Niyamgiri–the mountain of law

An Eastern Ghat Tribe’s Struggle for Existence-I
Parimal Bhattacharya

Pairs of feet –sodden and caked with blisters; fifty-one pairs, to be exact. They had been under water for 17 days. And now they stared at us from newspapers, television and Facebook. They belonged to village women who had been staging an unusual form of protest called jal satyagraha, against a dam that threatened to submerge their homes. We had seen these women in photographs: middle-aged, plain-looking, standing shoulder to shoulder in neck-deep water —some had covered their heads with sari end, others had sheathed them in polybags for protection against the rains.

At Omkareshwar, they tasted victory. The chief minister of Madhya Pradesh promised to listen to them and do something about their demands of rehabilitation, compensation and reduction in the level of the dam waters. So now these pairs of feet—raw and macerated like lumps of bleached clay—have become a new victory sign in the lexicon of protest movements that poor people across the country are scripting.

They have won it at Omkareshwar, at least for the time being. But at Harda, where another large group is protesting against the rising water level of Indira Sagar dam, the state unleashed force. Policemen brutally dragged them away from the waters to break the jal satyagraha. In another part of the country, the men in khaki did exactly the opposite: they drove the protesting mob off into the sea waters. That was in Kudankulam, where hundreds of men and women from the local fishing community had gathered at the beach to protest against an upcoming nuclear power plant. We have seen the pictures: desperate village people, many women and children among them, being tossed about upon the breakers as they tried to escape police lathi and teargas shells. Some couldn't; blood trickled out of cracked skulls and left dark wet patches on the sand. A little girl was trampled to death. The policemen also raided the villages and killed a fisherman.

A net of state-sponsored terror has been unfolded in the villages in and around Kudankulam and Idinthakarai. The patterns are all too familiar: intimidate the villagers, conduct midnight raids, slap non-bailable charges against the leaders, cut off the hamlets from the rest of the world. I have seen this in Kalinganagar, Odisha, where thirteen tribal people were killed in police firing in 2006. A dozen villages were cordoned off for months; nobody was allowed to get in or get out. Various government schemes—like PDS, anganwadi and mid-day meal scheme—shut shop. Many ailing people died because they couldn't go out to get treatment. When I visited some of the villages in late 2010, the wounds were still fresh in the minds, and I saw shadows of terror in the eyes of the people.

As I read about the disquieting events unfolding for the past few days at Kodankulam, a sense of deja vu strikes me. And yet, strangely, my mind strays to a memory of a different kind, a memory that is far removed from the clenched fists, sodden feet and bleeding heads. An idyllic memory, I should say, of a people's movement unfolding deep in the Eastern Ghat hills of Western Odisha.

It was late in the afternoon. A mellow winter sun fell obliquely upon the flat top of the hill. We were tracking the hoof marks of a herd of deer upon wet grass. Three elderly Kond men were leading us. They walked silently, as if on padded feet, pushing away the thick waist-high bushes for us. The track led us on to a thin stream and vanished. It was as if the deer had metamorphosed into some aquatic animals and swum away; or perhaps they had grown wings.

A wide grassy land, the size of two or three football fields, rolled on all sides of the flat-topped hill. A web of trickling streams crisscrossed it, forming puddles, and there were hoof prints of various herbivores. Amla, arjun, mahua and other trees stood here and there, interspersed with shrubs, with occasional palm trees, their trunks covered with dried fronds, giving them the appea-rance of lanky men wearing brown overcoats. This was a sacred grove and nobody touched even a dry frond. The jungle grew thicker as the land sloped gently down. There were huge ancient sal, ason and other famed trees. Thick creepers covered their branches and the barks were spotted with round grey eye-shaped lichens.

The Kond creation myth speaks of a great battle between the god and the demon at the dawn of time. The Konds still believe that the wide tree trunks are the femur bones of the slain demon, the wild creepers are his entrails and the dark thick bushes are his pubic hair. As we stood at the edge of the high flat land under a setting sun, with shadows gathering upon the forest floor, it was not too difficult to imagine ourselves in the middle of a primeval battlefield. But now this place was the scene of a more recent battle, being fought between the children of that god and a multinational mining company. Vedanta, alias Sterlite Industries, had taken seven square kilometers of the hilltop land on lease from the Indian state. Here, under a few feet of the earth, lay a massive store of precious bauxite. It had been there for the last three million years, sleeping like a mythical giant.

Was it really sleeping? The grass-covered laterite soil retained water round the year, like sponge; it made a strange crunching noise as we walked on. Sometimes, under our heavy sneakers, it returned the hollow thump of a drum. Dark clayey soil, swamps, threads of water trickling by, bubbling up, oozing and dripping from lumps of exposed earth, shaded under thick, dark-leaved herbs. The herbs were dusted with tiny blue flowers; underneath, upon the surface of a puddle, danced a stick-shaped insect. A flash of light: a yellow butterfly settled upon a flower. Somewhere among the trees a woodpecker drummed. Its hard beak sent shock waves in the tree trunk and forced the maggots out. A golden gecko peeped out of the mossy roots, ready to join in the feast. These are a near-extinct species of reptile found only in these hills.

Another threatened species, the four-horned chousinga deer, would come here at this grassy clearing upon the hill to mate. They would rub their horns and eyes against stones and twigs to mark out territories with body odour. We humans would not be able to detect them. We would only see their tracks upon wet earth, and dried droppings. Lush green grass and sweet clear water would draw them here. Leapards would come in their wake, even an occasional tiger. A faint whiff of danger, and the deer would make a dash for the thick wood rimming the clearing. Sometimes they would cleverly tear down a sandy stream bed; the rippling water would quickly erase the hoof prints. The startled bushes would become still even before that.
Here, at every corner, lush and abundant life was engaged in a perpetual dance with death. Parrots, pheasant crows, hariyals and a variety of birds kept up a rich music. The music of biodiversity: nearly 600 species of trees, 30 species of rare orchids hanging upon their branches, another 50 varieties of medicinal herbs, ferns, lichen. The damp, shadowy forest floor was teeming with hundreds of species of insects, 19 species of lizards, 22 species of serpents and 20 species of amphibians. Two new varieties of toads were discovered as recently as in the 1990s.

Was the earth really sleeping here?
As the sun dipped behind the thick wall of trees, the temperature dropped suddenly. The spongy earth exhaled a damp fragrant breath. A bunch of raucous parakeets flew over the top of the forest. About twenty yards from where we stood, a big grey rabbit hopped out from behind a bush. Three young ones followed close behind. They stopped on their path as they saw us, the big one cocked its stiff ears like signals, and the four rabbits scurried back into the bush in a single file, like a tiny furry train. Narottam, my companion and interpreter, found a porcupine needle.

Two grave-sized holes had been dug in the middle of a cleared plot; deep red earth were piled up neatly beside them. This was the testing site of the proposed mine. As we came near it, Kumuti Majhi picked up a handful of the earth and said gravely:
'Niyamgiri is our god, this earth is his flesh. Look, it is soaked in his blood.'

Three hours ago, I had been inside the refinery at the foot of the hill. I have seen huge lumps of this blood-red earth drifting slowly upon conveyor belts, into what must have appeared to Kumuti Majhi a state-of-the-art meat factory. Like sausage and salami, Niyamgiri's flesh would be processed into aluminium cans, foil, missiles, fighter aircrafts.

'For thousands of years this has remained our place of worship', Kumuti Majhi said. 'Nobody can destroy a place of worship, that is the law of the country. They use this law at Ayodhya to settle the mandir-masjid dispute. Then why another law for a place that is sacred to the Konds?'

Who would give the answer? The woodpecker drummed away tirelessly in the shadowy forest.

'One lakh trees will have to be cut down to mine bauxite from this place,' Lingaraj Azad told us. 'That is what the government's own report says. Now the supreme court has asked the company to plant as many trees as they cut down and dig the mine. What sort of judgement is this? An eye for an eye, like the Talibans! What type of trees they will plant, may I ask sir? Babool? Eucalyptus? For how many years these huge trees have been standing here? How many varieties of creepers, orchids, birds and insects live upon these trees? Does the honourable judgesahib know?'

'They live in cities and think a forest means only trees. Bush, swamp, grass-lands, rocks, springs, bogs—these mean nothing to them. Can the best engineers of the world sit together and create a place like this?' Kumuti Majhi moved his arm in a circle and said with vehemence, "Do they know the medicinal value of the plants that grow here? These plants have protected our forefathers from diseases, they are protecting us, they'll protect our children and grandchildren. What will happen if they mine here? It will take 25 years to dig out all the bauxite that is stored here, that's what the company says. Others say it will take much less time. What will happen to this place after that?'

I tried to imagine an afternoon like this 25 years hence. Dry denuded earth, huge craters, red dust storms billowing —the image of an extinct volcano came to mind.

'How many hundreds of years can I mortgage for 25 years?'
Kumuti Majhi's deep voice carried the weight of unborn generations. The two dark holes lay near his feet, like a blind man's eyes. The woodpecker had stopped his days work and a pure silence had descended on top of the hill. The fading light of the day lingered on Kumuti's creased face.

I have seen this face before in a photograph that appeared in Guardian newspaper. Kumuti Majhi was standing at a London street in front of a tall glass building. Now I stood facing this man on top of Niyamgiri. It seemed like a dream.

A fairy tale, like all living things, lives and dies. It dies when the language that animates the tale dies. Sometimes it lives on precariously, translated in another language, like a homeless person in a refugee camp. It grows lonely and sad, and then it dies one day. On 26 January 2010, an old Bo woman died in a camp in Port Blair. With her died a language, and the last surviving member of a Great Andamanese tribe who had been living in the North Andamans island for at least 65 thousand years, until the British came to "civilize' them. That was in mid 19th century, when the Bos numbered around five thousand. They came in contact with civilized people, civilized diseases, and before the turn of the century, their number dwindled to around two hundred. They were settled in a camp outside the forests. A fine people, a hardy race, who had been living in absolute freedom on a pristine island for ages, grew into idle, wasted wrecks, drug addicts, gave birth to sick and dead children, and became completely dependent on charity. And the last surviving member died on the day the Indian Republic was celebrating its 53rd birth anniversary.

We, the people of India, came to know about this after the old Bo woman died, after one of the oldest surviving languages in this subcontinent became extinct. And yet, every now and then, languages are dying -one in every two weeks, according to a United Nations estimate. With them are dying the fairy tales that live in these languages, like orchids upon trees.

Fairy tales live in a language. But sometimes they also live in a specific ecological setting. The fairy tale of Dongria Kondhs, officially a primitive tribe who inhabit the Eastern Ghats of Odisha, is etched on a particular hill range known as Niyamgiri—the Mountain of Law.

Parched Earth, Green Paradise
Since the beginning of time, since the earth god Dharani Penu defeated the prime demon in a fierce battle, the Dongria Kondhs have been living on the upper reaches of Niyamgiri. In the foothills live the Kutia Kondhs, sub-sect of the Kondh tribe. The rich forests on this hill range belong, like elsewhere in the country, to the state Forest Department. But here there is no barbed wire; the forest guards, too, are scarcely to be seen. Here the Kondhs are the keepers of these forests. They collect minor forest produce, cultivate small patches of land, and worship their god Niyam Raja, the Lord of Law. Dongar means hill, and the existence of Dongrias is tied to the ecology of the hill range, to nature's laws that govern it. On top of the hill lies their sacred grove, teeming with myriads forms of life. Hundreds of rare species of plants, orchids, mushrooms, birds, animals, reptiles and insects thrive here. The forest is composed of many varieties of evergreen and deciduous trees, several species of bamboos, shrubs and grasslands. This is also a critical wildlife corridor for elephants and big cats. In short, a garden of Eden in a particularly arid part of Western Odisha, a sliver of green stitching the notoriously drought-prone districts of Kalahandi and Rayagada.

Niyamgiri has an unceasing supply of water, even during the parched summer months. The forested hilltop retains moisture from rains and mists, letting it seep slowly into the earth through the roots of trees and shrubs, form into countless watery veins that flow along, silent and invisible, under layers of porous laterite, to emerge upon murmuring beds of pebbles. This is ancient Gondwana land. Millions of years of wind and rain have carved gentle slopes upon the hillsides, like the undulant muscles of hill god. The streams flow quietly downhill, keeping the forests moist and cool round the year, sustaining multiple forms of life. There are more than two dozen all-season streams that issue out of the top of Niyamgiri. As they wind down, they meet up at the gullies and are braided into rivers—Vansadhara and Nagavali.

The Dongria Kondhs grow maize, millet and a variety of leguminous grains on the hill slopes. They are also great horticulturists. Banana, guava, orange, custard apple and other fruits grow in plenty here. Juiciest pineapples, and also turmeric, are grown in the shaded forest floors. Life follows a quiet rhythm in the tiny hamlets nestled in the hills. Every village has a shrine dedicated to Dharani Penu, a modest structure made of wood and straw. It is the hub around which the social and religious life of the community is arranged. Every village also has its own priest, priestess and herabalist, not to mention the headman. Each has a role assigned by the community; the Dongrias have an intricate social structure.

The young unmarried girls, after they attain puberty, spend the nights in a village dormitory. Here they are initiated in the arts of life—sometimes under the watchful eyes of a matron, but mostly by themselves, the seniors passing on their knowledge to the juniors. They learn their myths and folklore, songs and properties of plants, embroidery and household work—in short, aspects of material culture, orally transmitted and handed down from generation to generation. Also, sex education —theory and a little practice. Drawn by the songs and music that sometimes go on in the dormitories through the night, young men from nearby hamlets show up. Elaborate rituals of courtship ensue. These are woven to the tunes of music and dance steps, beginning at the clearings in front of the thatched dormitories, and often, as the night ripens, straying into moon-dappled wood. But strict exogamy is practiced; sexual relations among boys and girls within the village clan is a taboo. The lovers exchange bead necklaces as tokens of engagement. Sometimes these trysts mature into wedlock, sometimes they don't.

In the Kondh society, women enjoy almost as much freedom as men, in almost all matters of life including love and marriage. Men. too, are as ardent as women in matters of dress and ornaments. Both keep long hair, adorn them with ornamental combs and clips, wear noserings—women three, men two—as well as loads of earrings and necklaces made of metal and beads. Some of the necklaces have special significance, there are specific sets of rules for their exchange.

In Dongria Kondh society, all aspects of life—rituals and festivities, fasting and feasting, song and dance, hunting and gathering—are tightly bound up in age-old customs and conventions. The hills they inhabit is called Niyamgiri, mountain of law. Its presiding deity is Niyam Raja, the lord of the law. The river that has its origin here is known as Vansadhara, the stream of progeny. Dongar means hill, and the triangular hill motif dominates the wall paintings and embroidery of the tribe. The life they lead here on the verdant hill slopes has the quality of an allegory, a fairy tale. A true fairy tale.

This tale had remained hidden behind the stark history of droughts and hunger for which Kalahandi is known. The world came to learn about the fairy tale only when it was about to be torn apart.

Fairy tales, like all living things on earth, live and die. Sometimes they fight back.

The Scrapping of St Paul's Cathedral
I first saw Kumuti Majhi in a Guardian newspaper photograph. Sanjay Sahu, Bhubaneswar-based coordinator of Action Aid, was showing me a power-point presentation of the struggle of Niyamgiri Kondhs against Vedanta Alumina Limited, and how his organization was helping the people's cause.

'We are giving them strategic support only,' Sanjay said. 'We cannot take part in the movement, because then our critics would say that we are misguiding ignorant people and trying to create trouble. Not that they are not saying this. But we are only helping the story of Niyamgiri, of how a small tribal group is taking on a powerful mining company, reach out to the world. Look at this man ...'
Sanjay tapped his index finger on his laptop's touchpad, and the Guardian photo tumbled into the screen. It showed a middle-aged, rustic-looking man with high cheekbones and intense deep-set eyes, standing in front of a tall glitzy building. Dressed in a white kurta, a red muffler draped around his neck, he was facing a bank of cameras.

'This is Kumuti Majhi, a Kutia Kondh man. He has been at the forefront of the movement since it started. We bought a few Vedanta shares on his behalf and flew him to the annual shareholder's meeting in London. This is outside the meeting venue. Naturally, his presence electrified the atmosphere there. We also took him on a tour of the city, and later he said to the journalists—Look, Niyamgiri is as sacred to us as the St Paul's cathedral is to you. I saw lots of precious wood, marble and tinted glass there. If anybody wants to buy up the cathedral to wrench it apart and sell the priceless things as scrap, would you allow it?,' Sanjay chuckled. 'We got an idea from his comment and wrote to the mayor of London, asking him to please quote a price for St Paul's! This attracted great media coverage.'

Sanjay tapped again on the touchpad and another slide, a heart-stopping vision, tumbled in: a gigantic trip hammer was pounding the famed dome of St Paul's, sending bits of tinted glass and stone flying all around.

'This type of international coverage has put pressure on our government, especially because Vedanta is a London-based company,' Sanjay continued. 'But the real blow has come from the government's own expert committee, the one headed by N C Saxena. This report has hit the nail on the head: it has categorically stated that allowing Vedanta to mine bauxite on Niyamgiri would violate the constitutional rights of the people who have been living there.'

'The matter is in Supreme Court now,' I said. 'Do you think Niyamgiri will be saved?'

'It's a tough battle,' Sanjay admitted. 'Now even the bureaucrats are acting like corporate lackeys, making false submissions before the courts. One of the judges hearing the case was found out to own Vedanta's shares himself. Our finance minister at Delhi was a non-executive director of the company before he took up this job. So you can imagine the kind of clout this company enjoys. The media have been co-opted, and a large section of the urban middle class has been brought over to the fable of economic growth. It's as if 10 percent growth rate is a cure-all formula—it will turn us into a superpower, crush Pakistan, give employment to everyone, fill our houses with luxury goods, help us win all the cricket matches... If that growth rate can be pulled off fastest by mining our mineral reserves and selling them to foreign companies, so be it! If we have to destroy our environment for this, so be it! If we have to throw out the tribal people from their forest lands, so be it!'

Sanjay's boyish face tightened like a fist as an icy fury rang in his voice. An MBA from XLRI, Sanjay joined 'Action Aid' after he gave up a cushy job in an insurance company. The work he was doing here not only gave him his daily bread, it was the air he breathed and the water he drank. As Sanjay went on narrating the unusual battle a little-known Eastern Ghats tribe had been waging for their survival, images - strange, magnetic, almost dreamlike - faded in and out on the laptop's screen: a procession of colourfully-dressed Dongria Kondhs ...tall chimneys of a refinery rising against the misty blue Niyamgiri ...a bashful girl holding a cane basket full of wild mushrooms ...a golden gecko camouflaged against a yellow leaf ...a convoy of alumina tanker trucks winding along a forest road...
[To be concluded]

Frontier
Vol. 45, No. 25, Dec 30-Jan 5, 2013

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