under pressure from the World Bank, the PHSC (Punjab Health Systems Corporation) twice tried to increase user fees, but under intense public outcry, they had to withdraw. However, the Punjab government has increased the user fees in other ways. For instance, doctors used to treat the poor for free. Then, suddenly, every patient had to pay a minimum of ` 10 as admission fee. With the introduction of the user fee, there was a 20% to 40% decline in patient flow. This is because the poor are unable to afford the charges.2 State interventions to ostensibly bring health care to the poor have paved the way for international agencies to unleash a reign of corruption and malpractices. In the process, the poor are being squeezed even further.

‘The Cancer Express’ Hundreds of people from the Malwa region travel daily by the ‘Bhatinda Express’ to the Acharya Tulsi Regional Cancer Treatment and Research Centre at Bikaner in Rajasthan to avail free check-ups and treatment. The sheer number of cancer patients travelling by the train has earned this train a rather morbid sobriquet—the ‘Cancer Express’. Harpreet Kaur, over 70 years of age, has been suffering from cancer for many years now. The pain and distress started in the abdominal area initially and, over a period of time, seems to have spread to other organs. She is now completely bedridden. Her husband had taken a huge loan to set up a flour mill, but all the money went in her treatment. He killed himself by coming under a moving train in 2000. Today, she remembers her husband with all the fondness, talking of difficulties he was facing as if he was standing right there. Unable to recall how much loan her husband owed, she only remembered that he ended up spending at least ` 4 lakhs on her treatment. Her treatment is still continuing at Bikaner hospital. Now she lives in a village in Bhatinda district with her brother’s family who are kind to her. There is a tinge of bitterness in her, when she speaks about her in-laws: My father-in-law is least concerned to give me anything, especially after my husband’s death. I have no children either—why will he give anything. He knows that I too will die soon.

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Too weak to speak, she focused on explaining the main problems. In the late 1990s, when they were undertaking rounds of pesticide sprays to beat pests, they hardly had any idea that more than the pests they would be killing themselves.3 It had never dawned on her that it would one day mean spending lakhs of rupees on medical care and that the cost was to become the intrinsic part of the bargain in the aspiration for better crop yield. Little did they realize then that the introduction of these pesticides for higher crop yield during the Green Revolution was also sowing the seeds of cancer in their bodies. The south-west areas of the Malwa region have witnessed the most intensive use of pesticides for cotton crops, and it is this area that is witnessing the highest incidence of cancer today.4 Therefore, it is no surprise that one comes across more cancer cases in this region, especially in the district of Bhatinda. Another 70-year-old woman in Rampura block spoke at length of her husband’s treatment. Prior to her son’s suicide in 1997, her husband was diagnosed of blood cancer in 1993. ‘Although the hospital in Bikaner is free, we still cannot afford the other expenses involved. I looked after him for 15 long years. He finally died in 2008,’ she said. The two remaining sons have turned their backs on her. Of the 9 acres the family possessed, only four kanals are left for fodder.5 A son dying of suicide, husband succumbing to cancer and her destitution reveal that even those with comfortable 9 acres of land cannot escape the fate the agrarian crisis has imposed on them. Costly cancer treatment is pushing many people to indebtedness. In Ferozepur, a man killed himself on railway tracks towards the end of 2008. Apparently, the daily harassment at the hands of the arhtiya and the bleak prospects for his children had become so unbearable for him that he decided to end his life. Circumstances have become even worse for the surviving family members, as they have no earnings from the odd three kanals that they possess. The children have had to be shifted to a government school as they could not afford to pay tuition fee of an expensive but relatively better private school. Before his death, the man had sold off some of his land to make payment to a commission agent. His wife, in her early 30s, has been battling against cancer for the last two years. She owes ` 1 lakh to a private clinic in Jalandhar, where she was being treated for her illness. She was full of remorse when she said that her illness did not permit her

Ill Health in an Ailing Economy  85

to take up any work. She was absolutely clueless about the future of her four children. While there are some who continue to repay loans taken for their own cancer treatment, there are others who are repaying the amounts of the expenditure incurred on treatment of their husbands prior to their suicides. Many landless labourers fail to make it to the free hospital in Bikaner for treatment. Charanjit Kaur was one of them, whose husband in Rampura block of Bhatinda could not avail the facility. ‘Money was spent between Rampura and Patiala itself. We could not save him. He got so depressed that he opted to die’, she said. A mother of a 40-year-old farmer stated how his son’s wife had died from cancer in 2002. Her son had raised a loan of over ` 2 lakhs for her treatment. When the time came to take further loans for his daughter’s marriage in 2007, he committed suicide. Lingering depression, followed by chronic physical ailments, often deepens the sense of hopelessness, further accentuating the suicidal tendencies. Other family members also do not remain untouched by this and as a consequence their health too suffers. A couple of women have started check-ups after being diagnosed of breast cancer. Many spoke of the deaths of the elderly in the last few years of the same dreaded disease and the associated expenditure. The source of both the dreaded disease and the suicide is the same society, where the life cycle environment itself is reeking of pesticide. While those who commit suicide resort largely to the consumption of pesticide, almost everybody else consumes it everyday through the water supply, which is dependent on groundwater. And there’s absorption of pesticide during the months of cotton-picking too. It is these chemical pesticides that were part of the entire package that the Green Revolution heralded for agricultural development in the state.6 In the 1980s and 1990s, many people became prone to cancer as the water supply itself carried various agrochemicals from the pesticide. Only a few families, who could afford it, would have boring wells dug deeper. The district administration finally took steps in 2003 to fix up the supply of drinking water. No one dares point out fingers at those pesticide makers who are responsible for spreading cancer among the populace. It is ironic that while land prices are soaring like never before in the Malwa region, and it is drawing investments of crores of rupees for the development of Special Economic Zones (SEZs), there is not a single cancer hospital in the entire area. The

86  Those Who Did Not Die

erosion of health services and the preponderance of illnesses caused by an unhealthy environment and fast decline in standards of living are aspects of a development model in agriculture that does not consider human well-being. Therefore, it is people again who have to bear the exorbitantly high costs of health care, even if it means incurring more loans. It appears that the pesticide companies have bought the silence of the authorities. Till today, there is no official acknowledgment of the reasons behind the mass cancer deaths. The naked greed of capitalism, in this way, is busy laying deathtraps for the most vulnerable.

Costly Health Care A capitalist system first creates chronic deprivation and ill health and then goes on to make fast bucks by providing the means of cure.7 It begins with the World Bank at the top and percolates down to the local chemists in villages and private de-addiction centres in towns and cities. They need the poor much more than the poor need them. Access to good health care is especially difficult for the landless, marginalized and the small farmer families. Most depend upon private hospitals and practitioners as the public health care system is in shambles. In critical situations, people spend an absurd amount of money on simple ailments by going to private hospitals. Those with even less means said how they cannot afford to go to even government hospitals, which also involves the purchase of medicines and other follow-up. Though the entry fee has come down to ` 2, now patients have to pay for diagnostic tests as well as buy their own medicine. Even people with semi-medium and medium landholdings have to raise loans for specific kinds of treatment. A village in Rampura block of Bhatinda district has witnessed 26 suicides. There have been a few deaths from cancer too. For a village with a population of little over 5,000, this number is disproportionately high. The house of a joint family, comprising six adult members and five small children, has literally turned into a hospital. In the family, there is a 70-year-old woman, who can now barely see. Her eyes look worn out from constant worrying and shedding of tears. Her eldest son had committed suicide in 1997. Two sons later got married. One of them, along with his wife, has taken it upon

Ill Health in an Ailing Economy  87

himself to look after the huge family. Her daughter is bedridden with stomach pain since many months now, unable to eat anything. The other son has completely stopped speaking. Sitting quiet all day long, his eyes are horror-struck and face contorted with pain and worry almost all the time. He too has stopped eating. His wife is suffering from intense body pain and incessant vomiting: I cannot cope with this situation any more. Looking after my sister-in-law and my husband has taken its toll on me. Now I am also sick, yet I have to look after them because I do no other work.

The elderly woman added: I am told both my daughter and daughter-in-law might be having cancer. We have spent thousands of rupees on treatment. We are already in debt and cannot afford to spend anymore money on our health. There’s nothing more we can do, apart from looking after each other. No one is fit enough to take the other to Bikaner …

The family has had to sell a tractor and other assets that include 5 acres of land. They are now left with 10 acres. If such is the condition of a family with reasonable landholdings, one can imagine the plight of people with far less means. Despite having 8 acres in the family, Tejinder Kaur, 27, in Ferozepur district does cotton-picking to augment her income to be able to afford her children’s schooling and some decent food. Yet she is always short of money. Her husband suffered from deep anxiety and slipped into alcoholism. He was frequently violent with her. He was 32 years old when he consumed pesticide in 2007. Before his death, ` 50,000 were spent on his surgery for appendicitis in Ferozepur. Suicide in a family leaves a deep psychological scar on those who are left behind, especially women. Many women spoke of the litany of health problems they developed in the aftermath of suicides in the family. Understandably, the spate and intensity of illnesses are closely linked to both the prolonged spells of unmitigated grief as also the declining financial resources to maintain what they consider to be a reasonable standard of living.

88  Those Who Did Not Die

Fifty-year-old Kulvinder Kaur from Mamdot block in Ferozepur district, whose son committed suicide in 2007, is in bad shape. In spite of having 13 acres of land, the family loans have soared up to ` 6 lakhs. She had to take a loan of ` 50,000 to meet the expenses on the three surgeries that were performed on her to treat problems in her urinary tract, appendix and eyes. She has an additional responsibility of looking after her husband who remains sick all the time and the ailing father-in-law. Along with her health problems, she is nursing the other sick people while taking loans for her own treatment. Lakhbir Kaur’s husband in the same Ferozepur district committed suicide in November 2008, when it became unbearable for him to cope with constant financial problems, the harassment of agents and worries about his children’s education. Today the family has less than an acre of land and their debts run over ` 3 lakhs. Two years back, Lakhbir had to take a loan of ` 1 lakh for treatment of her uterus cancer at a private hospital in Jalandhar. Surgeries and costly treatment push such families into further indebtedness while bad health prevents them from taking up paid work, any work. Families also enter loans for treatment and hospitalization of the elderly members. They then continue to repay the loans long after the death of the person. Two such families in Mansa district were repaying the loans, when this interview was conducted in July 2009, for the cancer treatment of an elderly woman, who was then long dead. Such loans are divided in parts among the sons’ families. Kuljit Kaur of Ferozepur district paid ` 13,000 after the death of her mother-in-law as her share of funeral and other expenses. She said that had she not contributed the money, she would not have got the two kanals of land from the share of the deceased. It was her mother who came forward to help her meet these expenses. She is fortunate in the sense that usually such support from maternal side is rare. Either they are also equally poor or indifferent or both. A 70-year-old woman in Faridkot district spoke of how over years they had accumulated a staggering loan of ` 10 lakhs. They are also now left with just 1.75 acres of land, out of the 5 acres they once possessed. I kept thinking for years that we would not make more loans but life seemed impossible without it. Even if you are restricting yourself to bare minimum, there come many unforeseen expenditures. My grandson developed a chest ailment and now another

Ill Health in an Ailing Economy  89

daughter-in-law recently had a surgery because of breast cancer. I had no idea how I could have met these expenses without taking loans. We ended up spending ` 1 lakh on their treatment. Both have now recovered but only partially. To save them, we might need more money. How can we let our own children die in front of our eyes from pain and disease?

A single loan raised for treatment can take many years to liberate oneself from indebtedness. Taranjit Kaur, 18, in Lehragaga block of Sangrur district has still not been able to get over her father’s suicide in 2007. She had also lost her mother within a month of being born. She was brought up by her father in a joint family. With a share of 1.5 acres of low-yielding land, the father had a debt of around ` 40,000. He had taken this loan for his wife’s treatment. All the money was spent on diagnostic tests and a few days’ stay in a hospital in Chandigarh. She later died. The interest on the amount kept accumulating. As the loan amount multiplied, the constant pressure and humiliation from the arhtiya brought him under pressure. Under pressure of loan, his brother, after killing his own daughter, had also immolated himself. The surviving family members live with the trauma and sorrow of these events till date. Accounts get even more heart-wrenching, when we look at the landless labourers or marginal farmers. A woman in Kotakpura block in Faridkot district said that after her husband was hospitalized for two months in Ludhiana, the family was compelled to take a loan of ` 1.5 lakhs. Earlier it had to sell off its sole 1-acre land. My husband would not eat properly because of anxiety. I used to ward off the arhtiya so that he would not have to face him. Then his illness developed. The doctor advised him not to be in tension. Is it possible? I was not surprised therefore when he drowned himself in 2007. He lived in constant fear. It had to happen.

A woman in Mansa district with an acre of land took a loan of ` 40,000 within two years of her husband’s death for the treatment of her son, who had developed a knee complication. The amount of loan is almost double of her annual income and she had no idea as to how it would be returned. Her daughter too suffers from polio in one leg, which also sometimes requires medical attention. The harassment at the hands of the arhtiya is a daily routine for her family too.

90  Those Who Did Not Die

Often surgeries are recommended, but not followed up either due to lack of money or to meet costs of social compulsions such as marriages and gifts to grandchildren. This happens especially in cases of women who often tend to begin rationalizing such expenditure in a seemingly practical manner. Narender Kaur of Sangrur district, who lost her 23-year-old son in August 2005, looked very ill and weak. She has stones in her kidney. Without elaborating, she casually mentioned some problem in her uterus also. She visited Sangrur for an ultrasound test, which cost her around ` 1,200. That was all. She does not even contemplate surgery for which the doctor has given an estimated cost of ` 15,000. Thus, follow-ups are also postponed if the diagnosis recommends anything that is expensive. Another 30-year-old woman in Mansa district perennially suffers from influenza and fever, but cannot think of going to a hospital as it involves expenditures that are unaffordable. She has leased out her 2 acres of land from which she gets 20 quintals of wheat per year. Her daily expenditure is met through sale of milk from two buffaloes. I have two children aged 15 and 17. I might have to sell land for my daughter’s marriage. My husband regretted so much the ` 30,000 he spent on his spinal problems. Now I understand what he had been through. Our children’s future is more important than our health.

Harjinder Kaur is a landless woman with four children. Two family members have committed suicide. She has swelling all over her body. She also suffers from spasmodic pain in her diaphragm and ribcage area. So severe and debilitating is her pain that she can barely move around for more than 10 minutes at a stretch to do the routine housework. Yet she has decided not to go for any more tests, depending only on painkillers. She is still paying back a loan of ` 8,000 that she had taken for her hysterectomy. However, she is even more worried about her son who has taken to drugs. Given the low priority accorded to women’s health as such, there is no one around to persuade her that she should pay equal attention to her own health. Illnesses requiring a hospital stay or involving complicated diagnostic tests cannot be done without the help of loans. Even routine surgeries—such as for hernia, kidney stones, ovarian cysts and cataracts that should be easily available in public hospitals—have also become impossible without loans.

Ill Health in an Ailing Economy  91

Suicide Attempts Cost More Loans are also taken when suicide attempts fail. There are surely more cases of this nature than what come to light. For private clinics, it is the most opportune time to extract money. This is the time when families go to any extent to save a family member from dying. An 18-year-old girl in Mansa district described how they spent ` 60,000–70,000 when her brother was hospitalized after a suicide attempt. However, he could not be saved. She shared how earlier also the family had to raise loans amounting to ` 25,000 for the hepatitis treatment of her mother who continues to suffer from bad health. Today their debts are below ` 50,000, but being landless wage workers and in the absence of regular work, they are finding even this amount impossible to repay. In some cases, suicides lead to the further continuation of bonded labour. Jagdev Singh, a 20-year-old boy in Mansa district, used to work for a zamindar. He had taken small loans from the zamindar against his annual earning of ` 18,000. The daily taunts and humiliation finally became unbearable for him and he ended his life. His old father is now working for the same zamindar to return the loan of ` 45,000. This was the loan which was taken when his son was admitted in hospital. The violence and indignity of poverty lead to the persistence of forms of bonded labour for the landless. There are many more cases of families who spend thousands of rupees in hospitals on attempted suicide cases. Shamsher Singh, a 40-year-old man with 3 acres of land in Faridkot district, was deeply in debt. He planned his suicide by selling 2 acres of land to return all his loans. However, his suicide attempt failed and he landed up in hospital. The family hurriedly made an arrangement of ` 45,000, but could not save his life. There are quite a few cases where families had to spend money in desperation to somehow save the lives of their dear ones. Pola Singh from Mansa district attempted suicide in the year 2000. He remained in a hospital in Ludhiana for four days before he died. The hospital expenses came to ` 90,000. All this money came from loan. Now his wife is managing the land and looking after the family. Private hospitals in Mansa town too are known to charge at least ` 70,000 for suicide attempt cases. Charging tens of thousands of

92  Those Who Did Not Die

rupees for a mere stomach wash or a couple of days in the Intensive Care Unit (ICU) takes a few more years for the families to step out of indebtedness, if ever. There are expenditures involved at every level. Bribes have to be given to all—from doctors at clinics to the police, government employees and to the driver who brings the victim to the hospital. And if a person dies, bribe at the time of post-mortem also. Thus, suicide implies the beginning of more expenditure, not necessarily the end.8

Indebtedness and Ill Health Indebtedness caused by any illness—small or big—was a common feature among almost all families interviewed. It forms a vicious cycle and for women, in particular, it takes away their hard earnings that could perhaps be spent on something more essential if a good public health care system had existed. Kulwinder Kaur, a 35-year-old landless woman in Rampura block has two children. Within three years of her husband’s suicide, she entered a fresh loan of ` 90,000 when her son was hospitalized with a lung ailment. The arhtiya continues to harass her for this and one previous loan. The interest on both the loans is rising. As it was expected of her, she had to contribute another ` 50,000 in 2006 for the marriage of her sister-in-law’s daughter. Another vegetable vendor, who continues to repay the loan taken for her daughter’s dowry expenses from her hard earnings, had to take another loan of ` 20,000 for her hysterectomy in a hospital in Rajasthan. It would have required more money had her son-in-law, who is employed there, not helped her. ‘I thought all my responsibilities and needs were over when I had to do this surgery. How can I ever pay all my debts? It seems I will be in debt till I die’, she said with a wry smile. A 60-year-old landless woman in Giddarbaha block took a further loan of ` 50,000 when her son met an accident and had to be operated upon in Muktsar. This was in addition to the loan that she had raised for her daughter’s marriage. The pressure of loan had caused much anxiety for her husband, and he suffered chest pain. He committed suicide in 2002. She lost another son from a heart attack. He was

Ill Health in an Ailing Economy  93

only in his twenties. All men in the family have become silent, and so she fears another tragedy is waiting to happen. Two families living next to each other in a village in Barnala district had uncanny similarity in their accounts. Sadhu Singh, 45, from Mehel Kalan block had been hospitalized in 2003 as he developed serious respiratory disorder and recurring lung infection. His wife said that his diseases in all probability were because of the cotton crops and use of pesticides in excess. He became alcoholic and lived under tremendous pressure of loan from an arhtiya. Within a year, in 2004, he consumed a large dose of the same pesticide—the pesticide that was already choking every living moment of his life. Sudhakar Singh who lives close by was hospitalized the same year in 2004 with cardiac complications. Non-payment of money from the sale of his crops by an arhtiya had upset him deeply. He was also worried due to the loan of ` 70,000 that he had taken for his treatment. A year later in 2005, he consumed the pesticide. He was 62 then. His son is also now suffering from a heart problem. The wives of both these men seem persistent in tackling all ups and down. They try to remain in perfect health, as there is no other option. It is even more tragic when ageing parents have to undergo both the deep grief of losing adult children to suicides and also bear the expenditures incurred on hospitalization. The trauma of such sudden and untimely deaths results in precipitation of illness among surviving family members, the treatment of which necessitates yet another loan. A couple in Bhatinda district has lost two sons in two consecutive years. The eldest was 24, when he consumed pesticide and ended his life in 2005. The second son, a heart patient, was badly affected by the death of his brother and died in 2006. A loan of ` 50,000 was taken for his treatment before his death. The family is left with no more earning members and is steeped further into debt in addition to colossal expenses spent on litigation.9 An elderly person, well over 60, who had once served in the army, spoke of the tragic way in which his son-in-law and daughter-in-law immolated themselves within six months of their wedding because of the loan pressure. That was in 1994. Today he suffers from intense anxiety and has become diabetic. He has spent ` 20,000 on two simple hernia surgeries. He finds it difficult to bear his ` 2,500 monthly expenditure on medicines for his blood pressure and diabetes, as he also has to repay the loans. His younger son drives a harvest combine. A woman in Bhatinda district whose husband

94  Those Who Did Not Die

drowned himself has two grown-up sons who are debilitated. The family has spent almost ` 1.5 lakhs on polio treatment of one son and then again when the second son lost a leg due to an accident while running the combine harvester. The family loan runs to ` 4.5 lakhs loan—of which health cost was met along with the usual agriculture-related costs. Many people are thus completely devastated when some forms of treatments cost huge amounts of money. Those who spend on cancer treatment have loans multiplying several times.

Illness, Treatment and Expenses Altogether 125 families contacted had reported that they had taken loan for different purposes. And out of these, only 14 respondents had reported that loan was taken specifically for the medical purpose in the family. However, 36 respondents had also reported that the loan amount taken, entirely or partially, was spent for the medical purpose in the family (see Table 4.1). Altogether 50 households had reported about the illness in the family. Majority of them (two out of five households) belonged to the marginal farmer category. This was followed by landless (32%), small (16%), and other 12% were semi-medium and medium farmers’ households. Around one-fifth (10 households) reported suicide attempt-related complication in their family. Out of the households who reported the same and incurred cost on the treatment, half of them (5 households) had reported that the victim could not survive. Other 6 (12%) of the 50 households reported about the cancer case in their family. Rest of them had reported problems related to gynaecology and respiratory (10% each), orthopaedic (8%) and heart disease (6%). Apart from these, 17 (34%) households reported about other problems requiring hospitalization or regular expenses such as eye surgery, skin problems, arthritis and diabetes. Illness related to the incidence of suicide attempt was mainly found in landless and small farmers’ households. The trend was found to be similar in the case of cancer. Out of the six households which reported cancer incidence, three belonged to marginal farmers’ households, whereas other two households to landless farmers and one to the semi-medium/medium category.

Total

Semi-medium and Medium

Small

Marginal

Landless

2

1

Count

Row (Percentage)

Count

12.0%

6

16.7%

0.0%

Row (Percentage)

0

Row (Percentage)

15.0%

3

12.5%

Count

Row (Percentage)

Count

Row (Percentage)

Count

Cancer

Table 4.1: Type of Illness as per Landholding Category

10.0%

5

33.3%

2

12.5%

1

0.0%

0

12.5%

2

10.0%

5

0.0%

0

12.5%

1

10.0%

2

12.5%

2

Gynaecological Respiratory

6.0%

3

0.0%

0

0.0%

0

10.0%

2

6.3%

1

Heart

8.0%

4

0.0%

0

0.0%

0

15.0%

3

6.3%

1

Orthopaedic

20.0%

10

0.0%

0

12.5%

1

25.0%

5

25.0%

4

Suicide Attempt Related

34.0

17

50.0

3

62.5

5

25.0

5

25.0

4

Others

100.0

50

100.0

6

100.0

8

100.0

20

100.0

16

Total

96  Those Who Did Not Die

Type of Treatment Most of these illnesses were/are treated in the private sector hospitals. This was reported by 41 (82%) of the households contacted (see Table 4.2). It was only in the case of gynaecological and orthopaedic problems that public sector hospitals were also given equal preference. However, in the case of attempt to suicide related complications, all patients were taken to private hospitals for the treatment.

Expenses on Illness Most of the expenses incurred on the treatment of various illnesses were being met through the loan money—fully or partially. Women shared how money from agricultural loans gets spent on purchase of medicines or hospitalization. On an average, over ` 60,000 with Table 4.2: Category of Illness and Type of Treatment Private

Public

Total

Cancer

Count Row (Percentage)

5 83.3%

1 16.7%

6 100.0%

Gynaecological

Count Row (Percentage)

2 40.0%

3 60.0%

5 100.0%

Respiratory

Count Row(Percentage)

5 100.00%

Heart

Count Row (Percentage)

2 66.7%

1% 33.3%

3 100.0%

Orthopaedic

Count Row (Percentage)

2 50.0%

2 50.0%

4 100.0%

Suicide Attempt– related Treatment

Count Row (Percentage)

10 100.0%

0 0.0%

10 100.0%

Others

Count Row (Percentage)

15 88.2%

2 11.8%

17 100.0%

Total

Count Row (Percentage)

41 82.0%

9 18.0%

50 100.0%

0 0.00%

5 100.00%

Ill Health in an Ailing Economy  97

a maximum of ` 4 lakhs was reported as the expenses incurred on the treatment of various kind of diseases (see Table 4.3). The average expense was found to be maximum in the treatment of cancer. Altogether there were six households who had reported the incidence of cancer in their family. They had spent, on an average, nearly ` 1.5 lakhs—reported highest in the case of landless farmers household (` 2.25 lakhs), followed by semi-medium farmer household (` 2 lakhs) and marginal farmer household (over 75,000). Table 4.3: Expenses on Various Types of Illness Household

Landless

Illness

Cancer Gynaecological

Small

Mean

Maximum

Count (No. of Cases)

50,000

225,000

400,000

2

8,000

14000

20,000

2

Respiratory

90,000

120,000

150,000

2

Heart

50,000

50,000

50,000

1

Orthopaedic

50,000

50,000

50,000

1

Suicide Attempt– related Treatment

21,000

45,250

85,000

4

Others

15,000

18,750

20,000

4

Total Marginal

Minimum

8,000

67,125

400,000

16

Cancer

30,000

76,667

100,000

3

Respiratory

50,000

75,000

100,000

2

Heart

37,000

53,500

70,000

2

Orthopaedic

10,000

33,333

50,000

3

Suicide Attempt– related Treatment

45,000

67,000

130,000

5

Others

30,000

74,000

150,000

5

Total

10,000

64,600

150,000

20

Gynaecological

15,000

15,000

15,000

1

100,000

100,000

100,000

1

Suicide Attempt– related Treatment

50,000

50,000

50,000

1

Others

15,000

29,000

70,000

5

Total

15,000

38,750

100,000

8

Respiratory

(Table 4.3 continued)

98  Those Who Did Not Die (Table 4.3 continued) Household

Illness

Semimedium and Medium

Cancer

All

Minimum

Mean

Maximum

Count (No. of Cases)

200,000

200,000

200,000

1

Gynaecological

20,000

35,000

50,000

2

Others

40,000

46,667

60,000

3

Total

20,000

68,333

200,000

6

Cancer

30,000

146,667

400,000

6

8,000

22,600

50,000

5

Respiratory

50,000

98,000

150,000

5

Heart

37,000

52,333

70,000

3

Orthopaedic

10,000

37,500

50,000

4

Suicide Attempt– related Treatment

21,000

56,600

130,000

10

Others

15,000

42,941

150,000

17

Total

8,000

61,720

400,000

50

Gynaecological

The other disease on which the farmers had reported to incur major expenses is related to the respiratory problem. The average amount spent on the treatment was found to be around ` 1 lakh with minimum of ` 50,000 to maximum of ` 1.5 lakhs. The average amount was again found to be highest in the case of landless farmers’ household at ` 1.2 lakhs, followed by small farmers (` 1.00 lakh) and marginal farmers (` 75,000). It should be noted that both the above diseases are related to the agriculture model adopted in Punjab—high intensity of pesticide usage. Altogether 10 cases were found where expenses were also incurred on the treatment related to attempt of suicide. Out of these 10 cases, 5 of them did not survive. The average amount, across the farmers’ category, was calculated at over ` 56,000 with minimum of ` 21,000 to maximum of ` 1.3 lakhs. The average amount spent on treatment was found highest in the case of marginal farmers (` 67,000).

Mental Health of Respondents Such massive dislocation from all familiar means of working and living for one’s own children and well-being results in increasing

Ill Health in an Ailing Economy  99

mental stress, in varying degrees, for all families across caste and class. Insomnia, especially among women, is pervasive. Faced with a situation of utter despair, people look towards the intangible gods or tangible others around them to draw solace. Women go to gurdwaras each morning with prayers on their lips and hope in their hearts, seeking the strength to cope with the insurmountable obstacles that the harsh realities of life have posed before them. It is not hard to find women with moist eyes, trying to hold back their tears. Some of them break down without uttering a word. Such moments were both cathartic and intense. The hardened faces worn out with fatigue and the expressions of emptiness presented other disturbing images. Such people normally remained quiet at the beginning or even for a certain length of time. However, once they would begin speaking, they spoke with such fluidity that it seemed completely effortless. What may have been getting lost in translations was being picked up by the eyes and, in fact, their expressions gave a much clearer glimpse of the sufferings they were going through. Rigid silences dissolving into clear accounts normally indicate how much longing there is to share. However, it is not so easy when everyone is undergoing the intensity of the same anxieties and worries. Who does one turn to when the hardships are being borne by an entire community? Baljit Kaur from Sangrur district is a broken person. She looked terribly old and worn out for her 45 years. Such are her anxiety levels that she barely communicates with anyone. Her neighbours suggested that we meet some other family member as she was mentally too disturbed to talk. Though, after a while, she began feeling a little comfortable and shared her story. She gave us all the details of her hardships and showed us documents such as bank passbook and the First Information Report (FIR) that was filed after her husband’s suicide. Her exhaustion was expressed most eloquently as she holds on to the fragile threads of her own life and that of her children. ‘The doctor tells me not to worry. Now how is that possible? The only time when I am not worrying is when I am asleep. But sleep also does not come as easily as one thinks. I go sleepless for nights together’, she said. One of her sons is severely mentally challenged, and she sees no hope for him. Her second son, who is around 16–17 years of age, studies in a private school. This son too remains tense and quiet all the time. Her main worry now is that he too does not get bogged down by the overall depressing scenario.

100  Those Who Did Not Die

My only wish is that my children escape unscathed by these trying times. I have pinned all my hopes on this son. I do not care about myself, I want him to be able to live his life, she added.

A 35-year-old landless woman in Moga district, who works as a domestic worker, looked terribly frail and in bad health. She had even once fainted while working in her house. She spoke of how there was no let up in her anxiety levels even though more than six years had passed since she lost her husband. Her father now stays with her. Paid work is usually not available and when she finds it, the wages are so low that it hardly helps meet the expenses. Had it not been for a sympathetic rich villager, who had come on a visit from abroad and paid all the expenses, she could not even have afforded the costly medical check-up. She shared her worries: However hard I work, the money is never enough with four growing children. One of my sons cannot speak and it makes me feel extremely worried as to who will take care of him after I am gone. There is no reprieve to my mind even for a minute.

Women, especially with small children, are finding it hard to come to terms with the idea that there is no one around them to draw emotional succour from. They feel terribly lonely. A 29-year-old woman in Mansa district said: Even after nine years of my husband’s death, my loneliness continues to grow with each passing day. People used to say I would get used to it as the children would grow. Today my sons are 9 and 10 years old, but far from getting accustomed, I feel his absence even more. I try to keep myself busy with work all the time but even that does not help, she said with the tears welling up in her eyes.

There is indeed a very thin line between succumbing into what would medically be termed as clinical depression and coping with feelings of perpetual sadness. The study made an effort to enlist the different kinds of symptoms women experience. As Table 4.4 shows, over 68% women expressed experiencing excessive anxiety. Almost 49% women spoke of remaining sad through the day and for days on end. Around 24 women (18%) shared how

62

18

136

Semi-medium, Medium and Large (2 ha and above)

Note: ha = hectare.

Total

9

18

Small (1–2 ha)

23

7

23

57

43

Landless

No.

No.

46%

50%

39%

53%

40%

Percentage

Lack of Sleep

Marginal (below 1.0 ha)

Size of Landholding

19

66

12

11

24

49%

67%

61%

56%

33%

Percentage

Mostly Sad No.

Table 4.4: Mental Health Symptoms Expressed by All Women

92

12

11

28

41

No.

68%

67%

61%

65%

72%

Percentage

Excessive Anxiety

24

3

2

9

10

No.

18%

17%

11%

21%

18%

Percentage

Fear and Nervousness

48

5

6

18

19

No.

35%

28%

33%

42%

33%

Percentage

Weakness

19

3

3

5

8

No.

14%

17%

17%

12%

14%

Percentage

No symptom

102  Those Who Did Not Die

they feel an unknown fear or panic accompanied by palpitations in the chest. Of these, some spoke of feeling breathless or breaking into a sweat at times. Sixty-four women (46%) spoke of inadequate sleep or experiencing difficulty in getting sleep. Some even laughed at the necessity of such a question as these symptoms of insomnia or sleep disorders are such an inevitable part of their existence. Most women who were above 40 years of age spoke of feeling weakness as well as chronic fatigue. A few elderly women shared how they cry themselves to sleep almost every day. In all places facing depletion of natural resources, slum demolitions, factory closures and displacements caused by communal strife, there is large-scale perpetuation of deep feelings of sadness and negativity. Even otherwise, any such calamity or chronic state of affairs induces hopelessness in different sets of people differently.10 And in the case of peasant suicides, the inherent morbidity and sense of failure created by the suicides of largely male members adds to the situation in a uniquely different way. Grief and bereavement go hand-in-hand with the acute anxiety of those left behind. Some women keep a close watch on the family, including young boys, fearing yet another suicide.

Addiction among Men While increasing drug addiction has been in news for close to three decades in the Malwa region, never had it reached such alarming proportions as it has today. Drug addiction has spread to the entire state. Although men of all age groups are affected by it, it is the younger generation that is finding itself in its grip even more.11 One of the main reasons for the extent of drug addiction in Punjab is attributed to the dismal state of agriculture and the resultant bleakness of future. People have just no work to do. Hundreds of men and young boys can be seen watching TV, playing cards or carom through the day. There is fatigue and depression written so clearly on their faces. Many women conceded that since the men had nothing to do, they somehow kill their time. Women, on the other hand, remain engaged either with housework or looking after children, the elderly and the men folk in the family.

Ill Health in an Ailing Economy  103

Alcoholism is seen as different from intoxication. While referring to a dead husband’s alcoholism, most women would dismiss the question with a curt reply, ‘Nasha vasha kuch nahin. Thodee see sharaab ho jaati thee roz. Koi nashaaa nahin’ (There is no addiction; there would just be a little bit of alcohol daily; no addiction as such).12 Men stay out most of the time; their young sons are beginning to do the same. Boys roam in the village, once usually around 10–11 a.m. and then again after 4 p.m. Some do not return till late at night or drop in only for a wash or a meal, otherwise stay out of the house all day long. The dread of sons taking to addiction came up in many of our conversations. The anxiety at times and the dismissive hurried manner of speaking about it would reveal women’s own fears of the outside world and their inability to deal with it. And the consequent sense of powerlessness was evident too. As women all over, each one here too has struggled against growing addiction in male members, especially when the household budget could not allow two square meals a day. Accounts of violence and daily conflicts at home due to alcoholism or dependency on drugs figured in prominently while narrating about life before a husband’s suicide. Some women are found filled with an all-consuming anxiety as their sons take to drugs. What emerges more clearly from women’s narratives is that men would go to any extent to fulfil their urge for alcohol or drugs. This often becomes the reason of escalation of conflicts with mothers or wives. They resort to petty thefts within the house, borrowing money from relatives, friends and even moneylenders. In a few cases, it has also led to sale of land. The young begin by whatever is readily and freely available like bhuki—poppy husk found in the fields. The habit of chewing gutkha or tobacco is also increasing phenomenally. Habit of consuming roasted tails of lizards, inhaling petrol or eating shoe polish—to get an instantaneous high feeling—seems to be growing. Using iodex, a pain relieving ointment, on a piece of bread was already common. They get so used to it that gradually they become dependent on pharmaceutical combinations purchased directly from chemists. These include cough syrups like Phansydril, Grillinctus and Corex; painkillers and tranquilizers like Proxyvon and Diazepam tablets. There is a thriving black market too that makes these medicines readily available at cheaper rates. The profits directly come from playing havoc with the health of young people. Opium, charas and

104  Those Who Did Not Die

ganja are other intoxicants that are used. However, use of heroin and other narcotics, which is referred by women as medicine or injections, are not so popular. A Dalit woman in her 60s is the only earning member in the family, as her husband and two sons remain drunk most of the time. Whatever little money they earn goes in buying country liquor. With hardly 60 days of work available in a year, there is acute shortage of paid work in the area. She feels that her husband has not been able to come out of the shock of his eldest son’s death. The two daughters-in-law and children nodded in agreement as the woman said: What can I hope from them? You can yourself see the state they are in. My sons do not get enough work but even then do not allow their wives to work outside. And they will not leave the comfort of their wives and go to another town for work. You can ask them.

In an adjoining village of the same district, Paramjit Kaur used to have frequent quarrels with her husband. She was finding it difficult to make ends meet due to shortage of money. She also felt frustrated with his drinking habits. One fine day she put an end to her life. The shock and grief drove her husband to drugs as well. There is a loan pending and the land has been leased out, but he has lost the ability to relate to any household matters. He leaves home every morning and comes back only late at night. For the sake of his two children, Paramjit’s sister has come forward to look after the household. Three women in Ferozepur district spoke of intense domestic violence preceding the suicides of their husbands. A 40-year-old woman in Ferozepur district said that she was better off now with her four children than when her husband was around. She recalled how she used to be brutally beaten up by her husband when she tried stopping him from spending all money on drugs and alcohol. He would not hesitate in stealing anything from soaps to dal to buy his dose. He would go on borrowing from everyone. There is finally some peace. I am managing the land. Now even his family members respect me.

Another 27-year-old woman in an adjoining village had deserted her husband and went to live with her parents. Her husband was

Ill Health in an Ailing Economy  105

alcoholic and violent. After her husband committed suicide, her father-in-law insisted upon her return. I had left home for some months as I could not take his beating anymore. I live here now because of my children and the kindness of my in-laws, she said.

Another woman faced domestic violence for years. She still wears the scars on her face. He would hit me repeatedly when I would tell him not to sell the land. But he did not listen to me and sold all the land. He used to be on drugs too. His father had also committed suicide. Now my son, it seems, is on the same path. I tell him to earn and at least get a new roof done for the house. How can I get a bride to this house otherwise?

Her 20-year-old son seemed completely knocked out. He once looked at us and mustered up the biggest grin he could from another world that he inhabited. Since addiction to drugs and proneness to suicide runs deep in the family, her fear for the son did not seem unfounded. Landless, she runs the house entirely on her own. The villagers are supportive. She, however, finds herself helpless when it comes to seek therapy for her son. There are fears of getting cheated in private de-addiction centres and the treatment costs are unaffordable for most people. The only government-run centre—Post-graduate Institute of Medical Education and Research (PGIMER)—is located far off in Chandigarh. The Drug De-addiction Centre at PGIMER is overcrowded with patients. Almost 1,000 patients are received every year in its walk-in clinics, while 500 patients are registered at the Outpatient Department (OPD), and nearly 250 addicted patients are admitted.13 As a result, private de-addiction centres have come up in large numbers to cash in on this situation. Media reports have highlighted the nexus that gets formed between drug dealers, police, politicians and a chain of retail outlets that include chemists as well as fake de-addiction centres. While this potent combination of forces serves directly in keeping the poor dependent on intoxication and addiction, monetary interests become the cementing factor for inaction against

106  Those Who Did Not Die

them. There is a flurry of advertisements with some de-addiction centres claiming instant laser therapy. It is another story then, and of utmost concern, that many of these private centres are lacking in even necessary facilities. These centres are known to be supplying drugs to inmates and blatantly cashing in on the patient’s pathological dependency. There have also been odd reports of inhuman treatment being meted out to patients. They are chained and also subjected to physical torture. In Mohali, near Chandigarh, a youth was dumped at the gate of his home by the workers of a local de-addiction centre after he developed complications. He later died.14 Reports of police carrying out crackdowns on such centres or on narcotic suppliers do appear in newspapers from time to time, but the magnitude of problem is such that it needs intervention at much higher and multiple levels. It is only recently that the peasant unions have begun addressing these issues.

Mental Health of Suicide Group Almost 80% of the suicides are committed by those between the age group of 21 and 50—the most productive years in a person’s life. There have been a few reported cases of suicides by people above the age group of 60 years. Suicide at such advanced age is perhaps the result of years of accumulated despair. In one case, an old man ended his life after the suicide of his son; and in yet another case, which is rare, a person committed suicide along with his son and daughter-in-law. Apparently, they could no longer be passive witnesses to the ever-increasing hardships in the family. Pesticides were ostensibly introduced to increase crop yield, but today these have become the easiest means available to a distressed peasant to put an end to his life. In Punjab, as in all other states where peasant suicides are taking place, these costly pesticides have become an albatross around their necks. Over 70% of the deceased in this survey had resorted to death by consuming pesticide, popularly referred to as ‘spray’. In many instances, victims were first found to have consumed alcohol or drugs in large quantity before taking the deadly pesticide. Half of the

Ill Health in an Ailing Economy  107

deaths in ‘other’ category were a result of an overdose of drugs for intoxication, usually allopathic medicines. The other half comprises peasants, who chose to embrace death by retreating into a complete silence and by going without food or water. In Butter village of Muktsar district, a 60-year-old landless Majhabi woman’s husband died in similar fashion. He had taken a loan of ` 1 lakh, a good part of which was spent on his daughter’s wedding. His wife recalled: He was too tense to speak anything. Despite toiling so hard, he was not able to get proper sleep. We knew that the circumstances were getting really very tough for him. One day the arhtiya came as usual and shouted furiously. That very day he complained of chest pain and collapsed.

Was this suicide or a natural death? In the same district in 2006, a 60-year-old man having an acre of land was in sheer dread of it being taken away for non-payment of the loan amount. He too had stopped eating or sleeping for almost two months. The day his land was confiscated, he died of heart attack. This very thin line between suicide and heart failure is the reality of lakhs of peasants and labourers today in Punjab. Thus, it is impossible to estimate the approximate number of people suffering from anxiety and sleeplessness, fighting feelings of suicide, not eating or not communicating. A fate that is worse than death. Women narrated accounts of physical violence inflicted on them as well as of the times preceding the suicide. In a few instances, the harsh and reckless behaviour of the men would be the source of continuing tension and intimidation in the family. Such accounts have been few and far between, and therefore one would hesitate to generalize. Instead, accounts of passive withdrawal of men from eating or any other social interaction has been spoken of by many more women. Suffering the deep sense of failure as perceived by family and community erodes one completely from inside. The inability to share with one’s wife in the role of the provider grows continuously while one is getting alienated from everybody around. This withdrawal is perhaps the manifestation of a violence that is systemic whose roots lie in the same society. Illness has seeped into the very being and subconscious of the food producers. And, therefore, urgent attention to mental health needs to be made more popular, and timely treatment

108  Those Who Did Not Die

meted out. Their lives are of no use, as they perceive; suicide is only the final violent blow they inflict on themselves after being exposed to prolonged systemic violence.

The Politics of Ill Health The advent of capital-intensive agriculture has undoubtedly exacerbated inequality. The illnesses and diseases it brought in its wake were, thus, not only physical but also mental. It also induced dependency on intoxicants and drugs. Thus people’s ill health became a fertile ground for their further exploitation. The commoditization and commercialization of health care gave a free hand to private profit. A survey for the Punjab Development Report, 2002, reported that 70% of the sub-centres, 67% of the Subsidiary Health Centres or dispensaries (SHCs), 62% of the Public Health Centres (PHCs) and 51% of the Community Health Centres (CHCs) did not even have proper buildings.15 Diagnostic facilities were pathetic and basic medicines such as Paracetamol were missing in hospitals. Even during the Tenth Plan (2002–07), the state spending on health formed only 2.28% of the budget. There has been a steady erosion of health services and a consequent decline in expenditure while expenditure is on the increase in other matters.16 However, any criticism, confined to the non-availability of health care or the diminishing rate of state investment in the health of its people, undercuts the fundamental critique that points towards illness or disease itself being the creation of the profit-driven capitalist system. More often than not, state interventions have been more in the interests of international agencies than in public health. The PHSC set up in October 1995 is a parastatal organization that took charge of public health care institutions. It imposed user fees on patients, regardless of income levels. The PHSC introduced the ‘yellow card’ to provide free services to the poor. Prior to this, there were no charges for those with monthly income of less than ` 1,000. Many kinds of services were free. For instance, there were no charges for a normal child delivery and for blood up to one unit. An Insaaf International17 survey also found that there were no exemptions granted to any poor person treated between July–December 2000 by a referral hospital

Ill Health in an Ailing Economy  109

in Bhatinda, serving to a population of 1.1 million people. A black market began flourishing around it and these cards were soon found in the hands of many middle-class and rich people. The survey showed how most people did not even know of the yellow card system. For example, only one in 150 slum women had heard about yellow cards. Therefore, what came into being was worse, though it was ostensibly meant to serve the poor better. Earlier people gave bribes to access health care. Now they are paying both bribe and user fee. A Punjab Agricultural University survey reveals how chronic malnutrition keeps agricultural labourers unhealthy and under constant physical stress.18 There is severe under consumption of cereals, pulses, milk, vegetables, fruits and oils. The number of labour households accessing social amenities or benefiting from government-sponsored schemes has also seen a sharp decline, as the quantum and quality of the civil amenities are far from satisfactory. Almost 96% agricultural labourers stated the need for public distribution system that can provide basic food commodities, with 92% laying stress on wheat and food grains, at nominal price. The popular critique of the new economic policies since the early 1990s has focused on the cuts in health expenditure and comparing it with the state’s increasing investment in areas of its own priority like militarization or mining. While such arguments aptly expose the priorities of elected governments, they tend to deflect attention from the essence of the social production of ill health and illnesses. The role of productive forces and the pursuit of capitalist development in Punjab have paved the way for the immiseration of the peasantry and working class while simultaneously ruining the ecosystem by affecting the soil, air and water in seemingly irreversible manner. The questions like ‘what makes us ill in the first place and how much of it is avoidable’, thus, remain unanswered.19 The ‘Cancer Express’ leaving Bhatinda station every night is the most grotesque manifestation of the Green Revolution. A crucial component in the struggle for a new society, therefore, then becomes: […] the creation of an awareness of the aspects of economic and social life that make us unhealthy. In this way, the wider struggle to change society can incorporate strategies to improve health— strategies which will inevitably expose some of the most fundamental contradictions of life under capitalism.20

110  Those Who Did Not Die

Therefore, the demand for health is per se a revolutionary demand that seeks to overturn the existing socio-economic order that breeds ill health, disease and poverty.

Notes  1. See the news at http://www.hindustantimes.com/News-Feed/india/CancerExpress/Article1-498286.aspx (accessed 24 January 2010).   2. See ‘Unhealthy Policies from the World Bank, An Interview with Dr. Vineeta Gupta’ at http://www.multinationalmonitor.org/mm2000/00june/interview2. html (accessed 22 January 2010).   3. See the report ‘Women more Vulnerable to Cancer in Punjab’s Cotton Fields’, available at http://www.thaindian.com/newsportal/health/women-morevulnerable-to-cancer-in-punjabs-cotton-fields_10033375.html (accessed 18 August 2009). The study reported how a full 25% more women than men are estimated to be dying of cancer in the Malwa region of Punjab while at a global level, the number of men dying of cancer is 33% higher. Four of these districts—Bhatinda, Muktsar, Mansa and Faridkot—are reported to have high cancer rate, owing to large-scale use of pesticides in the cotton-growing areas. The other districts covered were Ferozepur, Sangrur, Barnala and Moga. This area coincides entirely with the current study.   4. Punjab has only 1.5% landmass of India, but consumes about 18% of pesticides used in the country with the Malwa region consuming almost 75% of pesticides used in the state. See Umender Dutt, ‘Environmental Health Crisis in Punjab’, 31 August 2005, available at http://www.countercurrents.org/en-dutt310805. htm (accessed 14 April 2010).   A study conducted by PGIMER, Chandigarh, indicates excessive and random use of unsafe pesticides being directly responsible for the sharp increase in pesticide-related cases of cancers and cancer deaths. However, the Punjab government is reluctant to accept this.   5. A kanal is one-eighth of an acre.   6. It is often argued as ‘common sense’ that the nature of capitalist development will incur some amount of human destruction. However, if it is profit without any focus on the overall living standards that becomes the important determinant of economic and social decision-making in capitalist society, this is bound to reflect in the patterns of health and illness. See Lesley Doyal and Imogen Pennel, The Political Economy of Health (London: Pluto Press, 1989), 23.   7. Conflicts occur when the state attempts to keep public health expenditure at a reasonable level and capitalist intervention gears to reap profit from ill health. This implies cutbacks in expenditure, weakening specific health care aspects just when they are likely to be the most important because of the general worsening of social and economic conditions. See Doyal and Pennel, The Political Economy of Health, 45.   8. See P Sainath, ‘The After-death Industry’, available at http://www.indiatogether. org/2004/aug/psa-postdeath.htm (accessed 2 April 2010).

Ill Health in an Ailing Economy  111   9. Discussed in the section ‘Of Bereaved Parents’ in Chapter 5. 10. Hindu had reported shooting anxiety levels and acute depression among shopkeepers and residents triggered by demolitions and sealing drive undertaken by the Municipal Corporation of Delhi. According to Dr. Parikh of Vidyasagar Institute of Mental Health and Neuro-sciences (VIMHANS), patients were pouring in with many psychiatric problems like acute mood swings, depression and anxiety when the demolition drive was announced. The anxiety of having to give up their homes and shops first hits the homemakers and then affects the children. However, after the actual demolitions, there is a steady increase in the number of breadwinners coming for therapy and treatment. See Bindu Shajan Perappadan, ‘Increasing Cases of Depression, Anxiety due to Demolition Drive’, The Hindu, 2006. 11. A survey in 2005 of the Punjab Department of Social Security Development of Women and Children found 67% of the rural households in Punjab as having one drug addict each. Dr. Ravinder Singh Sandhu, Professor, Department of Sociology, Guru Nanak Dev University, Amritsar, found more than 73% of drug addicts belonged to the age group of 16–35 years. See Gobind Thukral, ‘Drug Addiction Spreads’, The Tribune, 9 May 2009, Chandigarh. 12. Interestingly, the reality of living with men dependent on intoxicants and anxiety of sons beginning to do the same was not part of the structured questionnaire, except where it figures as a cause of suicide. Similarly, accounts of domestic violence were volunteered by many women; their comfort level in the presence of union members was obvious too. Being in the same village, they had intervened in these crises often. 13. Krishna Kumar V R, ‘Punjab’s Bitter Harvest’, Deccan Herald, http://www. deccanherald.com/content/10456/punjabs-bitter-harvest.html (accessed 2 April 2010). 14. Ibid. 15. Annie Zaidi, ‘Ailing System’, Frontline 23, no. 07 (08–21 April 2006). 16. Ibid. In 1980–81, spending on health comprised 5.49% of the State Budget while the spending on Police and Administration was 8.28%. In 1990–91, the corresponding figures were 4.61% and 20.83%, respectively. In 2003–04, health commanded 3.86%, while Police and Administration claimed 23.18%. 17. See Shailabh Nagar, ‘Yellow Cards for the Poor’, January 2002, available at http:// www.indiatogether.org/health/reports/insaaf01.htm (accessed 2 April 2010). The Insaaf International report on which this article is based discusses the difference between rhetoric and action on public health in Punjab. 18. Presentation made by Dr Sukhpal Singh, ‘Agrarian Crisis and Status of Agricultural Labour in Punjab’, Indian Society of Labour Economics conference held at Patiala, 12 December 2009. 19. Doyal and Pennel, The Political Economy of Health, 292. 20. Ibid., 295.

5 Fragmentation of the Family Bache budhe sab dukhiya hai, Dukhiya nar hai dukhiya naari Basti basti loot machi hai, Sab baniye hai sab byopari Bol ari o dharti bol, Raj sinhaasan davan dol The young and the old, the men and women—all despairing Loot goes on in every settlement—moneylenders, traders everywhere Speak up O Earth! The seat of power has begun shaking. (Majaz)

• In Bhuchokhurd village of Nathana block in Bhatinda district, a couple burnt themselves to death together in February 2007. They left behind three children in their teens, and a 9-year-old. The grandfather and his daughter look after them and spoke about the same.1 These children consider their parents’ death as a failure in looking after them after having been brought up to a certain age. The concern and goodwill of everybody around is evident. The local school has waived off their school fees. This case has been one of the most striking in the entire region and reported widely in the regional press too. • In a village in Barnala district, an entire family attempted suicide in the year 2006. Three people died that included the couple and their old father. Their attempt to give some of the pesticide to the two children failed as the children fled from the spot. The little girl still has a scar near her mouth. She and her brother greeted us in a well-rehearsed manner as there have

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been many visits from the union and the media too. And then they rushed off to play as spontaneously, perhaps, as they had run away on that fateful day from the wilful death their parents sought to impose on them. Or perhaps the trauma lingers in their little minds that haunts occasionally, reminding them of that frightful day. The children are being brought up by their uncle and aunt, who already are having a tough time bringing up their own two children. • In Moga district, a man and his wife consumed pesticide together within six months of their marriage in the year 1994, as they could not bear to see the tension of the heavy loan that the family had taken for their wedding. The ageing father, who still cannot get over the shock, said that he had no idea while taking loans that he would be punished in this way. According to him, they were young and had a life before them, but they instead took such a severe step. Nothing has been the same since then. In India, the family as a unit—both economically and socially—is currently undergoing intense and varied conflicts and transformations. As impoverishment and indebtedness stare at the face of millions of families in this country, the material underpinnings of this institution too are getting increasingly shaken. The consequences of this process urge attention to various assumptions that were hitherto held dear about the role of the family in sustaining itself. The responsibilities of the ‘male provider’ and the expectations of dependents—be they children or elderly or even women—are taking unimaginable dimensions. There prevails a sense of confusion and bewilderment all around for the family both at the psychic and emotive levels. Each time a suicide takes place, it is hard to assess whose grief or loss is more—of wives, parents, children or that of siblings. In an agrarian society, the community is as significant in a peasant’s life as family members. Therefore, suicides also come to impact those living in similar vulnerable situations, and further deepen their fears and insecurities about life ahead. The already agonizing task of handling a death is becoming an all-consuming phenomenon, making it even harder for activists from the peasant organizations or childhood friends from the same village to come and extend help, especially of undertaking the attendant task of registering a suicide and then also taking care of death rituals.

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Talking to surviving family members in Punjab reveals the processes of fragmentation that has come to confront all forms of familial bonds and relationships. Some women came forward to share their experiences about the kind of hell they were undergoing and the intense physical domestic violence they were facing prior to the suicide of their husbands. The running theme was, of course, burden of indebtedness and issues related to livelihood and survival. The situation is not any different in the states of Karnataka, Maharashtra, Andhra Pradesh, Kerala, Tamil Nadu, Chhattisgarh and even elsewhere in the country. As the familial bonds are coming under strain due to the ongoing agrarian crisis, the peasant families, there too, are facing insecurity. This chapter attempts to collate the glimpses of the lives of other family members2 to show how a suicide in a family affects the entire peasant household. In my survey, it was not unusual to find someone in the family with a broken limb or undergoing treatment for cancer or other life-threatening ailments. The condition of Dalit households is even worse in terms of work availability or a place to stay. Young people, in their late teens and early twenties, are suffering from chronic depression and are taking refuge in drugs and alcohol in increasing number. For those who dare to dream to change their destiny, there is uncertainty at every step. As adult children are finding it difficult to manage their own lives, they are abandoning their old parents to fend for themselves.

Of Filial Ingratitude As parents come to terms with their own isolation in old age, the long years of having struggled against all odds to bring up children seem to stretch longer than most of them are prepared for or imagine it to be. They spent their lives toiling hard to produce food for society, and yet there is no social security whatsoever for them to rely upon in their old age. Neither the state nor the family has anything to offer them in return. The most grotesque manifestation of the agrarian crisis perhaps is the manner in which it makes destitute of the elderly, especially from the working class and peasantry. Norms of parental care were hard to let go of in a traditional and feudal society even if a cash economy was determining the familial bonds. Parents recall in different ways how or why they have been

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left so alone today. For some, it came as a deep pain and, for others, it was a bewildering experience that often gave rise to simmering resentment and bitterness. Not all of them, though, felt the same way; a few even explained with a wisdom that helped bonds remain unscathed despite the current harsh reality. And, of course, it was often with a mixture of these emotions that they expressed themselves. A lifetime seems to pass so swiftly and ageing parents find themselves abandoned by all and sundry, including their children. Many elderly women narrated accounts of sons not being around any more after their marriage. Helpless, they can do nothing but cry themselves to sleep. According to some of them, their loss of vision is attributed to the continuous crying since years. They witness the myth of sons being the providers in old age getting shattered before their own eyes. The resilience, however, they demonstrate in hanging on to life is as unbelievable as the poignancy of their loneliness and deprivations. The litany of complaints and heart-rending tales narrated by the Jat-Sikh women were seldom without pain and anguish. Expectations were clear and so were the feelings of betrayal. Sixty-year-old Preet Kaur of Rampura block in Bhatinda lives with her husband, who is a driver. After the truck that her son had purchased on loan was auctioned by the recovery agent and he was subjected to public humiliation, he put an end to his life by coming under a running train in 2007. Since then, they have sold the last two kanals they had. This was followed by the marriage of the daughter-in-law with the younger son.3 Soon afterwards, both of them severed all relations with the parents to avoid the repayment of loans. Preet Kaur has no hope of ever seeing them again. She cannot get over the fact that she has lost not only one son but both of them because of their financial state and indebtedness. Her husband, however, who is involved in the peasant union, is able to keep his spirits intact. Gurpreet Kaur, aged 70, who lives in another village of the same block, has brought up five sons but finds herself all alone today. Her two sons, living right next door in the family plot, keep no touch with her. She has had a tragic past. Before dying of blood cancer in 2008, her husband was bedridden for 15 long years. One of her sons had committed suicide almost a decade ago after he could no longer bear the burden of ever accumulating loans and failed crops. Yet another son died in an accident. It is amazing how she has lived through all these losses.

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There’s just about enough to eat and live by. I resort to cotton picking but no one likes my doing so. The money is so much needed. My youngest son helps the other two with agriculture but I do not get anything. Nine acres of land is still left but there is hardly anything from the crops in any case. I have no money to get this youngest son married. Of course, why should he be happy with me? But he has nowhere else to go. What makes me most sad is that these two sons living next door do not even cast a look on me or have a word, leave alone supporting. I cannot bear that because I have suffered much more than anyone here. I have served every member of the family and no one has done anything for me. Such is my life. My neighbours are kinder to me than my children.

A 70-year-old woman in Mansa district who lost her son in 1999, lives completely alone. She remains in bed most of the time. She said: I think of him all the time since he died. I constantly see his image in front of my eyes. How can I sleep? My neighbours come and give me food twice a day. Sometimes they give tea also.

Yet another woman, above 70 years of age in Moga district, narrated how she is not much regarded by her son and daughter-in-law. She has been crying for long, as a result of which she lost her vision, she said. She rationalized by saying that when children did not get their own needs fulfilled, why would they care for her? Quite a few of the elderly people share the same view that when children themselves are struggling to make ends meet, they can barely afford to look after ageing parents. The wide canvas that is construed by parental love overlooks everything. It leaves scope to rationalize one’s own neglect too in dire times. And this is typically how many more parents come to terms with their own abandonment. In the same district, another man above 60, whose wife committed suicide from constant worries over money and increasing loans, related how he had come to sell off all his land. There’s no money. I can’t even keep this house together as it is in terrible condition. My son and daughter-in-law have no kind words for me. And why should they? I have left nothing for them. I do not know how all this has happened when I was continuously

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working, not sitting idle ever. These are typical old age problems. They are so occupied with their own problems … they often ask me what have I done for them?

He apparently felt a deep sense of failure and dejection. His association with the kisan sangathan (peasant organization) keeps him going in some small way. The cost of indebtedness that finally ends in the abandonment of parents by children is, of course, not foreseen when debts are made. For parents, the bitter reality that their indebtedness is the main cause of children turning their back on them dawns much later. Tragically, the indebtedness of Dalits, and consequent suicide, is something that one took more time to absorb and reconcile with. In crisis time, they bear both the crippling of economic sustenance as well as the crushing of aspirations that have taken root in the ethos and practices of the same patriarchal caste society that had marginalized them. Along with it, norms and values of son preference and looking up to sons have taken root too. Within the landless Dalit communities, there is considerable emulation of the landed Jats in organizing marriages and weddings. Emulating upper-caste practices of dowry and son preference bring in the additional burdens born of a caste society. Therefore, the prevailing ethos around being alone and destitute in old age is not so different from the landed Jats. Repeatedly, one heard of being let down by sons—a betrayal that is seen to be more condemnable in a caste society.4 The plight of agricultural labourers becomes even worse with the collapse of agriculture, or rather with agriculture becoming capitalintensive. In a situation where non-availability of work itself is a daunting reality, they end up raising loans largely to run the house and bring up children and not so much to purchase seeds, pesticides, fertilizers or even for digging groundwater, nor even for renting land for cultivation. Sixty-five-year-old Harpal Kaur of Nathana block in Bhatinda described how she was completely left alone and in debt. Her husband, a landless Ramdasia Sikh, took recourse to pesticide in 2000, as his worries intensified with accumulating interest on the loan. We got our daughters as well as my husband’s sisters married by using the same loans. For years my sons took loans to repay old debts. But soon they got tired and their wives did not want to bear

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the burden anymore. In any case, they are not in any position to help. For them also, life is very difficult. I have a loan of ` 70,000 still pending with a private party. Now that I am willing to work to improve my life, there is no work available. I don’t hold my sons responsible for the condition that I am in. I have no expectations from my sons that they would pay back the loans. I wish they came only to see me once in a while. But they have chosen not to have anything to do with me. I never knew that one day I would become so alone. There is still a long life ahead. I want to know who is with me today.

Tej Kaur in Giddarbaha block of Muktsar district is also alone. Her husband died in 2001. He had a debt of over ` 2.3 lakhs on him at the time of his death. Whatever little that she earns is far from adequate even for her most basic needs. Do not ask if the money is enough. How can it be? We live by helping each other but all of us are poor. I have four sons but not a single one supports me. They tell me ‘do sweeping or whatever to return the loans—we have nothing to give you.’ I get my pension of ` 250. Never once has it come in time. If I stop working, I will starve. I need support. My husband was always anxious—maybe he knew this would happen one day and chose his own way out of the situation. We have never been happy … never had our needs fulfilled. But now I think loneliness is worse.

Charanjit Kaur of Rampura block looked after her husband as he suffered from cancer and finally killed himself. After the children grew up, we were always alone. Two sons left us after their marriage. Now I can’t get the third one married as there is no money to do so. For years I have done cotton picking but my health does not permit anymore. Both my son and I are clueless about the future. We survive on the little that he earns when work is available.

Jit Kaur, who is only 45, works as a domestic worker near her village in Moga district. She also does seasonal work to earn a bit of extra money. Paying a rent of ` 300 for a small room, she lives

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all alone without any clue whatsoever about what the future holds for her. After her husband committed suicide, she remarried, but her second husband also met the same tragic end. She ended up facing a lot of cruelty at the hands of her stepson and was forced to sell a small plot that she had kept for herself. Now she cannot even go back to her own son from the first marriage. Filial ingratitude is hard to bear in a society where both the cultural ethos and economic condition make parents depend on children, especially sons, for some security in old age. A society based on caste–class privilege, which makes sustenance impossible for the majority of its people, also ruptures familial ties and expectations. The unviability of being self-sustaining by even those who sustain the entire society by production of the staple wheat and rice cannot be blamed on its progeny alone for destitution. On the other hand, the psychological damage that the crisis has caused to the young is incalculable, perhaps rendering them inept to carry out familial duties. Of course, the elderly population is far too vulnerable in a relative sense. When indebtedness alienates them from adult children, there is nothing else to fall back on. In Punjab, provisions such as old age and widow’s pension are nothing but a mockery of the concept of social security.5 However, the pain that is even more unimaginable is when parents outlive children. The grief of losing young children is too intense for them, which they find hard to reconcile with. It fills them with longing for the deceased, on one hand, and deep fears and insecurities, on the other, causing an anxiety that in some ways is a living death.

Of Bereaved Parents Land fragmentation has happened largely because of the breakdown of the joint family system. This has made the income from small landholdings increasingly unsustainable. Exorbitant expenses involved in protracted legal feuds within families and litigation expenses over disputes with moneylenders have resulted in indebtedness and sale of land, further complicating the matters by leaving many landed families in a state of bankruptcy. People suffer for years during legal battles without arriving anywhere close to settlement of disputes.

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Often these battles drag on well past their lifetime for the next generation to carry it forward. This proves to be more devastating when the agriculture system itself is collapsing, the phenomenon of sale of land is rampant and the younger generation is looking for other avenues of employment opportunities and, above all, a sense of dignity. Losing two sons in their early twenties was tragic for a couple in Bhatinda district. Every detail of their narration depicts the grimness and destruction of the crisis as it pervades the entire being of young people. Property holds families together, even if subjectivities differ. The loss of the binding effect of property can play havoc. Even as parents show some resilience, the young are unable to come to terms with the changed reality. The eldest was 24 when he consumed pesticide and ended his life in 2005. The second son, a truck driver, was a heart patient. A loan of ` 50,000 was taken for his treatment. He was also badly affected by the death of his brother and died in 2006.6 The family also has lost 10 acres of land. No earning member is now left in the family and there is a loan to be returned. When alive, one of the sons had an annual income of ` 15,000, while the other had ` 24,000. The father said: My entire land has been grabbed by my brother and his sons. We never had enough resources to fight the case, yet we did on borrowed money and lost everything in the process. My son felt humiliation working as a daily wager. Seeing himself in such a situation, he lost heart and fell in depression. Though, it never occurred to us that he would resort to such a step. Perhaps, the realisation of losing all land tormented him too. After being rendered landless we had no asset left to be able to arrange their marriages. That too was possibly giving them pain. In the end, we lost both of them. Circumstances took their lives.

The institution of family in rural India is largely shaped and defined by the nature of agrarian relations, in particular land relations. Relationships are predicated on the relationship with land as determined by the individual, family or community. This is further aggravated by capital-intensive agriculture that drives people to bankruptcy. The cultural and feudal hold on people’s identity and self-esteem erodes them further. This is how capital-intensive agriculture is bearing down on social institutions. It also throws light

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on the enormous burden that patriarchy places on men to run or maintain families. It becomes evident then that failure to perform one’s socially accepted role is internalized in the most destructive manner and finds expression in tragic ways. Remnants of the old bonded labour system still exist in varying forms as my interviews revealed, especially in the districts of Bhatinda, Mansa and Sangrur. Parents are separated from children either when a son commits suicide or when a contract with a zamindar forces them to live away from parents at a young age so as to be able to repay household debts. The pain and burden parents carry is unimaginable. Jagdev Singh, a 20-year-old in Budhlada block of Mansa district, was working as a labourer on a zamindar’s land. He was paid ` 18,000 in advance for an entire year. Falling short of money to meet the modest needs of his family, he used to take small loans from the same zamindar almost every year. Thus, the loan amount kept accumulating. There are many agricultural labourers, primarily Dalits, who eke out their living in this manner. The zamindar subjected Jagdev to routine taunts and humiliation, not letting him forget his indebtedness. It was a sheer desperation to seek escape from this hellhole that compelled him to end his life by consuming pesticide. How tormented and agonized this young labourer must have been can be imagined from the way his parents speak of their son. The parents keep reiterating his sense of responsibility and the deep affection he had for them and others in the family. His old father, who is well over 60 now, continues to work with the same zamindar to return the old loan. A fresh loan of ` 45,000 was taken from the zamindar when Jagdev had to be hospitalized before succumbing to his internal injuries. It is paradoxical that the taunts, the mental stress, the suicide and the loan for the hospitalization—all come from the same zamindar; the latter also extracts the labour of the old and ailing father of the deceased. The ill-fated father suffers from severe stomach pain and cramps and wonders if it is the consequence of the pesticides. He curses his fate for having to work in the same place that pushed his son to suicide. There is no anger. Only sorrow and hopelessness are left. My mind does not think anymore, only my stomach keeps churning with pain. If I do not work there, I will have to send my second son and I cannot afford to lose him.

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He is working hard so that his second son, who makes a living by tending a calf and then selling it for ` 20,000, does not have to take recourse to the same. The son said that he could have earned more from rearing of livestock if only he had little more access to fodder and space. Dalits in Punjab are particularly hard-pressed for space for housing and cattle rearing. Dependence on the zamindar, houselessness and the lack of work availability with the collapse of the agriculture sector are the harsh realities of thousands of Dalit families. These harsh realities are becoming the reason of hopelessness and suicide too. An interview with a family where an agricultural labourer had committed suicide revealed how the family had no option but to send both the teenage sons of the brother of the deceased working for yet another landlord. Tejinder Kaur could barely express her grief for suicide in the family as their immediate anxiety to free their two sons is all consuming. I want my sons back. I don’t know what to do to free them. I have a debt of over ` 80,000. When we are barely managing to pay the interest how can the principal amount be paid? It was the burden of debt that made my brother-in-law commit suicide. I want to now at least save my two boys. Who knows if they too take the drastic step that their uncle took? I curse myself for giving birth to them. I am the one who is responsible for what they are facing today.

Her outburst was followed by silence in the group; a silence that was as palpable as the helplessness of the situation. It is this collective helplessness that can be sensed in the silent empathy of neighbours, panchayat and comrades from the peasant union. It is not one suicide in one family, nor is it one village in one district. There are entire families across districts getting devastated in a crisis where parents are failing children and grown-ups are failing elders. These families are entrenched in communities on whom the stranglehold of the big zamindar is increasing; the feudal system is alive and thriving even as mechanization and capital-intensive agricultural practices were meant to reduce its influence. While the deep sense of failure and isolation faced by the labourer ends up in a suicide, women end up facing the loss of any semblance of protection that the family is meant to provide them and that parents aspire to provide to their children.7 Questions regarding the purpose of life and living are being voiced in despair

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and the fatigue born of such questioning is assuming timelessness too. When the youngest male members enter bondage to earn for their families, people seem to reach their tether’s end. In the face of the enormity of the situation, the tears and torn feelings of hapless mothers seem but small and natural. The fear of yet another suicide is deep-seated; its inevitability is present in everyone’s mind. While anxiety for sons is expressed, the absence of daughters in families is stark and visible, as elimination is peculiar to each culture and social setting. What happens to married daughters in the context of so many suicides is a less-known story, as we shall see now.

Of Missing Daughters-in-law In the aftermath of a suicide, desertion of women by families and dispossessing them of meagre rights in the family assets is a common phenomenon. Initially it did not seem odd to be told once in a while, rarely though, that the woman had gone to her parent’s place or to a neighbouring village. In such situations, the interview or discussion would happen with the mother or a daughter or sister-in-law of the same house. The accompanying union members then would provide more details at the end to fill the gaps. The occasional explanation started assuming a pattern in due time. Though the cases were few and far between, it still was not something that could have gone unnoticed. When one started engaging a bit more in her whereabouts, the usual reference would be how she got married again of her own accord; how her parents insisted and took her away; or how she had gone out for a few days, et cetera. In a couple of cases, elaborate ruses were even furnished of how, despite being cajoled to stay back, she insisted on leaving. These are matters that no family can divulge before a stranger without minimal discomfort. It was evident that there was more to the sordid tales of these missing women than what was meeting the eye. The mother of a deceased son shared how the daughter-in-law left her marital home on her own. She had been married to her son for 11 years. The childlessness of the couple was the cause of huge anxiety in the household. The additional burden of loan, after his sister’s marriage, added to her son’s woes and he put an end to his life. The mother initially maintained that the daughter-in-law was

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sent to her parents’ village. As she narrated more, she got deeply agitated and became dismissive about her, elaborating on how hard she had persuaded her to stay back. We bought her jewelry, we even said that we would adopt a son, do anything but do not go but she was stubborn. We haven’t heard from her since then, she said.

Where is she then? Was she really insistent on leaving of her own accord or was she forcibly thrown out from her marital home? Has she willingly forfeited her share of property that is more than 10 acres? After 11 years of marriage and hard work, hasn’t she been socially cast away? It is perhaps not so hard to imagine what the woman went thorough in this entire ordeal. In yet another household, with over 7 acres of land in Mansa district, a 25-year-old man had hung himself after paying the interest on the loan amount of over ` 13 lakhs. As in many cases, there has been some sale of land in paying the interest amount over the years. He had three children between the ages of 6 and 12. The wife, we were told, left in 2007 for a second marriage. It seems that her parents insisted and took her away. The sister of the deceased, who lives in a nearby village, frequently visits to look after the children. The sarpanch too, a friend of the deceased, keeps close touch with the children. He was candid enough to admit: If there is land and there is another son in the family, we arrange the marriage of the woman with the younger brother. The woman, of course, is consulted in such a situation. But do not once think that it is for the woman’s well being; it is basically an arrangement to see that the property remains in the family. We only make sure it is done with her agreement. Otherwise, what a woman really wants is something we never get to know. The woman’s parents never want her back. So, she has no choice. In this case also the children will inherit the remaining land. But what she gets I have no idea.

Desertions are not specific to landed households. Such a practice is prevalent among the landless too. In a landless Majhabi family, a woman left after her husband’s death in 1996, despite alleged attempts to persuade her to stay back. A Jat-Sikh woman in Mansa

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district, whose husband committed suicide in 1996, narrated how her 31-year-old son also died of acute anxiety in 2007 due to the accumulating loans. He was 20 when the father died. He struggled to make ends meet. But the tension was showing on his health all along. One day, he died in his sleep. My daughter-in-law left the house with the two children. I have no idea where she is. There is no way to find out. Who will tell me? Some say she got married again. Even otherwise, my son and she used to fight so much.

Without being oblivious to the entire history of how or why women leave marital homes, the circumstances demanded that these quickly dismissed excuses and hurried explanations be taken at the face value and be simply absorbed. However, it gave glimpses of a reality that was lending itself into a pattern—clear and distinct. These truths and half-truths reveal yet another reality of the countless ways where women are deserted and dispossessed within the family that is held to be sacrosanct in this society. In this sense, the few who have disappeared have also been disinherited; a forced disinheritance of the provider of the children and the family. Her labour or investment in the family is disregarded; she is disenfranchised simply because she is not a male provider. There are also women who continue to live in their marital homes, but have been denied any rights to the agricultural land or even its produce. In a village of Barnala district, a woman narrated how she had been denied of any rights to the land after her husband’s suicide in 2007. Before choosing his fate for himself, her husband had gone through an inordinately long spell of depression, as his father was reluctant to divide his property among his sons. After his suicide, the union and the panchayat members tried to help her in getting her share in the property, but to no avail. The two children, in their teens now, assure her of their support. The daughter remains traumatized still by the memory of that fateful day. She was the one who had first discovered him when he hung himself. However, today she is determined to get some justice for her mother. Another woman suffering from cancer in a village in Bhatinda district said that she had never heard from her in-laws, though her husband was very caring of her in his lifetime. She felt that it could be primarily because of her being childless.

126  Those Who Did Not Die

Of Other Suicides and Deaths Lives of surviving members in the family are fraught with illnesses and other problems, even prior to the suicides. Some women reported about deaths, accidents and even cases of other suicides within the same or the extended family. Thus, each suicide is an escape from a living hell, which, when triggered by an immediate cause, reveals a long drawn-out process of the family and the deceased both coping with the frustration of an increasingly unviable agricultural system marked by the deteriorating conditions of sustenance within the family. While the person who commits suicide has begun to receive attention for the studies that go on analyzing in detail the trend in peasant suicides and its causes, what continues to remain invisible is the plight of surviving family members. Some may have been contemplating suicide, some might have already done so, and others may have been passing away in deaths, seemingly natural, but, in fact, the outcome of long neglect and deprivation. Coping with feelings of morbidity and facing the daily ordeal of life, such families carry the sorrow and burden of a magnitude that refuses to diminish, and yet remains unknown to the world outside. Of having known the struggle with meagre resources, routine family quarrels, loss of spirit and, ultimately, the loss of near and dear ones in the process. And it would be hard to miss how or why it is happening. The many deaths, suicides and accidents due to mechanization that happen in a peasant family receive very little attention in discussions related to the agrarian crisis. Deliberate suicides are merely symptomatic of a vast phenomenon that is leading to the pauperization and ultimate vanquishing of entire agricultural communities. Many families had more than one suicide to report. An 18-yearold girl, in Sangrur district, whose mother died within a month of her birth finally lost her father too, when he committed suicide in 2007. Today she is being brought up by her uncle and aunt. Prior to the father’s suicide, his brother had killed his own daughter and burnt himself to death a few years ago. In a family in Mansa district, a woman and her daughter-in-law have both lost their husbands to suicide. Having all but an estranged relationship, they live on the same family plot, but in two separate dwellings. They even blame each other for their losses. The older

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woman said that the 1.5 acres they had was divided into four shares between her husband and three sons. Her youngest son, who was in the army, committed suicide in 1998. It is alleged that he ended his life because of the dispute between him and his wife. The eldest son died of a heart attack after intense family dispute in 2001. The middle son too ended his life in the same year. The elderly woman said that it was the harassment of the arhtiya and bank agents that made her husband go for the extreme step in 2004. He had a loan of over ` 4 lakhs on him. When the land was sold to repay debts, I had to work in the fields on daily wages. But now I am too old to do even that. I get ` 250 as widows’ pension. I have nothing to tell you or union people or even the government. You only think for yourself how my life is because I do not know how or why I am living. I have no hope, no money, no land, no izzat and no sons. What do I tell you? Although my daughter-in-law and I have the same courtyard, we barely talk. I have had an accident, I am diabetic. But nothing is killing me. I really wished I had died in that accident.

One wonders what happened to the two other women in the same family, who had left it after suicides of their husbands. One of them was said to be quarrelsome, while the other reportedly ran away. No one today is willing to talk of them. Separated by barriers of a common experience, all the women in this family have been left to grapple with a situation most formidable, the end outcome of which is deep alienation from the family and their own selves. Almost every family interviewed in Mansa seems to have been devastated in more ways than one. In the same district, another Jat-Sikh family that had divided its 5 acres among the sons soon became landless too. A woman in Mansa district narrated how she and her daughter were surviving on what they earned from picking cow-dung. Her husband had drowned himself long back in 1996 when failed crops and pests were beginning to play havoc. Unable to take the grief, his elder brother died of a heart attack two days later. Her son too committed suicide in 2006. His wife later left with her children to live with her mother. The multiple ways in which a family disintegrates and the ambiguity surrounding women seem uncannily similar—a saga that has a script written from the beginning of the end that the Green Revolution brought to Punjab.

128  Those Who Did Not Die

In the Giddarbaha block of Muktsar district, a woman narrated how the 40 acres of land got divided among four brothers. After the American bollworm ravaged the entire crop in 1999, her husband, who was already in debt and had already sold most of his land, could not bear the loss and consumed pesticide. His two other brothers also killed themselves for similar reasons. Today, she is landless and alone. She fears that her daughter, who is married to a farmer, may also meet the same fate. A Majhabi Sikh woman’s husband, an agricultural labourer in the same block, had killed himself in 2002. Four years later, her son also died of heart attack. He had remained tense and withdrawn all the time ever since his father’s suicide. A 55-year-old woman in Bhatinda district got married to her brother-in-law after her husband’s suicide in 1990. The second husband also killed himself in 2003. The family once owned 7 acres of land that came down to 3 acres over the years. Both her sons, now in their early twenties, have moved out of agriculture. One of them works in a nearby sheller, while the other has become a truck driver. This gives her the hope that they at least will not meet the same fate. I have seen two suicides. My second husband was very caring but he was getting frustrated with agricultural work. It is better now since my two sons are not dependent on land. The land has been rented out. My health is failing me and I doubt if I will ever recover.

Bhatinda has many such families with multiple suicides. A Majhabi Sikh woman in Nathana block of Bhatinda district narrated how her sister-in-law committed suicide in 1999. She was too frustrated by squabbling on daily basis over problems she was facing in running the house in the absence of work and money. She said that the husband died of a heart attack in 2005 and the children are now with her mother-in-law. Over close to two decades, I have seen everything getting more and more difficult for both the brothers. My husband hung himself in 2009 due to the worries of joblessness and indebtedness. Mechanisation of agriculture is to be blamed for joblessness that has made human labour almost redundant. Now a month’s work

Fragmentation of the Family  129

can be done in a day by machines. Spraying and cutting of crops and fodder are already being done by machines. Where will we go? My son picks up work when weddings take place. That might not be enough but I tell him not to worry. We have already lost three members in the family and I do not want him to be the fourth. He remains depressed all the time from morning to night.

In another village of the same block, a Ramdasia couple narrated how their 26-year-old son consumed pesticide in 2009 in sheer desperation of not finding wage work. The father had also lost his brother due to similar circumstances in the year 2000. He said that he had never recovered from his brother’s death and now it was his son.8 Families have not only witnessed multiple suicides, but also have surviving members with disabilities caused by work-related accidents, such as while working on harvest combines. Yet another unique way in which the mechanization of the Green Revolution debilitated the peasantry of which very little is known to us. A 70-year-old woman in Moga district whose husband committed suicide in 1990 lost yet another son in suicide a few months back around the end of 2008. She is dependent on a son who has lost a leg in an accident while working on a harvest combine. In Bhatinda district, severe harassment by the arhtiyas drove a man to commit suicide. His wife is now left with two adult sons—one of them is polio-stricken, while the other lost his forearm in an accident on a harvest combine. One cannot find a more telling picture of the trail of death, disfigurement and destitution that the violence of capitalist-intensive agriculture has left behind in Punjab.

Of a Future Most Elusive Nothing can be more ironic in this country, so predominantly rural and agricultural, that the children of the food producers of the country have to live a life of hunger and want. And the crushing of dreams and aspirations. For peasant children and the youth in the countryside, the future appears all too bleak. All that they foresee for themselves is denial and deprivation. It is in their assertions and actions that we catch the glimpse of a future the young generation is neither prepared for nor asked for. And when this is happening

130  Those Who Did Not Die

at such a large scale across states, all social and Marxist notions of the social reproduction of labour begin to clamour for answers in today’s context. Reproducing labour no longer appears to be the project of capitalism, especially when we see entire communities being vanquished. The need for education, as a means to reduce the next generation’s dependence on agriculture, was never felt as strongly by the peasant community as it is felt today. But that also does not come easy, as for most of them providing their kids even the most basic education is unaffordable. A 13-year-old boy committed suicide in Bhatinda district in 2003 when he was removed from school by his father. According to his mother, he had pleaded with his father many times not to do that. But they had never imagined that he would resort to such a drastic step. It indeed was a tragic incident. One wonders what might have gone through the tender mind of this young kid before he consumed the fatal pesticide. Rage and torment? Or sadness and humiliation? Hearing constantly from parents about the hardship of supporting children’s education elicits different reactions among different children. It either results in single-minded pursuit of academic studies; or it leads to acquiring of rebellious characteristics. Many of them lose all other interests and thus forsake the joys of a childhood. Some children, by the time they reach middle level schooling, begin questioning the prospects of education itself. As they get older, especially the boys, they begin spending most of their time outside of homes and come by only for meals or to watch TV. The fear of such children developing addiction to davai (literally, it means medicine. In local parlance, davai is a reference to substance abuse or drug abuse), as they call it, keeps mothers constantly on tenterhooks.9 Generalizing the psychological impact of the agrarian crisis, as it plays out on their impressionable minds, is hard enough and even harder it is to anticipate how the troubled childhood would manifest itself in coming years. Children can be seen quietly studying. Mothers complain that their kids do not speak at all, setting an alarm bell ringing in the minds of those around. Many a time, mothers draw comparison with their father’s mental state and depression in the presence of children. Ever so often they even warn children not to go the father’s way. For these children, death occupies more space in their conscious mind; while the desire to live and dream has got relegated to the background. For them, imagining death is easier than the realization of their ordinary dreams and aspirations. Educated

Fragmentation of the Family  131

young Dalit girls are keen to step out of the village confines and join the labour force. Some are as keen to study too. The grief and mourning of a brother committing suicide sharpens their determination to be of use to the family and perhaps not marry as is expected of them. Stepping out of the traditional roles may have been less difficult for Dalit girls, due to less caste rigidity, than their counterparts in the Jat-Sikh community, but the means to do so elude them even more. Despite having to manage an education with the hard toil of their parents, neither work is available close to their home towns or villages nor do they have the means to go to bigger cities in search of work. A Jat-Sikh girl is doing her postgraduation from Mansa, but her parents are keen to get her married. Frustrated, she has become overly spiritual. Her family is clueless as to what she wants from life. They consider it their duty to get her married and will do it somehow, even if it means incurring fresh loans. But hers seems an exceptional case of having reached the university level.10 Other than the few young women mentioned in this study, most young girls are engaged in housework and only housework. In a couple of cases, girls have taken up responsibilities for the entire house and all its members. Their world is confined to their mother’s company, domestic chores and looking after the livestock. In very poor families, they have discontinued school for girls, as it happens always in any situation of economic distress caused by displacement, slum demolitions or migration. The most vulnerable section, which was the last down the line to have had made an attempt to take one step forward as different from its entire predecessors, always has to forsake its stakes in the future because of the crisis. Children are also witnesses to endless domestic spats pertaining to day-to-day survival issues.11 Sometimes grown-up children themselves trigger these disputes as when, among a host of other reasons, their needs are getting shaped by an economy that whips up endless material desires in the populace, on one hand, and snatches away their means of self-reliance, on the other. A woman in Bhatinda said how her son started breaking things when he could not get any money from her. He wanted ` 20,000 for a second-hand motorcycle. She said that even his father was not so bad, and that he was being so difficult and so uncaring that she often wished he too were a daughter like the other one. She even rationalized that she understood that it might be most normal for a boy to want a bike, but expressed her helplessness in the face of the fact that she barely earned ` 1,000

132  Those Who Did Not Die

per month from sale of milk. She hopes that he will not take any drastic step like his father. A bike is obviously not within the reach of the son of a farmer who ends his life. The bitterness of these boys is obvious and where it will lead them would be hard to imagine. Those who are sensitive and emotional in more caring ways suffer too. In March 2008, a 21-year-old took an overdose of dry Bhang (cannabis; prepared from the flowers and leaves of the hemp plant) and put an end to his life in Ferozepur district. He was most reluctant to go to the fields that day for work. He had been desperately applying for work too. In addition, he was deeply in love with a girl in a neighbouring town and the two were in constant touch over the cell phone. The torment he had gone through perhaps typifies the plight of many in their late teens and those in their early 20s. He was desperate to do something for his family. He was full of ideas to try out new things. At times, though, he felt so morose that he would come and say he would not survive. His creative way of thinking and relating made him very endearing to his family members; they drew solace from him and never once suspected his internal suffering and pain. He was their pride even as his aspirations in love or for job remained unfulfilled. The source of their hope too succumbed to suicide as the means of his self-realization seemed so pruned at the beginning of adulthood. How the young experience the economic, social and political dimensions of the agrarian crisis is yet to be documented. This is but a small glance one got while listening to their parents. The search for their own individuality becomes difficult when material conditions are worsening. Moving away from normative expectations is beginning to happen as parents want children to be less dependent on agriculture. But there is nothing else to fall back on. The claustrophobia and paranoia such young minds grapple with seem frightening when one even remotely tries to imagine its intensity. As young men come to terms with their reality and begin assuming family responsibilities, they get older and wiser too soon for their age. Kuldeep Singh was 16 when his father committed suicide in 2000 in Mansa district by consuming pesticide. He is now 26. One of his sisters is being treated badly in marriage. His youngest sister is still unmarried and he thinks that he would need at least ` 3 lakhs more to get her married. Kuldeep’s cousin also lost his father in 2005. His family too is reeling under the burden of a loan of over ` 3 lakhs. The entire harvest from the 2 acres of land that they have is taken by the

Fragmentation of the Family  133

arhtiya on account of interest repayment. Describing his helplessness, Kuldeep said that the poor guy does not even have the money to go to town to look for a factory job. Both he and his cousin were born in the mid 1980s, perhaps in the year of the Operation Blue Star.12 It was a period when people had begun to witness the wearing off of the effects of the Green Revolution. What psychographics are in the making in this transition can be well imagined for an entire generation of children entering adulthood. It is an era of adolescence itself going through a crisis. It is the male youth of Punjab today that is bearing the brunt of the agricultural crisis, victimized as they are in their masculinity—sons of fathers who could not run their families as the head of the household. Depression, alienation and suicide can be seen written on these young faces. The picture of the content and happy Punjabi farmer in calendar art as the propaganda of the Green Revolution was an illusory one. In fact, that very image was laying the seeds of the widespread agricultural crisis that unfolded 20 years later.13 A young girl in Nabha district got into severe depression after her father’s suicide as she was his favourite child and had basked in his adoring affection till then. She soon fell out of school, became very silent and slowly refused to marry as she grew. She is 24 today. She is finally open to the idea of marriage but barely speaks. She said that she was almost going insane as she was consumed with deep anxiety and fears. An 18-year-old in Lehragaga district has lost both her parents. A 9-year-old son of an agricultural labourer suffers from fainting fits whenever the father is talked about. When families are not written about and the plight of women is overlooked too, we cannot expect these children to get any attention in a way that significantly alters conditions for them. Ours is a society where children are not heard or seen, leave alone be respected. Yet, these children stand up for their fathers in touching ways. An 11-year-old boy who had lost his father a few months back is the youngest with three sisters older to him. He sat quiet throughout the interview, but as we were leaving, he said most solemnly that he would look after his sisters. This conditioning happens in almost osmosis style as boys imbibe roles and expectations. Even as they observe and listen to the regular conversations in such situations—there is nothing that children do not imbibe. They would listen to their mothers in awe, perhaps for the first time ever they are seeing them speak and opine to an outsider. At times it would be cathartic. Some girls have been in tears while listening to their mothers speak; reliving the pain is

134  Those Who Did Not Die

so difficult. On the other hand, these children also do not like their fathers being discussed in any negative manner and that too with utter strangers. A mother was putting her four children to sleep as she was discussing with me about decision-making in the household. She said that he rarely ever used to take decisions in any case. He would often get restless or anxious under such pressure and, therefore, preferred to remain drunk always. At this point, the 5-year-old son sprang out from his rajaai (quilt) to stand up on the bed and insist that his father used to take all decisions when he was alive. It is amazing what transpires in that little mind and how quick he is to defend the father. The mother rebuked him, ‘Go to sleep, you were not even 2 when he died. What do you know?’ The entire room broke into laughter. So touching it is to see his loyalty to the father and his quick making up of a lie in the face of any criticism of the dead father, even as his memories are questionable. Such children yearn for parents they have barely seen and known. And there awaits for them a future that seems even more elusive.

Notes   1. Quietly they take me to the two photographs of their parents framed on the wall, while others urge me to take a snap of the children with the photographs. They seem to have done this many times earlier.  2. This is based on observations and conversations that lie outside the formal questionnaire. There can be no woman’s account of her current reality without involving other family members and, therefore, synthesizing this into the main narrative makes the entire exercise more complete.   3. Levirate marriage continues to be practised in parts of Haryana and Punjab where the family decides to get the woman married to the deceased husband’s brother. This helps prevent the property from moving out of the patrilocal, patrilineal family, and is ostensibly seen as a means of protection for the woman and her children. I came across at least more than four such marriages in the survey, two of them being direct respondents.   4. The only difference as shown by the landless Dalit families lies in the support they get from within the immediate community as well as the support they extend to daughters in distress. The latter has been discussed in the next chapter.   5. The amount granted as Widows’ Pension in Punjab is ` 250 per month. The Old Age Pension amount is the same.   6. As they sat on a cot in the courtyard narrating their tale of woe, they held two large-sized framed photographs of the sons with the name and year of death written below each. There was once again an almost rehearsed motion of being clicked. I carry the images and those moments even though I have no photograph.

Fragmentation of the Family  135   7. In one of my earliest interviews in October 2008, Dr Sucha Singh Gill of Punjabi University, Patiala, vividly explained how the agricultural system is a vast edifice and it is collapsing. In the process of the collapse of the system, those who are the bottom-most layers get thrown the furthest. There is neither any evidence nor record of where these people are thrown and whether anyone notices them.   8. Without attempting to look for links between the families interviewed, one came across extended families having one member each, at least, lost to the crisis. In this case, of the two families, the father of the deceased in one interview is the brother of the deceased in another interview. Had the questionnaire been designed to enquire about other suicides in the same family or in close relatives, including agricultural machinery–related accidents and mental breakdowns, it would have presented a far bigger picture of the utter devastation that has been caused to the peasantry.  9. The previous chapter ‘Ill Health in an Ailing Economy’ covers briefly the extent of drug addiction amongst youth in Punjab. 10. The mention of her spiritual silence distracted me for a while with the keenness to know what exactly someone in her place thinks and even feels. But these were the boundaries I set in the study with utmost difficulty in order to be able to complete the study. 11. Look up in the chapter ‘Ill Health in an Ailing Economy’. Domestic violence faced by women as the fallout of alcoholism and dependency on drugs of men has been reported. In all cases, the children have been affected significantly. 12. Refers to the military operations of the Indian Army in June 1984, ordered by the then Prime Minister Indira Gandhi to remove Sikh militants and weapons amassed in the Golden Temple at Amritsar. Hundreds were killed; a sequence of events followed that led ultimately to her assassination in New Delhi on 31 October 1984 by her Sikh bodyguards. 13. This has been written in a previous article of mine. See Ranjana Padhi, ‘On Women Surviving Farmer Suicides in Punjab’, Economic and Political Weekly (9 May 2009): 57–58.

6 Taking Decisions, Voicing Expectations Har koi chahta hai ek muthi aasmaan Har koi dhoondhta hai ek muthi aasmaan Jo sine se laga le, ho aisa ek jahaan Har koi chahta hai ek muthi aasmaan1 A fistful of sky to hold in your hands A fistful of sky to seek for your soul A world to which our hearts can cling A fistful of sky to hold in your hands (Madan Mohan)

Reaching for not just a fistful but half the sky has been the inspiration for women’s liberation even as a small set of privileged women have been able to reach for more than half the same sky and even as the sex ratio has declined to an all-time low during the same years of one’s lifetime.2 For the growing majority of women, the challenge is one of addressing varied forms of patriarchy that are assuming precarious dimensions with systemic crises that debilitate, if not dehumanize. Women’s struggles challenged the personal as political and brought each area of a woman’s life and labour under scrutiny. However, what is the reality of the lives of rural and urban poor women today? The majority of women continue to be bereft of the means to take their lives forward. Situations of subordination manifest in newer ways while old structures consolidate. The struggle in overcoming patriarchal barriers in daily life is significantly affected by women’s caste and class position. As shown in the previous chapters, hardships multiply while patriarchy deepens its stranglehold in newer ways. In this current reality, women’s daily renegotiations with patriarchy need to be reexamined as they find a way for themselves and their children.

Taking Decisions, Voicing Expectations  137

The collapse of agriculture itself is revealing a changed context where the daily grind of women worsens; their equation with those around them becomes fraught with tension within a few days of the suicide. Having been marginalized in a predominantly feudal and patriarchal set-up for years, these women are suddenly confronted with taking on the role of decision-makers. The texture of life changes palpably as they are pushed into a situation where they take on what they are least prepared for and equipped with. The so-called dependents are made to become the providers; the disenfranchized called upon to play the role of decision-makers. They are put in charge of already failing crops and agricultural land when they have never been part of the market dynamics or bought pesticides and fertilizers or hired machinery. As the shock and pain settles, daily life is ridden with the same everyday small conflicts, but with a different desperation. There are quarrels over little or no money; acute tensions in the family; harassment of arhtiyas and so on. Most women look bewildered or give a dismissive smile as you ask them of support structures. Such sources are completely depleted as the crisis is affecting the lives of all; panchayats and peasant unions become the only source of support, especially in areas where unionization has taken place. And hope for employment of a family member or a decent education or technical training courses for children remains a dream. This chapter, with the help of simple tables and calculations based on women’s responses will consider four important areas in the immediate aftermath of any peasant suicide: (1) decisionmaking today; (2) conflicts faced in the newly changed context; (3) support structures, if any and (4) expectations from the Punjab government.

Taking Decisions against All Odds An elderly woman and her daughter-in-law in a village in Mansa district have both lost their husbands. The daughter-in-law was informed by her father-in law of the extent of debts after her husband’s death; he too committed suicide later. Both women explained how they have come to terms with being in the dark in matters related to loans and the gradual sale of family land. The 50-year old daughterin-law seems to have had no part in decision making whether it

138  Those Who Did Not Die

was with her husband earlier or the son now. Today, the interest rate and loan is going on increasing and her son remains tense. She said: Economic difficulties are endless. My son remains tense all the time. He is worried of his two children too. His loan keeps on increasing. I see no end to this. My husband kept me in the dark about the loans that he had taken. It was only after his death that my father-in-law told me about the debts. Now my son decides everything but I, at least, get to know a bit more now. Many other men in this family have died. I do not want to put any pressure on my son for anything even if I have no one to talk to.

Yet another 20-year-old woman in the same district who helps her father-in-law with the entire agricultural work laughed as she said that she is not involved in any decision-making. She said: I have no idea of earnings or what happens to the crop now. My father-in-law manages everything. It is tough for him too. The patta is not in my name as yet. I cannot think of any way out because of my children. They are so small.

The exclusion of women from discussions is systematic; decisions on sale or purchase of assets and incurring loans or repaying remains with the men in almost all cases. The kisan sangathan comrades or the sarpanch are often privy to these deals as they are also involved in these arrangements. The lack of agency on the part of women is stark and revealing across all districts with a few exceptions that have already been mentioned in this study. Bearing the burden of all responsibilities without being part of crucial decisions continues to keep women subordinate and affects their self-esteem too. In response to these observations, once in a discussion in March 2010 in a group, a woman (not one of the respondents) in Bhatinda district shared how she took matters into her hand after her husband’s disappearance. Both he and his father had been selling land to meet rising costs in agriculture and at the same time slipped into heavy dependence on drugs through injectables.

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The entire family atmosphere was vitiated. There would be no attention to the needs of the family and the children’s education. One day her husband went missing and never returned. The family land had shrunk from almost 8 to 3 acres. In the changed scenario, she asserted herself and leased out the remaining land and also took up a small job in a local school. Three years later, she now feels that their situation has stabilized. She is very proud of her children and they too seem to be in awe of her. Around 63 women said that they take almost all decisions, while in the case of the remaining 73 respondents, other family members are involved. Table 6.1 shows how other family members are involved in the various areas of decision-making along with the respondent. It is interesting to see that there is greater participation of women in everyday matters related to household decisions, and the participation declines when there is an issue of visiting a sibling or parents in another village or even attending a mela or religious function in the Table 6.1: Participation of Other Members in Different Areas of Decision-making Taking Decisions with Other Family Members

Self

Son In-laws Husband Parents Other

Household matters

73

57

 5

 3

 0

4

4

Visiting relatives

73

35

 4

14

10

5

5

Attending festivals

73

34

 4

15

10

5

5

Marriage of children

73

33

10

 6

13

6

5

Sale/mortgage of assets

73

 1

23

20

16

7

6

Loans

73

 3

24

20

15

6

5

Voting choices

73

52

 2

 4

 8

3

4

Union membership

73

40

 3

11

10

5

4

140  Those Who Did Not Die

same village. Mobility is restricted and permission is sought from a mother-in-law or elder male, sometimes even when it is not a joint family. Interestingly, they appear to have some say in voting choices and affiliation with the local kisan sangathan. Although this is often influenced by the entire family’s choice, women were spontaneous and forthcoming in claiming it as an area where they decide for themselves. But predictably, decisions pertaining to sale or mortgage of land, loan repayment or taking a fresh loan seem to be always with the male members in the family. Almost half of the women interviewed (46.3%) shared how they have to take almost all decisions in the family, big or small (see Table 6.2). Among them, more women who are landless or with minimal landholding seem to be taking all decisions. Since almost the entire section of the landless belong to the Dalit background, the incidence of women in Jat-Sikh households taking decisions becomes progressively less in the sample, even in the aftermath of a suicide in the family. • Over 41% belonged to landless households closely followed by marginal farmers’ households (40%). In the case of small farmers’ households only 16% reported that they take all decisions in their family. In the case of large family households, this was reported by nearly 8% of the total respondents who take all decisions in their family. • Fifty-two (82.5%) respondents who reported that they take all decisions in the family were spouses of the deceased. Majority of them were from landless households followed by marginal and small. Other 11 (17.5%) were mothers of the deceased and majority belonged to small farmers’ households. • Nearly 55% of the total respondents who took all decisions in the family were in the age group of over 35 to 50 years— majority from the landless and marginal farmers’ households. Eight of the respondents who reported that they took all decisions in their family were over 60 years, and all of them but one were from marginal (50%) and landless (37.5%) farmers’ households. • Ninety per cent of the respondents had a single-unit family; however, most of them were from landless and marginal farmers’ category.

22 34.9% 10 15.9% 5 7.9%

Count (Percentage)

Count (Percentage)

Count (Percentage)

Count

Marginal

Small

Semi-medium, medium and large

Total Household

63

26 41.3%

Count (Percentage)

Landless

Respondents Who Take All Decisions

Table 6.2: Profile of Respondents Who Take All Decisions in the Family

52

*3 5.8%

8 15.4%

18 34.6%

23 44.2%

Wife

11

2 18.2%

2 18.2%

4 36.4%

3 27.3%

Mother

Relation with Deceased

12

0 0.0%

2 16.7%

5 41.7%

5 41.7%

> 25–35 Years

34

4 11.8%

6 17.6%

11 32.4%

13 38.2%

> 35–50 Years

9

0 0.0%

2 22.2%

2 22.2%

5 55.6%

> 50–60 Years

Age of Respondent

8

1 12.5%

0 0.0%

4 50.0%

3 37.5%

> 60 Years

57

3 5.3%

10 17.5%

20 35.1%

24 42.1%

Single

6

2 33.3

0 0.0%

2 33.3%

2 33.3%

Joint

Type of Family

142  Those Who Did Not Die

Coping with Conflicts Seventy-year-old Charanjit Kaur, the first woman interviewed in the district of Bhatinda where one would do the largest number of interviews, is left with two sons, one of whom is bedridden while the other son manages to do some amount of wage labour. Her biggest worry is the availability of some decent source of income. The family has lost 3 of the 4 acres they once possessed as well as the lives of two men. The total family income is ` 24,000 per annum; ` 18,000 comes from the lease of 1 acre of land, while the son earns roughly ` 6,000 per year from 60 working days. It is one of the few exceptions where a Jat-Sikh person is engaged in labour and Charanjit Kaur is emphatic in drawing attention to it as she reflects on the years gone by. An average of ` 2,000 per month is far from sufficient to meet daily expenses as well as medicines for the son who is ill. She recalls: We have only recently become free of the arhtiya’s harassment. The union exerts pressure on them to stop making the daily rounds. They know we have nothing more to give. We gave much more interest than what we earned and it is difficult to explain. Money has always been the problem but it only grew more and more. There were long times when even the arhtiya would not give us money any more. I get a pension of ` 250 now. I am so anxious all the time thinking of how and from where some more money can come. We have only 1 acre left, I will not even be able to get a bride for my son. It is a shame. But if only we could simply survive. Each person in this family is slowly getting finished.

The testimonies of these women are based in the recurrent theme of a self-reliant peasant community that has been cornered in an increasingly moneyed economy even after losing land and lives. She is one of the thousands and thousands of women in Punjab who were part of the song of the Green Revolution that cast a magic spell of promised agricultural prosperity between the 1960s and 1980s.3 Even as these women contributed their labour, the long-term effects of mechanization were beginning to show and a future of complete isolation was waiting round the corner. What seems to hurt at times is the loss of pride and dignity, while for most of the time, it is the

Taking Decisions, Voicing Expectations  143

sheer anxiety and panic of making ends meet. The accounts of the landless labourers are far more poignant as most loans have been made to fulfil household expenses. Women were asked about conflicts and problems today that preoccupy them the most from a list of nine options.4 These include Overall family concern, Daily tension in the family, Loan repayment, Financial needs, Addiction in the family, Harassment by loan agency, Traditional barriers, Other problems and No problems (see Table 6.3). This list of specific options were culled out from the first round of a pilot survey where these issues were recurring the most in women’s descriptions of the problems they faced. An important concern that does not get reflected here is the pain and conflict of sale of land and family assets and litigation issues. Women mentioned such issues in a more guarded manner while discussing areas of decision-making. The maximum number of women, not surprisingly, mentioned Meeting Financial Needs as the biggest problem in today’s context. The three topmost concerns thus seem to be: • Meeting financial needs—79% • Family concern—66% • Daily tension—49% After citing the three most important concerns, it is interesting to see that over 35% mention loan repayment. In the case of large, medium and semi-medium farmers, over 60% cite family concern and daily tension as the main areas of conflict in their lives. Let us briefly cover these conflicts and what they mean in today’s context in the lives of these women.

Financial Needs This was cited by almost two out of every five households contacted/ interviewed and all the category of households except by the semimedium, medium and large farmers households who prioritized loan repayment and family concerns. Around 84% and 88% of the economically most vulnerable sections—the landless and those with marginal landholdings, respectively—cited this as a problem. This

48 84.2% 10 17.5% 11 19.3% 3 5.3% 5 8.8% 6 10.5%

108 79.4% 19 14.0% 26 19.1% 26 19.1% 8 5.9% 17 12.5%

Count Col (Percentage)

Count Col (Percentage)

Count Col (Percentage)

Count Col (Percentage)

Count Col (Percentage)

Count Col (Percentage)

Count

Meeting financial needs

Intoxication in the family

Harassment from loan agencies

Unable to do paid work due to traditional barriers

Other

None other

Total Household

57

20 35.1%

48 35.3%

Count Col (Percentage)

Loan repayment

136

26 45.6%

66 48.5%

Count Col (Percentage)

Daily tension

Note: Sum may not add due to multiple responses

42 73.7%

90 66.2%

Count Col (Percentage)

Landless

Total

Family concern

Table 6.3: Areas of Conflict in Life

43

1 2.3%

0 0.0%

11 25.6%

8 18.6%

4 9.3%

38 88.4%

15 34.9%

22 51.2%

30 69.8%

Marginal

18

5 27.8%

0 0.0%

8 44.4%

3 16.7%

3 16.7%

14 77.8%

8 44.4%

7 38.9%

6 33.3%

Small

18

5 27.8%

3 16.7%

4 22.2%

4 22.2%

2 11.1%

8 44.4%

5 27.8%

11 61.1%

12 66.7%

Semi-medium, Medium and Large

Taking Decisions, Voicing Expectations  145

drops down to approximately 78% of those with small landholdings and around 44% of those with above 5 acres of landholdings. Meeting financial needs in a growing cash economy is the biggest concern around which all other life decisions and issues of survival are centred. Churning out regular amounts for either school fees or some medicine or a visit to the parents’ village are requirements that remain to be attended to, regardless of the crisis situation. And women have uncanny ways in which to stretch the family kitty, however much depleted. For example, women from landed households in a village in Mansa district help other women meet emergency financial needs through a parallel loan system. The interest rates are high and paid on a monthly basis. Dalit women who take loans from these Jat-Sikh women often land up paying for it by working in their houses. Poorer Jat-Sikh women also enter these debts. The sarpanch said these are exploitative arrangements that remain clandestine and come to notice only when there is a dispute requiring settlement. But, he added, this is the only way women garner resources to run the house when the family is already in deep debt. The tension and preoccupation related to financial difficulties affect all aspects of their lives, including family bonds. The percentage of women in single families who face this problem is 82% as compared to joint families where it is 68%. Women’s mental worry and anxiety is related to it as well as the denial of adequate food and nutrition. The long list of deprivations that are part of people’s lives is determined by the availability of cash, which, in turn, exacerbates the fragmentation of all other forms of support and survival strategies. There are impacts that are both immediate as in the denial of education, lack of adequate diet, denial of health care among others and long-term consequences that marginalize people even more in a class-caste hierarchy. Life chances of being able to go a step higher, firm up support structures or even mere survival are denied.

Overall Family Concern This is again very high among the landless and marginal sections, at 74% and 70%, respectively. In the survey, this referred to women’s concern for the family in terms of the direction their lives are taking, the immediate future, the health or well-being of family members.

146  Those Who Did Not Die

Interestingly, in their accounts, this is often contrasted either with having worked so hard and yet not being able to see a future for their children, or with saying that they could come to terms with all ups and downs of their poverty and humiliation if only they could see some semblance of a future.5 These projections are, almost always, voiced as concerns for the family. In short, these women are preoccupied entirely almost with the absence of a sense of fulfilment.

Daily Tension in the Family This refers to tension that accrues from everyday quarrels or conflicts causing unpleasantness or vitiating the family atmosphere. Almost half the respondents (49%) have identified this as a significant issue. Women are also bereft of any outlet or escape from the daily hell they face as compared to men and other family members and they are, therefore, more subject to it. Almost 61% reported this as a problem from the age group Above 60, indicating the steady decline of control over one’s life. With grown-up adult children, women begin to face alienation from married sons and daughter-in-laws, where negotiating within the patriarchal family set-up assumes different forms over a period of time. Of greater concern is the vulnerability of the elderly who are not only subject to neglect or taunts at times but also bear the worse plight of passively witnessing family squabbles on a daily basis without being able to intervene meaningfully due to their own declining resources—material and otherwise. Life becomes a daily hell where this tension and mental exhaustion becomes all consuming even if the conditions of poverty are less unbearable. Daily tension is also a result of unequal power dynamics within the family and sharing of common resources. Almost 54% of women in joint families reported this as compared to 47% in nuclear families. Those in the latter category seem to be in relatively less vexed households and a bit better off in terms of daily bargaining for peace or reason to prevail. This also seems to be less in the non-propertied sections with 46% of the landless reporting it as compared to 61% of those with above 5 acres of landholdings. Once again, the lived reality of women within the family comprises tolerating or directly becoming part of daily conflicts in a manner very different from men. Therefore, different sets of tensions are borne differently and the nature of conflicts begins to

Taking Decisions, Voicing Expectations  147

assume the public–private dichotomy discussed in the introduction. If we now look back at Table 1.5, we find that overall family tension was reported by only 30% of the respondents interviewed as the perceived cause of suicide. And loan repayment and harassment of loan agency instead become the breaking point for men, which rank fourth and fifth in terms of aggregate responses of women.

Loan Repayment and Harassment of Loan Agency In contrast to these two factors emerging as the main causes of suicide in the first chapter, women’s perception of their problems rates these factors as next in importance after the first three discussed above. The percentage of women who reported loan payment as a factor was 35%, while 79% of women had identified loan pressure as perceived cause of suicide earlier. This clearly indicates that though the problem remains and perhaps has become more persistent too, it seems to cause less worry than before. Or the pressure on the male member, in addition to the secrecy maintained, reaches a breaking point. There are other concerns that also become uppermost in the aftermath of a suicide. Again, 19% identify harassment by loan agency as a current problem while the same was reported as the third main reason as the cause for suicide by 49% of the respondents. The decrease in harassment in a relative sense after a suicide in the family seems to be redeeming, even if only negligibly so. This is almost entirely due to the presence of the peasant unions since the survey was being conducted largely in areas where peasant union activity is fully established. The mental pressure of loan is borne most by men; it is again the men who are also almost entirely subject to the harassment by the arhtiya, recovery agents from banks or the local private moneylender.

Traditional Barriers In the survey, this referred strictly to women’s lack of mobility and the ability to pick up wage work due to caste restrictions. Only a few women who are most conscious of the inability to move out

148  Those Who Did Not Die

of the house spoke readily. Otherwise, most see it as a distant possibility or distant dream. Clearly, it is taboo almost for women of landowning sections to do wage work anywhere else, especially to work on other’s fields. However, the anguish of being confined to the house when the woman is convinced that she can pick up some kind of livelihood causes considerable tension and pain. This problem is found far more in the Jat-Sikh community than among the Dalit sections who seem to form the bulk of the landless. While only 5% of the landless voiced this as a problem, 26% and 44% of women from marginal and small landholding categories mention this, respectively. A greater percentage of women in joint families face this problem as compared to women in nuclear families. In the category of age of the respondent, the highest percentage of women confronted with traditional barrier is between the age group 25–30—a time when a woman is most preoccupied with running the family and most confident of taking up work outside the house. For women with growing children, the desire for autonomy seems less than the more pressing need to be able to feed children and afford school fees. However, for young girls just over 19 or 20 years of age, there is a restlessness to be able to do something different and step out of the village. This was voiced by many young girls of Dalit background who have finished school or are going to college.6 The lack of employment prospects in towns then makes it impossible for the young to go beyond traditional barriers in the same manner as the non-availability of wage work makes it well-nigh impossible for Jat-Sikh women to step out of their confines. It is concerning that women’s consciousness to be economically independent is engendered7 in the midst of such tragic circumstances when the entire working class and peasantry themselves are faced with such formidable obstacles. Finally, one will not generalize on trends regarding consumption of intoxicants for the simple reason that only 19 of 136 (14%) women reported such habits by a family member as a problem for them with the exception of mothers of sons in late teens or early 20s. This question would very often be dismissed with ‘Nasha dasha kuch nahin; roz thoda shharaab varaab pi lenda’ (There is no addiction. There is just a little bit of alcohol that is drunk daily). The daily intake of alcohol is such a routine matter that most women do not regard it as addiction. Also, some found it easier to speak of the alcoholism or drug addiction of the deceased and less of family members around them. Even then, one can see a small reversal here

Taking Decisions, Voicing Expectations  149

with more among the landless and nuclear families reporting this problem. Around 13%, or rather 17 women of 136, said that they were not facing any problems today. Finally, quite a few women mentioned that they have problems other than what is mentioned in the questionnaire. By doing this, they would begin to talk of the husband’s alcoholism before his death which was, at times, accompanied by domestic violence. Some of them also made a special effort to mention the strong and persistent feeling of loneliness that is all consuming; a couple of elderly women spoke of the injustice of total abandonment. After an interview in Sangrur district, a woman was making tea for all of us in the kitchen. Being alone, she broke down and sobbed. She said that she has no other problem, but just does not know how to handle the intense loneliness. She said ‘my loneliness is killing me all the time and I do not feel safe or secure. Even if you are from Delhi you know that no woman is safe when she is alone’.8

Seeking Support The real-life situations one came across in these families have unusual instances of support and bonding in these bleak times. Often, ageing parents lose their own autonomy to help, sometimes even if they have the means to do so. But some women here go against the norms within their own families to stand by the daughter who is left alone. Reaching out to a daughter in distress implies going against the expectations of caste norms, especially among the Jat-Sikhs. However, one came across such parents who spoke how they did not fear their sons or were not held back by the fear of disapproval to step into the daughter’s life when she was alone. In a village in Ferozepur, the mother of a woman who was visiting her joined in at the end of the interview when the woman mentioned her as an immense source of support. The mother confidently opined on how she manages to help: It is not easy to support a married daughter but we have to think how to do so. As children grow up and make their own world, you realize they are not the same. Just like the five fingers of your hand, even children from the same mother are unequal. Some need

150  Those Who Did Not Die

us more than others. After her husband’s death, his mother also died. My daughter had to pay ` 13000 as part of her mother-inlaw’s treatment and funeral expenses. Where can she get it from? If she didn’t pay, she would have forfeited 2 kanals of land coming as her share. I gave some money and ensured that her brothers contribute to this amount.    I have to stay independent of my sons so that I can help the one who needs me the most.    I stay with any one of them, it is natural that they will advise me what to give and what not to give to others. It is much better to stay alone. I have managed to convince my husband of this truth. And that is why my daughter is able to rely on us. If we remain scared of others around us, we will not be able to do anything for anyone. Society has many rules; you do not have to abide by them all. I do not worry breaking rules that are based on selfishness.

Her wisdom and clarity were incredible; she happens to be one of her kind one can assume. In Moga district, a woman committed suicide.9 Her sister and family helped the husband and children settle down next door by building their house on the adjoining plot. They guide the children on everything as the father is non-functional and heavy into addiction. The children have placed a lot of hopes on their studies and are sure to step out of agriculture. The daughter had gone for an interview. The son told how his maternal aunt decides everything for them. They do not ever feel alone even though the father returns home late everyday, almost always intoxicated. Another woman in Bhatinda district said how her parents’ family used to help her with clothes and children’s studies. But that seemed to last only as long as her father was alive. There were similar accounts of a child being sent to the maternal grandparents to stay there, or of a daughter staying in her maternal uncle’s house till her marriageable age. There were a few rare accounts of just and considerate fathersin-law. In Ferozepur district, a woman had already deserted her husband because of the daily quarrels and his drinking habits. She recalled how he never cared for her and used to beat her too as he was alcoholic and depressed. She said how her father-in-law insisted and brought her back and put her share of land in her name after the son’s suicide. The issue of obtaining support from parents does not emerge clear from the tabulated responses as support was often interpreted

Taking Decisions, Voicing Expectations  151

as financial support. But one came across several such instances. Obtaining emotional support and instances of a parent moving in to live with the daughter is particularly common among the Majhabis, Ramdasia and Ravidasia communities, with only a few exceptional instances among other sections. The ethos prevailing among Jat Sikhs is of the prevailing patriarchal taboos on parents not visiting the daughter’s house or even having anything to eat there, other than an occasional meal if there is a death or celebration in the household of the married daughter. The same abdication that begins when she is ‘sent away’ to her in-laws amidst tears holds up right up through all her trials and tribulations. Curiously, Dalit communities that have been marginalized in the dominant Jat-Sikh society emulate all social practices of wedding celebrations and dowry practices. However, when it comes to providing emotional support, they are ruled entirely by the heart that sees only the most instinctive and practical thing to do, and many an old father or mother or brother quietly take on to additionally support a daughter whose husband commits suicide. So, when there is no question of inheritance or property that can cause rift between brothers or brother and sister, the space opens up infinitely for mutual support. Almost all such families are agricultural labourers or at most a few are able to work in a mechanic shop or in a mill. But polarization from age-old occupations related to agriculture and their consequent spiralling indebtedness to run the family makes them take this drastic step. A landless Sikh woman in Rampura block of Bhatinda district has taken on to tailoring with her father’s active support. Her husband consumed pesticide in the year 2005 because of constant harassment of the arhtiya and the interests piling up. The loan of ` 2 lakhs that was largely spent on house building remains. She said that other than the arhtiya’s visits, she has no other problem today. Her father, who is well above 60 and looks older still, never once stopped the sewing machine while listening to our entire conversation. And then, when we were finally discussing sources of support, he gently added: I have always been most worried about this daughter and have been able to do nothing for her. She does not have any hand in this cruel state of affairs nor does she deserve it. She never once got her due from either her husband or from me. I am not so sure of my two grandsons—one of them is more responsible. It would be enough for us if they only get to stand on their own feet. I am

152  Those Who Did Not Die

only making up for my daughter’s sorrows and sadness in a small way. This is nothing. I cannot see her suffering. She knows very well that as long as I am there she cannot say she is alone.

And he went on with his machine. They barely make ` 3,000 per month and orders are hard to come by as there are many tailoring units in a small village and the customers are the same people. In addition to familial support, it was redeeming to see alive still the tradition of community support among the poorer sections. A 43-year-old Bairagi woman in Rampura district is bringing up her sister’s two daughters along with her three children. She said: As soon as her husband died, we got our sister married again. My husband was supportive. I am bringing up her two daughters. I have no support in the family as my father and brother are dead too. There was no choice. I have two daughters and a son. All four girls work at home doing stitching and tailoring. Only now that her two daughters are attaining marriageable age I have to worry about their marriage. But that is the responsibility of the entire village. I expect everyone will help me as this is not something I can do alone. Everyone has seen them come here as tiny kids. I am not alone in this.

Those standing around nodded in agreement that it is a joint responsibility. In yet another incident, the entire village got together and got two daughters married within six months of the father’s suicide. Belonging to the Misri caste and hard pressed for money and work, the father’s main source of anxiety was the daughters’ marriage. However much the expenses might be, community support is forthcoming in getting girls married as it is something they can accomplish. Taking on risks and generating support for jobs and education seem more difficult. Most women spoke of how alone they are today and how most familiar sources of support have dwindled. Those close to them could support for a while but even empathy and concern face their limits too soon when the issues are the same for everyone else. Let us now have a look at the statistical data. Of a set of eight options, the three responses most frequently cited by women were: Peasant organization—66%, None—22% and Parents—22% (see Table 6.4).

12 21.1% 3 5.3% 42 73.7% 13 22.8%

27 19.9%

12 8.8%

90 66.2%

30 22.1%

Count col (Percentage)

Count col (Percentage)

Count col (Percentage)

Count col (Percentage)

Count

Panchayat

Govt. organisations

Peasant organisations

Not getting any support

Total

43

7 16.3%

29 67.4%

5 11.6%

7 16.3%

11 25.6%

6 14.0%

18

7 38.9%

9 50.0%

3 16.7%

4 22.2%

4 22.2%

6 33.3%

Notes: Sum may not add as this is multi-response question.     *Others include sister, daughter, daughter-in-law and sister-in-law.

57

9 15.8%

30 22.1%

Count col (Percentage)

Parents family

136

3 5.3%

21 15.4%

Small

18

3 16.7%

10 55.6%

1 5.6%

4 22.2%

6 33.3%

6 33.3%

Semi-medium, Medium and Large

Category of Households Landless Marginal

Count col (Percentage)

Total

In-laws

Table 6.4: Current Sources of Support in Life

108

24 22.2%

75 69.4%

10 9.3%

23 21.3%

25 23.1%

14 13.0%

Single

28

6 21.4%

15 53.6%

2 7.1%

4 14.3%

5 17.9%

7 25.0%

Joint

Type of Family

92

21 22.8%

57 62.0%

8 8.7%

17 18.5%

27 29.3%

18 19.6%

Wife

28

5 17.9%

23 82.1%

3 10.7%

7 25.0%

0 0.0%

2 7.1%

16

4 25.0%

10 62.5%

1 6.3%

3 18.8%

3 18.8%

1 6.3%

Mother Others*

Relation with Deceased

154  Those Who Did Not Die

There is a steep fall from peasant union support (66%) to other options too. One can well imagine the plight of areas where the peasant unions have not been able to reach out as organizing work is meeting its own set of challenges in the present situation. Even then, the Malwa region, where this study has been conducted, is most organized and has a long history of peasant resistance. The organizing of the peasantry is also spreading to the Majha and, of late, to the Doaba region too. With the agrarian crisis affecting entire communities across districts, there is no one to turn to in the aftermath of a suicide. Those who stood by to gain from the grave situation the peasantry is plunged into have little interest to dole out loans, whether it is the arhtiya or the private moneylender. In this context, the kisan union turns out to be the common reference point for all support and advice. In the responses, sometimes women would refer to the panchayat or the union in an interchangeable manner; at other times, the senior members of the union also happen to be part of the panchayat actually. Two women in Muktsar district emphatically stated how they would not have been able to survive without the support of neighbours and the panchayat members. In both cases, the union was involved too.10 Gurvinder Kaur has gone though many court cases and confronted the arhtiya who was bent upon confiscating her land for repayment of loans. Her husband had succumbed to the harassment and committed suicide in 2003. But she is hell bent on not parting with her 2 acres. The union has stood by her and the litigation process. Her neighbours are an immense source of security too. As long as she has the support of the union and the neighbours, she has nothing to be afraid of. There’s a tremendous sense of identity with the union; the self-esteem and self-pride stem from a community identity of having dealt with the market and the moneylenders. Yet another 65-year-old woman narrated how her 26-year-old son committed suicide in 2003 after his wife’s death. They left behind two small children whom she is bringing up even as she seemed completely disoriented and spaced out with worry and fatigue. She said: I earn only ` 100 per month. Even if I want to work more, I cannot. This is far from sufficient to bring up the children. My neighbour is more than my son to me. I sometimes do not even know when they return from school or who leaves them because my mind is

Taking Decisions, Voicing Expectations  155

not working anymore. My son could not take the death of his wife and the tension of not getting work. But I am able to look after everything even though I have lived my life completely. My neighbours and the panchayat are very kind to me. Otherwise, I could not have managed.

In the district of Barnala, a family of 11 members had to escape the wrath of the arhtiyas and other moneylenders and fled to Pilibhit from sheer terror in the year 2005. The joint family with both elderly and infants fled overnight as their house got ransacked of all they had: buffaloes, grain, money, utensils, clothes and so on. Once the word spreads that the arhtiya is doing neelami (even though the word literally means auction, villagers refer to the attachment of mortgaged items as neelami), all other small stakeholders enter the scene too. It can be the most humiliating situation for any family in the conventional sense. When I met the family, there was hardly anything that they had as they had been completely looted, including 8 acres of land. They had spent an incredible amount of money and labour in levelling the land that was otherwise barren and dry. They have not been able to get over the horror of being looted by people from the same village. But they are glad to be able to return to it. They had no idea of how to contact the union. One of the married daughters of the family, who they were in touch with on the mobile phone, got the union to talk and persuade them to return. Here, the peasant union played a decisive role in contacting the family, urging them to come back and reclaim their homestead land. The message that was sent to the arhtiya and others was strong and clear. Today, one of the sons is a driver on the combine harvester and manages around ` 16,000 per year. There’s still a lot of hostility which they face, but they live bravely with the confidence of the union. In this district, the union has restored land back to the family in over 70 cases. In a village in Giddarbaha block of Muktsar district, a 65-yearold peasant consumed the dreaded sulphas on 7 June 2007. It was a case of harassment by the arhtiya for loan repayment. The arhtiya promptly took over 14–15 acres of land belonging to the family. The peasant union filed a case against the arhtiya for abetment to suicide. Currently, the family is using the land but live in constant fear and terror of repercussions, both legal and otherwise. The son shared with us how he is able to attend court hearings only with the support of the union that seems to be the sole and biggest source of support.

156  Those Who Did Not Die

The percentage of the peasant community that is organized in the state would be approximately between 35%–40%. The organizing of landless labourers is more recent with the Punjab Khet Mazdoor Union (PKMU) in Bhatinda district focusing entirely on this section. Many families, across the eight districts covered, spoke of how they are at least free from the morning visits of the arhtiya who would usually come on a motorcycle with one or two other people and sit in the courtyard or in the village square and demand repayment. Verbal abuses, threats and intimidation had been part of the daily ordeal. Further, the fear of confiscating the land for nonpayment of loans is far less now as the union presence is well established with the revenue departments, district courts and administration.

Making Demands11 The crisis in agriculture is the crisis of the peasant family as a social and economic unit in present society. The demand for jobs, for at least one member in a family, was voiced by many. Along with this was the recurrent theme of the future of the children; the peasantry that has provided food to the entire society sees no future for its own progeny. However, it is still a challenging task to enumerate what women want without processing these voices through a feminist lens that informs us of denials and deprivations that are both temporal as well as structured. The self-realization of the peasant woman is tied with both agriculture as well as her role in social reproduction—as mother or wife or a daughter or a daughter-in-law. Any departure from this role seems unthinkable in the immediate context, even as occasional snatches in interviews would indicate precisely that. Even as women voice expectations for their children, one sees clearly their dreams being completely tied up with the children’s future. Their voices establish only too clearly the denial of the self and continuing dependency on a system where their role as wife and mother is held sacred but the expression of their individual desires seems impossible. Overall, employment for family member, support for children’s education and cash compensation are major expectations from the government as this is what was expected by nearly 60% of the respondents interviewed (see Table 6.5).

26 60.5% 29 67.4% 21

Count 81 25 Col 59.6% 43.9% (Percentage)

Count 91 38 Col 66.9% 66.7% (Percentage)

Count

Support for children’s education

Employment for family member

Vocational/ tech training for children/ sibling

Col 49.3% 42.1% (Percentage)

48.8%

12 27.9%

Count 29 10 Col 21.3% 17.5% (Percentage)

Widow pension

24

24 55.8%

67

Relation with Deceased

Age of Respondents

13

50.0% 72.2%

9

11 13 61.1% 72.2%

16 14 88.9% 77.8%

2 5 11.1% 27.8%

10 7 55.6% 38.9% 1 1 6.3% 10.0%

8

11

6

52.2% 28.6% 68.8% 60.0%

48

69 10 12 9 75.0% 35.7% 75.0% 90.0%

56 14 11 4 60.9% 50.0% 68.8% 40.0%

24 4 26.1% 14.3%

51 19 9 6 55.4% 67.9% 56.3% 60.0%

64.5%

20

20 64.5%

30 96.8%

9 29.0%

14 45.2%

34.8%

8

15 65.2%

9 39.1%

2 8.7%

17 73.9%

38.9%

7

6 33.3%

9 50.0%

3 16.7%

12 66.7%

(Table 6.5 continued)

48.1%

26

41 75.9%

29 53.7%

14 25.9%

30 55.6%

Landless Marginal Small Semimedium, Wife Mother Others* Up to 25 > 25 – 35 > 35–50 > 50–60 > 60 Medium and Years Years years years years Large

Category of Households

Count 79 38 Cash Col 58.1% 66.7% Compensation (Percentage)

Total

Table 6.5: Women’s Expectations from the Punjab Government

Total

Count

136

9

6.6%

Count

Col (Percentage)

2

57

3.5% 43

2.3%

1

25 58.1% 2

18

18

22.2% 11.1%

4

8 14 44.4% 77.8%

Note: Sum may not add as this is multi-response question.     *Others include sister, daughter, daughter-in-law and sister-in-law.

Total

Free/low interest loan

Category of Households

Relation with Deceased

Age of Respondents

2

92

28

6.5% 7.1%

6

16

6.3%

1

10

0.0%

0

51 17 8 7 55.4% 60.7% 50.0% 70.0%

31

9.7%

3

14 45.2%

54

7.4%

4

33 61.1%

23

8.7%

2

9 39.1%

18

0.0%

0

13 72.2%

Landless Marginal Small Semimedium, Wife Mother Others* Up to 25 > 25 – 35 > 35–50 > 50–60 > 60 Medium and Years Years years years years Large

Count 76 29 Loan waiving Col 55.9% 50.9% (Percentage)

(Table 6.5 continued)

Taking Decisions, Voicing Expectations  159

• Loan waiving was reported by nearly 55% of respondents. • Expecting employment for the family member was found more among the households that belong to the semi-medium, medium and large farmers; majority of these respondents were spouses of the deceased and in the age group of up to 25 years. • Similarly, the expectation for support for children’s education was also found to be more among the semi-medium, medium and large farmers’ households followed by small farmers’ households and majority of the respondents were related to the deceased as other family members such as daughter, sister, daughter-in-law and sister-in-law. From day one of this survey, expectations were being expressed not only from the Punjab government but from the peasant unions and the research process too. Reflecting back, it seems so evident that they were being voiced in many different ways. Women were keen to know from their union friends how this interview will help them, what they will get and so on. I would say that I have come to write so that people get to know the problems faced by families where suicides have happened. This would not suffice as some women who have lost their husbands in natural death would assert that their suffering is no less.12 And they would share their ideas of how jobs or monetary compensation is a must; at other times, they shared the woes of the miserly widows’ pension being both highly inadequate and seldom reaching on time. Resting in the houses of comrades, their teenage children would get me into serious discussions. Young girls shared how they wanted to be a doctor or a lawyer and work for people of the Malwa region. Sometimes my mission would be queried by those younger still. While setting out for interviews from the house of a comrade in Sangathpura village of Sangrur district, his daughter, in her early teens, insisted on accompanying us. She offered to be the translator as she was keen to help. Her feet barely touched the ground as she was most excited. Suddenly, she reached out and whispered into my ear, ‘Have you come to give them women’s liberation?’ I laughed; my heart somersaulted with joy at this question from a young girl. In the same conspiratorial manner I whispered back to her, ‘It will take time.’ She assumed she was part of the liberation project and, therefore, her joy knew no bounds. It was contagious. While relaxing over a meal at the end of the day, I asked her how she got to know about women’s liberation. She quickly got me her

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school text book published by the National Council of Educational Research and Training (NCERT). And even shared a couple of poems she had written on social inequalities. The young bring in promise and hope in bleak times like no one else can. Of course, the survey and the questionnaire represented a formal tool with clear limits. Women would suddenly become self-conscious assuming these answers would entail ‘didi’ (sister) or ‘kudi’ (daughter) taking something to the government on their behalf. They would make special effort to express needs with complete accuracy. However, when constrained by the range of given options, some would go beyond these options. Others would even take me back to a point earlier in the discussion and assert that they had already stated what they needed. Such moments were indeed memorable. And as I bring my writing to an end, these moments come back to me. Some expectations are far too simple while others reflect a complexity hard to come to terms with. • A very young woman only wishes her brother-in-law who she was married to after her husband’s suicide remains as nice to her as her earlier husband was. She wonders why he has to see her as his brother’s wife all the time. And whether we could explain to him as he remains so tense. Another young woman dismissively said that she has no wish left for herself as she has to bring up her two little children. For her, it is a clear expression of denial of her own life as determined by given circumstances. But she immediately laughed and added that she needs more time to think since she has never been asked this question ever. • A woman, whose sister-in-law was being interviewed, said that she keeps her husband under strict supervision. She said that the problems are the same; since one brother hung himself to death, she has to be careful about her husband who is steeped in deep silence all the time. Another woman in the same district came running behind us with a set of old files. She asked if we were a survey team and whether we could interview her too.13 She said that her husband had gone into hiding since one and a half months as the arhtiya had been threatening him with dire consequences. He was in touch with his wife on the cell phone. She insisted that we talk to him, but his cell was off. We could only give her the phone numbers of the local peasant

Taking Decisions, Voicing Expectations  161

•

•

•

•

union and suggest that she should convince him to return and take the help of the union. The papers pertaining to the house were with the arhtiya as the house has been mortgaged. She conveyed the palpable fear of being thrown out on the road or, worse still, that her husband might end his life. Extreme concern for sons growing up in this milieu was expressed by many. A mother, torn by anxiety, stated many times that she wants her two teenage sons back from the zamindar; her acute fear is that her sons may commit suicide like their uncle. Another mother said that she is desperate to keep her school-going son out of the spate of consequences that is destroying all their minds. She spends a considerable amount on her own medication for depression and looks after the second son who is mentally ill. Her entire hope in life lies in this ‘good’ son being able to salvage his own sanity. She said that her only wish is that her son speaks a bit more after coming from school; his growing silence is most perturbing to her. She made me explicitly agree with her that he is not responsible for all that has gone wrong. Not all mothers wish only marriage as the sole destination for daughters. In one exceptional case, a mother said her only demand is for the government to compensate with a job for her married daughter. In plain wisdom she said that there is no future for her daughter either; after all, she still remains a farmer’s wife. In yet another rare instance, a mother pleaded that I take away her two daughters. She said that they can never have a future here unless they quit the confines of the present milieu. She too echoed in a similar vein that even if they cannot become someone great, they would at least not land up like her. That little glimpse of a different life lies in distant lands but seems impossible to imagine in the current context. Many young girls are keen to work, especially from Dalit families. Some are going to college too but see no way out from their immediate context. They are in touch with TV and newspapers and the activities of the peasant union. They can feel the vastness of the life outside without the means to explore. An elderly woman stated categorically that she simply wants enough space in her house to keep a buffalo so that she could at least live on the sale of its milk. Another woman with teenage children wishes ardently for her father-in-law to give that

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1 acre that she is legally entitled to so that she could rent out the land. These demands, if fulfilled, would barely fetch ` 1000 per month on an average, yet this is beyond their reach today. • Some elderly women said that they wish death; and a few only wished that at least the meagre widows’ pension of ` 250 per month reaches them on time. The reality unfolding through these interactions is too wide a canvas for any study or questionnaire. These voices reflect aspirations of countless numbers of peasant women who are facing destitution in the entire state and elsewhere. Today, reaching for half the sky has become an even bigger challenge for these women and millions more.

Notes   1. A popular Hindi movie song written by Madan Mohan.   2. The child sex ratio in India dropped to 914 females against 1,000 males—the lowest since Independence—in the provisional 2011 Census report released on 31 March. Despite many laws to prevent the extermination of female foetuses and schemes to encourage families to have girl child, the ratio has declined from 927 females against 1,000 males in 2001 to 914, indicating the prevalence of the strong cultural preference for sons. See, PTI 31 March 2011, http://articles. economictimes.indiatimes.com/2011-03-31/news/29365989_1_ratio-males-girlchild, (accessed 1 April 2011; Census of India 2011: Child sex ratio drops to lowest since Independence).   3. Her contribution to agricultural as well as household labour is discussed in Chapter 2.   4. Women have provided multiple responses to a list of aspects with a Yes or No in each set. The sum total of responses in any one set would go beyond 100%.   5. This question has been deliberately framed in a manner to elicit respondents’ sense of an immediate future and how preoccupied they are with it. Most responses were clearly qualified with either their longing of a life ahead or an explicitly expressed hope for just dues. To quantitatively capture this has some limitations as it is varying for each respondent and subjective. But its very existence as an uppermost concern among all other options substantiates their search for a dignified existence for themselves and their progeny.   6. The furtiveness with which they emphasized this at the end of the interview remains with me till date. The peasant unions, too, are aware of their aspirations to some extent as many of these young women are part of the regular peasant union large rallies. Some have addressed meetings too.   7. The question regarding restrictions on one’s mobility to work outside the house would get an unambiguous ‘No’ often. But curiously, and often enough, it would

Taking Decisions, Voicing Expectations  163

  8.

  9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

be followed with the expression ‘who would not like to earn’. The question would also evoke nonverbal responses like a faraway look or a spontaneous nonverbal expression indicating how impossible it is to even think about it. The silence was often more eloquent than the Yes or No. Undoubtedly, this response would have been certainly higher had it been discussed in the absence of other people or even familiarity of language. It is my inability in not being able to integrate women’s different ways of expressing thoughts on loneliness with the rest of the study in a more contextualized manner. Such expressions would only deepen my resolve to write about all else they were expressing. This is the only instance in my survey where a woman has committed suicide by herself after becoming frustrated with the daily hardship of not having resources to run the household. The other three women have committed suicide along with their husband as a pact. Demarcations between these in an agrarian milieu are difficult in normal times; however, in the areas visited, one was following the trail of deaths as recorded by the peasant unions of the area. Therefore, the overlapping was even more than usual. Discussing women’s support structures and women’s expectations from the government right at the end of the interview helped in ending the interaction on a more positive note, especially when the respondent has engaged in a kind of a recall that would be poignant and cathartic for most. The limits of my own research design would seem ludicrous at times when I was hard pressed to answer the most difficult question related to the focus on ‘suicide families’. In one particular instance in Bhatinda district, a woman twice came to the house we were staying in to be interviewed. She was old and could barely walk. When she came the third time early the next morning, I took out a questionnaire and conducted an entire interview. She left happy and satisfied in some undecipherable way. Clearly, the act of getting interviewed for some meant the fulfilment of the expectation of having registered their urgent needs.

Conclusion It was a tough test for me to keep my work going in the middle of increasing peasant agitation and unrest in Punjab. I have not even attempted to cover the range of activities peasant organizations are engaged in, as the only ally of the peasantry. Let me share a brief overview of the events unfolding at the time followed by some thoughts that are uppermost in my mind. The persistent demand for jobs and housing by agricultural labourers in the districts of Mansa, Sangrur and Bhatinda evoked the most brutal response from the Punjab government in May 2009 as over 1,300 labourers, including 511 women and 42 children, were locked up in jails across Punjab.1 The large-scale protest was triggered by the Punjab government returning 350 crores of NREGA funds unused to the Centre. The government was also not implementing its promise of five marlas (150 sq yard) housing plots to the Dalit labourers. The Land Consolidation Act of 1961 permits one-thirds of panchayat land to be leased out to agricultural workers for cultivation. Asserting their rightful due, agricultural workers started living in hutments built on this land. The arrests were preceded by an organized social boycott of Dalit labourers by the upper-caste landlords with the tacit support of the administration that refused to act. Almost all the leaders of the Mazdoor Mukti Morcha and the CPI(ML) (Liberation) in Punjab were jailed along with a few hundred activists. The police also evicted and bulldozed the homes of the people from the land where people built their huts in protest. Throughout my field work, the disquiet and unrest was palpable and even more so towards the final stage of the survey. Demanding the withdrawal of the Sukhbir Kalia report, thousands of agricultural labourers and farmers converged at a mammoth rally at Dana Mandi in Jagraon on 15 March 2010.2 Aimed at increasing farmers’ contribution to the electricity charges to the Punjab State Electricity Board, the report sought to charge farmers with 18 per cent of the cost, in effect ` 50 per bhp (brake horse power).

Conclusion  165

This triggered wide protest as peasant unions have been opposing the steady withdrawal of state subsidy in agriculture costs.3 The gathering at Jagraon swelled to over 25,000 people; the number of women was significantly high. At moments it seemed like the sky, fields, trees, grass and stones—all seemed to resonate as the air was rent with slogans related to availability of agriculture credit and guarantee of minimum support price as well as angry condemnation of the murder of Sadhu Singh Takhtupura, a prominent peasant leader from BKU Ekta (Ugrahan) in Amritsar district and a probe into the incident to punish the guilty. This massive joint rally was organized by 22 organizations representing farmers, agriculture workers and other employees. Resolutions were passed and a campaign ensued to carry the united resistance right up to 25–27 March in different parts of Punjab. However, what followed was a series of repressive measures. Even as comrades were providing me support in organizing the last few interviews, they were contending with many pressure tactics by the police and local administration on the eve of these organized events. Many peasant organizers and active workers were arrested, including Balkhar Singh, President of the BKU Ekta (Dakaunda) and Dr Darshan Pal of the peasant union leadership. A total number of 600 peasant organizers across the districts were arrested and confined until 30 March. The brutal hand of the Punjab state in thwarting dissent continues. Yet, joint programmes of peasant organizations that picked up momentum since 2010 continue too. Events taking place even as this manuscript is getting finalized are many and reveal fierce resistance by peasant organizations in the face of growing state repression. The bid for land acquisition by corporates has begun in Punjab now. The primary use of agricultural land for food production is giving way to the land grab tactics of capital and state. The Punjab government makes use of the administration and police machinery at its disposal to aid companies. Fertile agricultural land is being fetched at astronomical rates by companies to make super profits. Gobindpura village of Mansa district has total land measuring 1,458 acres, out of which 806 acres have been identified for the setting up of a thermal power plant by Poena Power, a subsidiary of India Bulls Power that has 63 per cent foreign shares. Since October 2010 when the Punjab government entered into this MOU with the company, there has been police repression across the districts accompanied by lathi charge, indiscriminate arrests and detentions, midnight knocks and even firing. When the land

166  Those Who Did Not Die

acquisition process started, the village was turned into a jail of sorts with all roads and entry points being heavily barricaded. Large contingent of armed police and black commandoes were deployed. On 21 June 2011, early in the morning, the administration started demarcating the project site with a strong contingent of police. The villagers—men, women, small boys and girls—resisted by blocking the railway tracks. The police took into custody 19 women, 47 men and 6 minor girls. BKU Ekta (Ugrahan) and BKU Ekta (Dakaunda) issued a call to all adjoining villages to march towards Gobindpura. There was violent confrontation. Again on 23 July, the administration raided the village with a big posse of police in the early morning hours, and started taking possession of the land by putting up barbed wire fencing around the entire village land. The police arrested 26 men and 12 women this time. On 24 July, both the farmers’ organizations again gave a call to march towards Gobindpura. Scuffles took place between the protesting farmers and the police at many places. Farmers from Cheema, Phaphre Bhaike, Bhikhi and Dhaipai area were marching towards Gobindpura. Sixty farmers were arrested from village Burj Rathi, 70 from village Ranghrial and about 12 from Bhikhi. Some of them were released in the evening, except 29 who were sent to Ferozepur jail. About 400 farmers were arrested in an operation supervised personally by the senior most police officials. On 1 August 2011, there were 140 agitating farmers jailed in Bhatinda, 133 in Sangrur and about 40 in Ferozepur jail. Forty new inmates were brought to the Bhatinda jail on that day but only 35 were accepted. Remaining were sent to other jails. On 2 August, when on a call of 17 peasants and agricultural labourers’ unions, thousands of farmers and labourers were marching towards Gobindpura, police attacked them with a renewed vengeance. They were brutally lathi charged at village Kot Dunne in Barnala District, resulting in the tragic death of one farmer—Surjit Singh Hamidi—and injuries to more than 60.4 In a separate set of events on 19 June 2012, almost 50 peasants were beaten up, fired upon and sprayed with water canon by the Punjab police in Patiala district. One person had a bullet shot while many were hit by tear-gas shells, too. They were resisting the occupation of village common lands. The police, revenue and rural development and panchayati raj officials had descended on the two adjoining villages of Charason and Balbehra to take over about 140 acres of land following a court order. The BKU Ekta (Dakaunda) demands

Conclusion  167

that these peasants, who are tilling these plots for five decades and who have made barren lands fertile with labour of generations, be declared Abadkars and given ownership rights. Women’s participation in the Jagraon public meeting was huge, claimed to be unprecedented almost. Their participation in confronting the violence wreaked by the state machinery is also too visible. Even then, I undertook this long exercise to simply reiterate that women’s hardships in the face of the agrarian crisis continues to remain unexplored and unaddressed. An eerie silence percolates down to every strata, where the outspoken woman is an exception, if not a deviant, or at best the village- or district-level organizer to mobilize women. In the wider resistance of the entire community against the workings of state and capital, women’s participation is sought and glorified; however, the rigors of patriarchal mechanisms that consolidate in these new and rapidly emerging scenarios get scarce attention. Bringing attention to the entirety of the peasant world and its ups and downs, this study asserts how resistance movements need to address issues pertaining not only to women, children, the elderly and the household economy but also to the consolidation of patriarchal practice in the face of a deepening economic crisis. Moreover, the reality of peasant women in Punjab presented in this book is not merely an attempt to portray a micro narrative. It simply demonstrates how women across different social and cultural settings must be surviving dispossession and deprivations. The changes ushered in by the neo-liberal regime forfeits the possibilities for women in being able to take their lives forward, for instance, in the impact of factory closures or slum evictions on working-class women in New Delhi and other cities. The same is also true in the context of mass displacement of Adivasi and Dalit women through the plunder of land and other natural resources by state and mining corporations in Chhattisgarh, Orissa, Jharkhand and other states. In the context of the growing proletarianization across the country, people are being violently separated from their land and resources. And even wage labour is becoming hard to obtain. Dependence on land or natural resources is under threat as never before. There remains an entire gamut of questions for those who are landless or have no productive assets. Rights to common resources and reliance on state benefits need to be asserted with a yet unseen militancy. The breakdown of support systems in the agrarian milieu is aggravated by the increasing reliance on cash for fulfilment of all needs, too.

168  Those Who Did Not Die

The perils of the agrarian crisis show how even with land ownership, women bear only the burden without any benefits. The fundamental link to land as a resource and as identity that determines well-being in ways both social and economic is today fractured. Women take on the role of being the sole breadwinner and continue to be the caregiver too; there is no one else to take on that role in the changed scenario. For these women, lived reality is informed by a patriarchal paradigm that holds intact women’s subordinate position through son preference, land and property rights. Issues around women’s right to land ownership continue to be ambiguous despite the amended Hindu Succession (Amendment) Act 2005. Although the amendment legally got rid of the discriminatory clause that prevented women from exercising their rights to agricultural land, confronting familial power structures continues to remain difficult for most women. And the plight of landless women remains most challenging in the absence of wage work or any semblance of social security. No doubt, access to common resources and right to social security need to bring agricultural labour to the centre stage, especially when the contribution of the landless peasantry is immense. The nexus of the structured oppressions of class, caste and patriarchy is layered and affects women in multiple ways. Based on the woman’s position in the family and the community’s location in the class-caste hierarchy, women’s access to work is determined. Along with the family’s location in the class-caste matrix, the community’s collective identity and its resultant ethos and norms also restrain women, far more than men, in the search of viable options for work and livelihood options. The manner in which caste interlocks with class and patriarchy is evident in the case of restrictions imposed on the mobility of Jat Sikh women even when they are getting pauperized despite ‘owning’ land. Such barriers would perhaps be relatively less for women in others states facing agrarian distress such as Andhra Pradesh or Kerala. Meanwhile, the lack of options for those willing to work, or rather the non-availability of work is a direct outcome of economic factors and policy failures. The state plays a dual role in both keeping alive propaganda of women’s empowerment as well as aiding capital in restructuring the economy and agriculture in ways that are clearly detrimental to women and Dalits, as well as all small and marginalized farmers. Any modern society coming to terms with improving women’s possibilities and advancement attempts to draw women into the public sphere in terms of education or employment.

Conclusion  169

In contrast, the crisis in agriculture is becoming yet another major factor in pruning the horizons set for women. The ushering in of global capital, free trade and opening up of the market has been accompanied all along by a withdrawal of the state from health care, education, public transport, PDS and other crucial areas. Earlier debates related to provision of crèches and childcare and whether the state should provide childcare facilities or whether the sexual division of labour in the family needs to be challenged to democratize the family need to be addressed now more than ever. The situation worsens as you go down the socio-economic ladder. Women’s lack of opportunity for self-realization and gainful employment is being fast precipitated by structural changes in the economy too. The earlier feminist demand of according women’s work the status of labour continues to remain unfulfilled. Meanwhile, the state has arrived at projecting poor women as entrepreneurs and economic agents to cover, albeit, so very openly, the destitution and impoverishment of the same women in large numbers. It is time we opened our eyes to the simple fact that international aid, through its vast network of hierarchical setups, only keeps intact a set of class, caste and male privileges; women’s dependent status in family and denial of meaningful participation in the public sphere is the direct means of doing so. It is therefore no small coincidence that public policies pertaining to women are yet to begin looking at the care economy. The SHG phenomenon is beginning to unravel itself and policies emanating from the IMF and World Bank are being questioned across developing nations. Resources sought from bilateral agencies and funding agencies are channeled through NGOs to keep intact a system of male privilege in which poor women become most essential for participation. Today, mining corporations and IT foundations are also in eager bid to sponsor such programmes; class divisions are thus held intact for the interests of international capital and global trade labelled with liberal rhetoric. This selling of false dreams is a formidable obstacle to women’s unity with other toiling sections. Such processes depoliticize the political project of women’s liberation while the academia continues to question notions and concepts of liberation and women’s identity with the support of the same international aid. The polarization of class and caste interests among women gets scarce attention, if any. In the course of this work, even as I was beginning to name the phenomenon as it presents itself today, some old questions

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continued to raise their head. How do we assert for people’s basic right to education and health? And how do we see the family as a social and economic institution? Who are the political allies of women in struggle? And hasn’t the relevance of socialist feminism become even more urgent? The traditional feminist understanding of women being recognized for household labour and reproduction of labour needs to be revisited in the current era of a globalized economy that is witnessing the severest assault on the working class itself. Capital does not seem to invest in the reproduction of labour in its destructive bid of getting rid of the poor literally. Whether it is large-scale agrarian distress driving the agricultural poor to the brink of suicide, land acquisition in forest and Adivasi settlements for mining and big corporations, demolition of slum settlements in towns and cities or closure of factories, the existence of people itself is in jeopardy. Such vicissitudes of violence tear asunder existing family structures and established patterns of familial coexistence in a society where the institution of family, even as it perpetuates patriarchal oppression and reinforces caste equations, represents the most common and familiar source of security—both financial and emotional—for hundreds of years. In fact, the most grotesque manifestation of capitalism is expressed in the condition of elderly populations, especially of the peasantry and working class. It shows how the system thrives so blatantly upon using and then ruthlessly discarding human beings. Seldom have we seen the normative assumptions of being taken care of in old age getting belied as we see it happening in the capitalist economy. Absence of any safety net, in terms of protective legislation or social security, for the vast number of the self-employed makes the peasantry even more vulnerable in times of agrarian distress. In this way, the effects of the collapse of the agricultural system will continue to be played out in the next few decades, too. It seems like a script written where the young in Punjab embody most the collusion of the past, the present and the future; they embody the betrayal by the Green Revolution despite the hard work of the Punjab peasantry to secure the land, the ecology and the future generation. Many fall outs of the agrarian crisis fill the younger generation with searching doubts and deep ambiguity. The most ordinary expectation, which ought to be regarded as the basic right of any citizen, assumes the proportions of a coveted dream that remains a dream for ever. Then one wonders about practices like dowry that continue to aggravate people’s economic plight. Whether it is factory closures or

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slum demolition in Delhi or peasant suicides in Punjab, the spectre of dowry looms large each time I have attempted to go beyond the pet feminist concerns. Or has it become worse than before? Dowries and grand ceremonies have become the iron hold of cultural conditioning in the rural poor. The only sanity and identity is salvaged through a cruel cultural practice that is consuming the lives of the providers of dowry and gives thousands of poor sleepless nights with acute anxiety. The ideological moorings of feminist campaign against dowry can be revisited perhaps to see what its boycott meant in practice. The dynamics spurred by a market economy and the premium attached to commodities and luxury goods had begun giving marriage and dowry a sinister edge in the 1970s itself, consuming the lives of many young brides in this country. Women’s struggle against dowry picked up momentum in the early 1980s when brides were being set ablaze for not meeting the demands of greedy in-laws. Undeniably, anti-dowry legislation has made considerable impact. However, it never sought to question the structured inequality of women being replicated since colonial times, in matters pertaining to property rights and inheritance. They have been mediated, almost entirely, from the point of view of a woman’s place being the patrilocal site of marriage. The set of rules remain the same even as those who can provide a dowry arrive at ingenious adaptations to circumvent the law. The privileged continue to uphold the practice by passing on moveable assets to daughters getting married without naming it dowry and indulge in expensive wedding celebrations. There is no engagement with notions of equality or patriarchal practices. Rooted in the customs of a traditional and feudal caste society, where marriage is a means of exchange in property amongst the rich, this practice has been used to basically disinherit daughters in a patrilineal society. Creating laws to curb a practice that is so deeply entrenched with culture and identity is not sufficient; the law does not touch the poor. Who sets up such norms and standards of expenditure that the Dalit landless are pushed into further indebtedness? A society based on class-caste hierarchies creates aspirations in the hearts and minds of the landless and rural poor. Its stranglehold only increases with an increasingly commoditized economy along with the revivalism of traditions orchestrated by media and conservative forces. Marginalized communities do not necessarily seek emancipation from other oppressive structured realities and, therefore, patriarchal norms and expectations continue to move with much fluidity among these

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communities, too. The patriarchal compulsion of dowry continues to be a major financial liability for the landless, marginal and small peasant families. Although dismissed as a social and cultural custom, the ideological sanctions maintained by the state, society and family make this practice one of the most pressing economic issues today. The downturn in the agricultural economy, of the last two decades in particular, has made it well-nigh impossible to collect a dowry for majority of the poor peasantry and toiling class. It is this majority that is being systemically deprived of livelihood options on the one hand, while remaining burdened with the traditional anti-women practices of the privileged few on the other. It is hard to keep count of the number of photographs that were shown to me of those who had committed suicide with the year of birth and year of death printed neatly below the image of the deceased. This is the stamp of the Green Revolution left in the houses of the peasants of Punjab. Each suicide is surrounded with even more cases of disturbed and desperate souls as the struggle for survival has intensified for a large section of the peasantry. As the familial bonds are coming under strain due to the ongoing agrarian crisis, the peasant families, there too, are facing increasing insecurity. The continuous infliction of injury on the mind and body is most directly related to deteriorating socio-economic conditions. Coping with constant deprivations and denials, poverty and mental health become closely related. The indicator of health cannot merely be the absence of disease when the incidence of mentally stressed people in the vulnerable sections is on an ever increasing high. Ordinary people’s fears, anxieties, hopes and longings are yet to be manifest in social health indicators. Thus, the dispossession of health care for people and the peasantry, in particular, is far more deliberate than what greets the eye. It is the outcome of a series of measures, leading to the commercialization of health services and abdication of responsibility of heath care by the state, leaving no refuge for the poor. The processes of fragmentation and alienation characterizing the lived experiences of increasing sections of people inevitably break the spirit as much as gnawing hunger and chronic malnourishment does. There is something terribly amiss when we expect from the same state, which is responsible for the dispossession and deprivation of people, to provide them with decent and free health care. Given the vast scale of deprivations and hardships that are coming in the wake of the neo-liberal policies of a globalized economy—a

Conclusion  173

world order characterized by corporatization and land acquisition—addressing social relations becomes challenging in a different way. India is no meek Third World nation either to be arm twisted to submission. Endowed with deeply entrenched feudal and traditional structures, characterized by an aggressive stance towards other small countries in the South Asia region, it is also clearly in the reckless pursuit of capitalist advancement in the neo-liberal era. The outcome of this turmoil is more often than not the consolidation of retrogressive forces that can be overlooked or boosted by the ruling class in a manner that suits it best. Lives of Dalits, small and marginal farmers, forest dwellers, Adivasis and industrial workers are as much being determined by a class-caste hierarchy in this country, and women are part of this large majority. Therefore, the obstacles for these large sections, who do not typically figure in Marxist practice without creating some clamour and a din, become even more insurmountable. The toll the global economy is taking on all forms of social relations today places insurmountable hurdles on the path of self-realization of these sections of people—be it liberation or simply a life more dignified. Forces—both material and ideological—are shaping the institutions and practices of property, marriage and family in a different way today. The bastions of patriarchy are being fortified for majority of women; the moneyed class pays a fee for small freedoms and lives a feminism that is imagined and individual. Otherwise, the path to liberation for most women, especially in rural India and among the urban poor, has become more arduous. As we see in this study and all around us, women continue to be bereft of the means to take their lives forward; these structured barriers become insurmountable with changes ushered in by the economy. It is an unending series of negotiations that they find themselves in while confronting the assault on lives and livelihoods. Questioning the institutionalized practices of patriarchy beginning from the family to ensuring land rights for women has become more complex in the face of the deepening economic crisis. These are the challenges of the times. For women, addressing issues arising from the political economy will necessitate questioning privilege and, therefore, women of privilege too. Also, peasant movements need to be antipatriarchal in both ideological orientation and political practice. We need to ask the most fundamental questions that can lead us to a common vision of complete radical transformation where the struggle for the dignity of the toiling class

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and women need not compromise one or the other. Choosing one set of hurdles over the other is a one-legged race when the ground itself from under our feet is giving way. Whether it is intensive capitalist assault, persistence of semi-feudal contradictions or consolidation of patriarchal oppression, we can no longer separate the economic from the social or prioritize one over the other. An injury to one is an injury to all.

Notes  1. Online petition of organizations addressed to the prime minister seeking the release of the peasant families at http://www.PetitionOnline/aiala/petition.html (accessed 10 June 2010).   2. Kanchan Vasudev, ‘Farmers Demand Withdrawal of Sukhbir-Kalia Report’, Tribune, 16 March 2010, Chandigarh.   3. This requirement mandated by the controversial report would help avail funds from international bodies like the World Bank and help farmers get a higher minimum support price for crops, as free power is not factored in as input cost by the Agricultural Costs and Prices Commission. See Sukhdeep Kaur, ‘SukhbirKalia Report Sugarcoats Bitter Pill for Farmers, Indian Express, 21 January 2010. http://www.indianexpress.com/story-print/569808 (accessed 10 March 2010).  4. Based on telephonic conversations and a report compiled by N.K. Jeet in Countercurrents. See Democratic Front Against Operation Green Hunt, ‘A Fact Finding Report on the Forced Land Acquisition and Repression at Gobindpura, Punjab’. http://www.countercurrents.org/dfa220811.htm (accessed 2 October 2011).

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176  Those Who Did Not Die Kandiyoti, Deniz. ‘Bargaining with Patriarchy’. Gender and Society 2, No. 3, (September 1988): 274–90. Kaur, Maninder and Sukhdev Singh. ‘Socio-cultural Dynamics of Farms Families in Punjab: An Assessment’. Journal of Agricultural Development and Policy, 18, January–December 2006 (Nos. 1 & 2): 111–21 (Ludhiana: Indian Society for Agricultural Development and Policy). Kaur, Sukhdeep. ‘Sukhbir–Kalia Report Sugarcoats Bitter Pill for Farmers’. Indian Express, 21 January 2010. http://www.indianexpress.com/story-print/569808 (accessed 10 March 2010). ———. ‘The Decade of Our Discontent’. Hindu, 9 August 2007. Sainath, P. ‘Maharashtra: “Graveyard of Farmers”. Hindu, 14 November 2007. ———. ‘In 16 Years, Farm Suicides Cross a Quarter Million. Hindu, 29 October 2011, New Delhi. Shajan Perappadan, Bindu. ‘Increasing Cases of Depression, Anxiety due to Demolition Drive. Hindu, 2006. Shukla, Anuradha. Women Not Immune from Farm Suicides: PAU Study. Hindustan Times, 19 April 2009, Chandigarh. Singh, Karam, Sukhpal Singh and H.S. Kingra. ‘Agrarian Crisis and Depeasantization in Punjab: Status of Small/Marginal Farmers Who Left Agriculture’. Indian Journal of Agriculture and Economics 64 (4), October–December: 601–03, 2009. Singh, J.P. ‘Changing Agrarian Relations in Rural India’. Indian Journal of Agricultural Economics 61 (1), January–March: 36–64, 2006. Singh, Sukhpal, Manjeet Kaur and H S Kingra. ‘Indebtedness among Farmers in Punjab’. Economic and Political Weekly 43, No. 26 & 27, (2008): 130–36. Suri, K.C.. 2006. ‘Political Economy of Agrarian Distress’, Special issue on suicides by farmers. Economic and Political Weekly, 41 (16). Thukral, Gobind. ‘Drug Addiction Spreads’, 9 May 2009, Chandigarh. Available online at http://sikhsindia.blogspot.in/2009/05/drug-addiction-spreads-in-punjab. html Vasudev, Kanchan. Farmers Demand Withdrawal of Sukhbir-Kalia Report. Tribune, 16 March 2010, Chandigarh. Zaidi, Annie. ‘Ailing System’, Frontline 23, No. 07 (08–21 April), 2006.

Reports AFDR. Suicides in Rural Areas of Punjab: A Report (in Punjabi), Ludhiana, Association for Democratic Rights, 2000. Agarwal, Bina. ‘Are we Not Peasants Too? Land Rights and Women’s Claims in India’. New York: SEEDS, New Delhi: Population Council, November 2002. Delhi Janwadi Adhikar Manch. Things Fall Apart: Voices of Women Affected by the Closure of 168 Industries in Delhi, Report by Delhi Janwadi Adhikar Manch, March 1998. Expanding Dimensions of Dowry—A report, New Delhi: AIDWA, 2003. Farmers’ and Agricultural Labourers’ Suicides due to Indebtedness in the Punjab State (Pilot survey in Bhatinda and Sangrur Districts), Final report submitted to the Government of Punjab, Department of Economics and Sociology, Punjab Agricultural University, Ludhiana, April 2009.

Bibliography  177 Memorandum submitted to the government of Punjab on 13 September, by the BKU (Ugrahan). Morcha, Jamhoori. ‘Nationality Question in the Punjab’, in Symphony of Freedom: Papers on Nationality Question, Presented at The International Seminar, 16–19 February 1996, AIPRF, New Delhi. Perspectives, ‘Abandoned: Development and Displacement’, February 2007. New Delhi. Sengupta, Arjun. Report on Conditions of Work and Promotion of Livelihoods in the Unorganised Sector by NCEUS, Government of India, August 2007. ‘Status of Farmers Who Left Farming in Punjab’, Punjab State Farmers Commission, and Punjab Agricultural University, Ludhiana, September 2007.

Websites Donthi, Parveen. ‘Cancer Express’, Hindustan Times, 16 January 2010. Available online at http://www.hindustantimes.com/News-Feed/india/Cancer-Express/ Article1-498286.aspx Dutt, Umender. ‘Environmental Health Crisis in Punjab’, 8 July 2007. Available online at http://umendradutt.blogspot.in/2007/07/environmental-health-crisisin-punjab.html (accessed 14 April 2010). Jeet, Narinder Kumar. A Trail of Blood Follows the Peasant Struggles in Punjab, 14 October 2010. Available online at http://www.countercurrents.org (accessed on 20 October 2010). Kaur, Swarleen. ‘Five-fold Raise in Farm Debt in Punjab’, Financial Express, 4 January 2010. Available online at http://www.financialexpress.com/news/fivefoldraise-in-farm-debt-in-punjab/562817/0 (accessed 20 October 2010). Krishna Kumar, V.R. ‘Punjab’s Bitter Harvest’, Deccan Herald, 2010. Available online at http://www.deccanherald.com/content/10456/punjabs-bitter-harvest. html (accessed on 18 October 2010). Multinational Monitor. ‘Unhealthy Policies from the World Bank,’ Vol. 21, June 2000 (Interview with Dr. Vineeta Gupta),. Available online at http://www.multi nationalmonitor.org/mm2000/00june/interview2.html (accessed 14 April 2010). Nagar, Shailabh titled Yellow cards for the poor, January 2002. Available online at http://www.indiatogether.org/health/reports/insaaf01.htm (accessed on 2 July 2009). Online petition of organizations addressed to the Prime Minister seeking the release of the peasant families at http://www.PetitionOnline/aiala/petition.html (accessed 10 June 2010). Pallavi, Aparna. ‘When the One Who Dies Is a Woman’, 18 September 2007. http:// www.indiatogether.org/2007/sep/agr-womensui.htm (accessed 2 December 2008). Sainath, P. ‘The After-death Industry’, India Together, 2004. Available online at http:// www.indiatogether.org/2004/aug/psa-postdeath.htm (accessed 2 April 2010). ———. How the Better Half Dies. August, 2004. Available online at http:// www.indiatogether.org/2004/aug/psa-womenfarm.htm and http://articles. economictimes.indiatimes.com/2011-03-31/news/29365989_1_ratio-males-girlchild (accessed 1 April 2011).

178  Those Who Did Not Die Theindian News. ‘Women More Vulnerable to Cancer in Punjab’s Cotton Fields’, 1 April 2008. Available online at http://www.thaindian.com/newsportal/health/ women-more-vulnerable-to-cancer-in-punjabs-cotton-fields_10033375.html (accessed on 14 April 2010).

Other Resources Agarwal, Bina. A Field of One’s Own, Gender and Land Rights in South Asia. New Delhi: Cambridge University Press, 1994. Bardhan, Kalpana. ‘Women’s Work, Welfare and Status–Forces of Tradition and Change in India’. Economic Political Weekly 20, Nos. 50–52, 1985. Brenner, Johanna. Women and the Politics of Class. New York: Monthly Review Press, 2000. Chowdhry, Prem. The Veiled Women, Shifting Gender Equations in Rural Haryana, 1880–1990. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1994. Darling, M L. The Punjab Peasant in Properity and Debt. Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1925. Deshpande, R.S. and Saroj Arora (eds). Agrarian Crisis and Farmer Suicides. New Delhi: SAGE Publications, 2011. Economic Political Weekly Special Issue on Suicides by Farmers, April 22, 2006. Ehrenreich, Barbara. ‘What is Socialist Feminism’, in Working Papers on Socialism & Feminism, New American Movement (NAM); Originally published in WIN magazine, 1976. Available online at http://www.marxists.org/subject/women/ authors/ehrenreich-barbara/socialist-feminism.htm. Emile Durkheim. Suicide: A Study in Sociology, Edited by George Simpson. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul Ltd. 1950. Holmstrom, Nancy, ed. The Socialist Feminist Project: A Contemporary Reader in Theory and Politics. New York: Monthly Review Press, 2002. Kheti Virasat, Punjab. www.khetvirasat.org (accessed on 14 April 2010). Kumar, Pramod, Rainuka Dagar and Neerja. Victims of Militancy, Institute for Development and Communication, UNICEF, Punjab (India), Department of Relief and Resettlement, Chandigarh, 2001. Malhotra, Anshu. Gender, Caste and Religious Identities, Restructuring Class in Rural Punjab. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2002. Perspectives, ‘Harvesting Despair: Agrarian Crisis in India’, New Delhi, 2009. Ramazanoglu, Caroline and Janet Holland. Feminist Methodology: Challenges and Choices. London: SAGE Publications, 2002. Singh Gill, Sucha. ‘Farmers Movement: Continuity and Change’. Economic Political Weekly 39, No. 27 (2004): 2964–66. Srinivas, M N, A M Shah, E A Ramaswamy, eds. The Fieldworker and the Field: Problems and Challenges in Sociological Investigation. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2006. Vountary Health Association of Punjab, ‘Note on Two Public Hearings on Farmers Suicides in Punjab’, 2006.

Index Acharya Tulsi Regional Cancer Treatment and Research Centre, Bikaner, 83 agrarian crisis, in Punjab, 1, 82 author’s study on, xiv–xx, 12–13, 164–174 caste-wise break-up of deceased in, 14–16 causes of suicide, 16–20 families profile at time of suicide, 20–22 increase in landlessness after suicide, 22, 24, 25 landholding situation before and after suicide, 22, 23 land sold after suicide incidence, 25–28 methods used in, xxii–xxx profile of deceased in, 13–14 women interviewed in, xx–xxii impact of, on children, 129–134 and peasant suicide, 13 and women’s role in agricultural labour, 33–37 agricultural labourers, 1, 143 causes of suicide in, 16 protest against government, 164–165 protest against land acquisition process, 165–166 agricultural loans, 18 alcoholism, 103–104 Alisher, Prithpal Singh, 5 Association for Democratic Rights (AFDR), 9

Bharatiya Kisan Union-Ekta (Dakaunda), xii, 5, 166 Bharatiya Kisan Union-Ekta (Ugrahan), xii, 5, 9 bonded labour system, 121–122 cancer loan for treatment of, 83–85 in Malwa region, 84–86 from pesticide use, 84, 85 treatment of, 83–86 Cancer Express, 83–86 capitalist–intensive agriculture, 2 impact on social institutions, 120–121 impact on women in Punjab, 46 mechanization of agriculture production in, 3, 37 and people’s ill health, 108 children, agrarian crisis impact on, 129–134 community support, 152 crop failure, as cause of peasant suicide, 17 Dalit labourers, social boycott of, 164 Dalit women, 34, 48, 50, 145 de-addiction centres, 105–106 debts. See also loans as cause of peasant suicides, 10–12 and filial ingratitude, 114–119 sources of, 8, 9

180  Those Who Did Not Die for wedding expenses and dowry, 61–67 decision-making power, 137–141 domestic violence, 104–105, 131 domestic workers, 39 dowry anticipation of loans for, in future weddings, 69–70 boycott of, 78 loan for, by landless and rural poor, 61–67 practice of, 61, 67, 73, 79–80, 170–172 sale of land for, 72 as status symbol for Jat Sikhs, 67–69 struggle against, 76–77 drug addiction, 102 Drug De-addiction Centre, PGIMER, 105 ecological devastation, 3 economic liberalization, effect of, on Punjab, 4–5 education, denial of, 130 elderly, dejection of, 114–119 familial support, 149–152 female infanticide, in Punjab, 74 fertilizers, impact on soil quality, 3 fragmentation desertion of women, 123–125 filial ingratitude, 114–119 impact on children, 129–135 land, 119–120 Green Revolution, ix, 3, 142. See also capitalist-intensive agriculture capital-intensive agriculture by, 3, 37 effect on women’s labour, 37–38 impact on Punjab, 2–4, 7, 133 ‘groom price’, 62–63. See also dowry

groundwater contamination, 82, 85 health care. See also illness access to, 86 commercialization of, viii, 82–83, 108, 172 costly, 86–90 Hindu Succession (Amendment) Act 2005, 74, 77, 168 illness expenses on, 96–98 and indebtedness, 92–94 loans for treatment of, 86–90 mental health of respondents, 98–102 of suicide group, 106–108 and state interventions, 83, 108–109 and type of treatment, 96 types of, 94–95 immiseration, process of, 25 Insaaf International survey, 108–109 intoxication, 103 Jat-Sikh women, 33–34, 45, 48, 115, 145, 148, 168 kisan sangathan, 138, 140 land acquisition by corporates, in Punjab, 165 land alienation, process of, 27 The Land Consolidation Act of 1961, 164 landless labourers, 1, 9, 16, 34, 63, 85, 89, 143, 148, 156 loan agency, as cause of peasant suicide, 16, 17 loans after failed suicide attempts, 91–92 anticipation of, for future weddings, 69–70

Index  181 for gifts and social obligations, 70–73 purpose of, 18–20 for treatment and hospitalization, 86–90 for wedding expenses and dowry, 61–67 mental health of respondents, 98–102 of suicide group, 106–108 mental tension, as cause of peasant suicide, 16, 17 monoculture, promotion of, 3 NREGA funds, 164 Oldenberg, Veena, 77 patriarchy, ix, xxiii, 33, 38, 64, 73, 136, 173 peasant suicides, 4, 5, 172 after wedding in house, 65, 68 in anticipation of marriage, 66, 69 causes of, 16–20 for debts taken for paying dowry, 61–67 discussion on, viii by farmers and agricultural labourers, 11 and fragmentation of familial bonds, 114–119 impact on parents, 120–123 impact on surviving family menbers, 112–114, 126–129 indebtedness as cause of, 10–12 by landholding category, 10 by women farmers, 11–12 peasant union support, 154–156 People’s Union For Democratic Rights, viii pesticides, ix cancer from use of, 84–85

as cause of peasant suicide, 18, 106 impact on soil quality, 3, 85 PHSC, 108 Poena Power, 165 Post-graduate Institute of Medical Education and Research (PGIMER), 105 pre-mortem gift, xi. See also dowry public distribution system, 109 Punjab agrarian crisis in, 1, 28–29. See also agrarian crisis, in Punjab Green Revolution role in, 2–4, 7 intensification of, in reforms period, 4–7 peasant indebtedness and, 7–9 and peasant suicides, 9–12 roots of, 2–4 in colonial period, 1–2 commercialization of agriculture in, 6 Dalits in, 121–122 geographical divisions, 1 peasantry group in, 1 peasant suicides in, 4, 5, 7, 9–12. See also peasant suicides peasant women in, x–xi, 167–169, 173. See also women role in national food production, 5 sex ratio in, 74 shift in rural economy in, 7 state repression against peasants in, 164–167 Punjab Khet Mazdoor Union (PKMU), 157 Punjab Land Alienation Act of 1900, 77 Punjab peasantry, extent of indebtedness in, 7–9

182  Those Who Did Not Die author’s study on, 9. See also agrarian crisis, in Punjab Professor Shergill study on, 7–8 Punjab State Farmers’ Commission study on, 8–9, 28 Punjab State Farmers Commission, 6, 8, 28 reverse tenancy, 7 sexual division of labour, ix, 54, 56 soil quality, fertilizers and pesticides impact on, 3 spray, see pesticides stridhan, 75 subsistence agriculture, 27 suicides, of agricultural labourers, xv. See also peasant suicides Sukhbir Kalia report, on farmers’ contribution to electricity charges, 164 support, sources of, 149–156 Takhtpura, Sadhu Singh, 5, 165 widows, in Punjab, xvii. See also peasant suicides women, 136–137 ailments in, 82, 87 conflicts/problem faced by, 142–144 daily family tension, 146–147 family concern, 145–146 financial needs, 144–145 harassment of loan agency, 147 loan repayment, 147 traditional barrier, 147–149 dispossessing rights of, in family assets, 123–125

expectations from government, 156–162 and household work, 53–57 impact of modernization on, 46 inheritance practices and position of, 39–40 mental health of, 98–102 non-availability of wage work for, 51–53 nursing and caring role of, 56–57 ownership and control of land by, 41–45 participation in agricultural work, 46–49 participation in protest against state machinery, 167 place in house, 45–46 right to agricultural land, 74–80 role in decision-making, 137–141 and stridhan, 75 support structures for, 149–156 wage work by, 45 in wage work/seasonal labour, 49–51 ‘women’s choice’, 36 women’s labour. See also women devaluation of, 39 feminist understanding of, 38 impact of Green Revolution on, 37 recognition of, 58 World Bank, 86 youth, agrarian crisis impact on, 129–134

About the Author Ranjana Padhi has been active with the autonomous women’s movement since the mid-eighties. She belongs to Orissa and is based in Delhi since her college days. Ranjana has been part of autonomous, non-funded collectives like Saheli, Workers’ Solidarity and Kashipur Solidarity. She has also been an active part of many joint coalitions and campaigns around issues of state repression; democratic rights and civil liberties; workers’ rights; sexuality; slum demolitions; forcible evictions caused by corporate land acquisition; and communal violence. For her living, Ranjana has been an editor and language trainer.