Lost and found: The story of a plant and how a village is trying to protect it

 In a village called Lathedi in Kutch, amid the semi-arid landscape, a small patch of land has been fenced with thorny branches by the local community. The aim, they said, was to guard a precious species of plant that has been re-discovered in Gujarat after a gap of 104 years. Olax nana—the plant species—was last reported from the Saurashtra region in Gujarat in the early 1900s and has since not been found during various surveys.

“Re-discovering this vanaspati (plant) in our Lathedi is a matter of pride for us,” said Jitubhai Jadeja, a local community member, “This is why we are extremely cautious to save this plant and hopefully see it propagate to a bigger area.”

The Olax nana plant that has been re-discovered in Gujarat after 104 years. Photo by Pankaj Joshi.

Finding the lost plant

Olax nana is a low undershrub, up to 60 cm tall, and is listed as a threatened species in the Gujarat Biodiversity Act. It was last reported from the state’s Porbandar district in 1910 and had since not been seen in subsequent surveys, including by the Botanical Survey of India.

“I was personally working in this area (in the Saurashtra region) between 1996 and 2003, but did not see this plant species,” said P.S. Nagar an assistant professor at the botany department in The Maharaja Sayajirao University of Baroda said. The exact reason behind the disappearance of the plant species in the region is not yet ascertained.

In 2015, however, during an “extensive study on endangered and threatened species of plants in Gujarat”, said Nagar, Olax nana was re-discovered near Lathedi in Kutch. There were 43 plant specimens in a 100 square metre area.

Pankaj Joshi of the NGO Sahjeevan, which was part of the team that found the plant species in Lathedi, said that due credit must be given to the village BMC—Biodiversity Management Committee—whose members, along with others from the NGO, brought him the first sample to be identified.

“I first saw the sample at night—it was a dry piece and I was almost sure that it was Olax nana,” Nagar told Mongabay-India, “The next day, we went to the place.  And there, in a patch of grassland, it was re-confirmed that Olax nana has been found again.”

New, but old

The news spread fast, but the local community could not really relate to the excitement and jubilation. “We had no idea what this plant was, or what was its name in our local language,” Jadeja said, “Not even the elders of the village have any idea about this plant. But how could we? The plant was missing for more than a hundred years!” Slowly, with awareness activities organised by Sahjeevan and the village BMC, men, women, and children understood the significance of finding this missing plant near their village. It instilled a sense of pride.

But there was a basic question: what was its name in the local language?

“It took us nearly a year to figure out the plant’s local name,” Jadeja said, “We asked the elders, others in the locality; finally, with the help of local Ayurveda practitioners, we found out its name: Sudiyo.”

The work of the BMC

Once the name was found, the BMC members put up a signboard near the plant patch, elaborating the significance of its rediscovery after more than a century and the importance of its conservation. BMC is an initiative of the National Biodiversity Authority, which is the nodal agency to implement the provisions under the Biological Diversity Act 2002.

The idea behind forming BMCs at the local level is to involve the local community in promoting conservation and sustainable documentation of biological diversity. Preparing and updating the People’s Biodiversity Register (PBR), which details biological resources and traditional knowledge, is also a function of the BMCs.

The Lathedi BMC was therefore formed following the same agenda under the Gujarat State Biodiversity Board. The state board had, in 2011-12, identified different technical groups like Sahjeevan to identify, to help train and involve the local community members in the formation of BMCs.

Local community leader Jitubhai Jadeja with Olax nana. Photo by Jitubhai Jadeja.

In Lathedi, the BMC also visits the local primary school in the village and talks to the children about the importance of conservation—not just of Olax nana, but of all flora and fauna. Giving an example, Joshi said that once a group of students from MS University had come for a field visit to see the Olax nana plant, soon after its rediscovery.

“We were supposed to accompany them to the field from Bhuj (the nearest city, 90 km away) but got stuck with some other work. So I asked them to go to the village and ask anyone about the plant,” he said, “They were sceptical, but on reaching and then enquiring, a group of children took them to the area and told them about the plant. That is the level of awareness among the children.”

Conservation: different methods, one aim

Although it was lost—and found—in Gujarat, Olax nana, however, has continued to be reported in other parts of India—Assam, Bihar, Odisha, West Bengal, and Punjab. “It is not an abundantly found species but what makes this plant biogeographically interesting is its presence in a diverse landscape,” Nagar said.  “Unfortunately, not enough efforts are put in search and conservation of rare plants. They definitely need more boost.”

The local community in Lathedi has taken the conservation work of the ‘re-discovered’ Olax nana upon themselves. Photo by Pankaj Joshi.

Exploring different means of conservation, Joshi said that they are in talks with MS University about tissue culture of this plant in order to help its propagation in a wider area. “It (the talks) is an ongoing process. In the meanwhile, we have also started approaching private labs for tissue culture,” he said.

Nagar, however, opined that in-situ conservation—conservation of an endangered plant or animal species in its natural habitat—is the ideal route. Ex-situ conservation means relocating an endangered plant or animal species from their natural habitat to protected areas equipped for their protection and preservation.

The local community of Lathedi, however, is doing what it can to protect and preserve the plant species from possible harm.

“Most of us here and in Kutch are pastoralists; I have a dairy business and have 10 cows,” Jadeja said, “This means is that we have a lot of grazing animals around and the Olax nana plants are threatened by goats and other animals. So we have put a fence around the patch with babool tree (Gum arabic) branches that are very thorny.”

It is not a permanent structure and overtime—in monsoons particularly—the fence gives away. But the locals keep an eye out and put the branches back. They have also requested Sahjeevan to help put up a wired fence. “The number of plants has not increased. We found around 43 and they are still around the same number,” Jadeja said. “It’s not possible for us to do seed propagation in new areas. That is for the experts to do. But we are happy that Olax nana is flourishing here. A lot of students from far off places come to see these plants; Lathedi has become famous.”

(Source: Mongabay)

As schools switch to online classes, students from weaker sections get cut off from learning

Amid the lockdown, Vaishali, whose parents are construction workers, has been living out of a half-built construction site in Tilak Nagar.

A couple of days ago, a teary-eyed Vaishali, a student of class VI at Maharashtra Aikyavardhak Mandal in Tilak Nagar, called her school teacher Sangita Patil.

Amid the lockdown, Vaishali, whose parents are construction workers, has been living out of a half-built construction site in Tilak Nagar. “She broke down on the phone, and said her father beats her mother, and there was nowhere to go. The boredom of staying put was constant. I asked her to refer to a section of math problems and focus on English spellings.

“‘Prepare as though you still have exams’, I told her,” said Patil.

As more and more stories of migrants struggling to fend for themselves emerge, education has taken a backseat for children who are a part of these groups. Here, the struggle for survival has overtaken other aspects of growth, with education coming to be considered a privilege. The digital divide has grown wider, with many private schools, switching to online classes as well as exams.

As more and more stories of migrants struggling to fend for themselves emerge, education has taken a backseat for children who are a part of these groups. (Rerpesentational Image)

There are 66,033 schools under the state school education department, run by zilla parishad and local independent bodies. With schools being shut, the access to virtual classrooms and other facilities has been cut for all its students. As of September 2019, 2,71,892 students study at BMC schools, most of whom are from underprivileged backgrounds.

Out of nearly 200 students who study at Maharashtra Aikyavardhak Mandal in Tilak Nagar, only about 2 per cent students would have laptops or computers at their homes, said Patil. “The parents of many children are ragpickers, or involved in similar jobs. At their homes, one finds four to five vessels and few clothes. Most of them eat only once a day. At present, many have left for their villages,” she added.

Class V student Siddhi Rajguru, who lives in Panchasheel Nagar, doesn’t have any access to a cellphone or a laptop. Her father Satish Rajguru, who works as housekeeping staff, said, “The only way to keep her engaged is through books, by repeating the same chapters. Other children in our area are only playing, as most don’t have access to educational resources on the Internet.”

While it is yet to be announced, education experts and officials from the department have said they believe that the lockdown on schools will continue till May end.

Co-founder of NGO Pratham, Farida Lambay. said, “Our experience of working in rural areas has shown that only one person in most houses owns a smart phone, usually it being the male member. The digital divide is a hard reality among the poor, who are most hit. After every such disaster, there is a problem of school dropouts and huge learning loss among them.”

Lambay suggested that the state government should target school children through relief material that is being distributed by the state. “Quizzes, puzzles, questionnaires can be ways in which this can be done. Usage of television and radio can also prove a helpful tool at such times.”

When contacted, School Education Commissioner Vishal Solanki said that the state school education department will be rolling out a programme for underprivileged children on Monday. The department has partnered with NGO Leadership For Equity and UNICEF to develop content for state’s own online platform called Diksha, as well as for radio and television. The initiative will be launched by Minister Varsha Gaikwad through Facebook Live and other mediums.

Academic advisor to the state, Madhukar Banuri, said: “While private schools have devised online mechanisms for students, we have been figuring out ways to help underprivileged children.” Diksha, an already existing platform of the state, has been updated with over 8,000-plus content pieces. This can be accessed through the QR codes already present on the back of every state board textbook.

“Even in backward areas like Amravati and Melghat, we have found 60 per cent penetration of smartphones with good network. The intention is to involve students in self-learning and convey the message that the state is doing everything it can to ensure that students keep learning. Around 30 to 40 per cent students in remote pockets of the state still struggle for Internet connectivity, but once the resources are downloaded, they can be accessed offline,” Banuri said. He is also the founder and CEO of NGO Leadership with Equity.

Following suit of initiatives started by other states, Maharashtra is also planning to launch programmes through television and radio, said officials. Next week, the programmes will be broadcasted on television and radio for students who do not have access to Internet or computers. The state has partnered with UNICEF to also develop a plan for responding to COVID-19.

“Six weeks of academic time has already been lost. We have devised a mix method involving radio, TV and the Internet app Diksha, to bring educational content to as many children as possible. In phase 1, we are looking till May end. Existing content involving simple games, episodes on parenting and others, will very soon be broadcast and telecast,” said UNICEF education specialist Reshma Agarwal.

UNICEF, along with the state department, is also creating a learning management system wherein content developed across all states can be accessed by teachers and students, said Agarwal.

(Source: TIE)

Social distancing is a privilege of the middle class. For India's slum dwellers, it will be impossible

For two days, Jeetender Mahender, a 36-year-old Dalit sanitation worker, has not dared to leave his family's shanty in the Valmiki slum of northern Mumbai, India, except to go to the toilet.

His situation is desperate. The tiny home has no running water or toilet, his family is low on food -- and when he doesn't go to work, he doesn't get paid.

Mahender is trying to comply with Prime Minister Narendra Modi's 21-day nationwide lockdown, intended to help stop coronavirus spreading further among the country's 1.3 billion people. India has recorded 1,024 cases and 27 deaths.

"Social distancing is not just for the sick, but for each and every person, including you and even your family," Modi said in a nationwide address last week.

Indian migrant workers wait to board buses to return to their home villages as a nationwide lockdown continues on March 28, 2020, on the outskirts of New Delhi, India.

That might work for India's middle and upper classes, who can hunker down in their condos and houses, preen their terrace gardens, eat from their well-stocked pantries and even work from home, using modern technology.

But the chaos unfolding across India in recent days has spelled out that for the 74 million people -- one sixth of the urban population -- who live cheek by jowl in the country's slums, social distancing is going to be physically and economically impossible.

"The lanes are so narrow that when we cross each other, we cannot do it without our shoulders rubbing against the other person," said Mahender. "We all go outdoors to a common toilet and there are 20 families that live just near my small house.

"We practically all live together. If one of us falls sick, we all will."

At least one person in a Mumbai slum has already tested positive for the novel coronavirus. As panic grows among India's most vulnerable, thousands of migrant workers are trying to flee the slums for their rural homes, by bus and even by foot, sparking fears they will import the virus to the countryside.

In a radio address Sunday, acknowledging the chaos the lockdown had brought India's poor, Modi asked the nation for forgiveness. But he also urged listeners to understand there was no other option.

1 toilet for 1,440 people

Water is one of the biggest reasons India's poor need to leave home every day.

Indian migrant workers stuck in the national capital try to board buses to return to their home villages.

Sia, a slum dweller and migrant construction worker in Gurugram, near New Delhi, wakes up at 5 a.m. and defies Modi's call to stay indoors. The reason? She needs to walk 100 meters (328 feet) to a water tank that serves her slum of 70 migrant construction workers.

She is not the only one. Most women from the construction site slum wash together there every morning and collect water for the day. With no showers or bathrooms in their homes, this communal tap is their only water source.

The government's Clean India Mission, launched in 2014 to improve infrastructure and eliminate open defecation, claims that 100% of Indian households now have access to toilets.

But Puneet Srivastava, manager of policy at NGO WaterAid India, said the focus of the Clean India Mission has largely been on building household toilets, and a considerable number of slum-like regions have not been included.

In Dharavi in Mumbai, for example, there is only one toilet per 1,440 residents, according to a recent CFS study -- and 78% of community toilets in Mumbai's slums lack a water supply, according to 2019 Greater Mumbai Municipal Corporation survey.

Migrant workers and their family members walk along a highway in a desperate bid to return to their village.

On Sunday, Ministry of Housing and Urban Affairs Secretary Durga Shanker Mishra said: "There is 100% toilet coverage in India, whether people have access to personal toilets in slums or not doesn't matter. They can use communal toilets."

Sania Ashraf, an epidemiologist who works on water, sanitation, hygiene and respiratory illness, said the Clean India Mission had increased private toilets as well as community or pay-per-use public toilet coverage -- but during a pandemic, having access to a shared toilet means little if it is not clean.

Furthermore, poor ventilation can trap contaminated aerosols and "facilitate transmission of the virus," said Ashraf.

That is especially worrying in light of evidence that patients shed the virus through feces, raising the possibility of transmission in communal toilets and places where there is still open defecation.

Workers at risk

The next reason slum-dwellers cannot isolate is simple: they need to work.

Daily wage migrant workers generally live hand-to-mouth, earning between 138-449 Indian rupees ($1.84-$5.97) per day, according to the International Labour Organization.

"They belong to the unorganized sector, they don't get paid the day they don't go to work," says economist Arun Kumar. "It's not just the past few days since the lockdown started, but the momentum towards it has been building up for the past 20 days.

"Supply chains have shut down. Employment is lost. They have no money to purchase essentials. And unlike the rich, they cannot afford to stock up. They buy on a daily basis but now the shelves are empty."

Sonia Manikraj, a 21-year-old teacher who lives in the Dharavi slum, said: "I have to step out to buy food and since grocery shops here are open only from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m. and the roads are quite narrow, there is always a crowd."

Consequently, workers are faced with an agonizing dilemma: go out to work and risk infection, or stay home and face extreme hunger.

Some workers have no choice. Cleaners, for example, are considered to provide an essential service, and are therefore exempted from the lockdown.

"They are required to go to work every day," said Milind Ranade, the founder of Kachra Vahatuk Shramik Sangh, a Mumbai-based organization focused on labor issues. "Some even collect hospital waste and then come back and live in these crowded chawls (slums)."

They are not given any protective gear, such as masks or gloves, said Ranade, and there has not been an awareness campaign to educate them of the dangers of coronavirus transmission.

"What will happen when they fall sick?" Ranade added.

The government's $22.5 billion economic stimulus package includes medical insurance cover of 5 million rupees ($66,451) per person for front-line workers such as nurses, doctors, paramedics and cleaners in government hospitals.

"It may cover the sanitation worker but what about all the others who live around him in the slum and who are equally at risk of contracting the disease from him?" said Raju Kagada, a union leader of sanitation workers in Mumbai.

Kumar said more vigorous coronavirus testing would help. As of March 29, India had conducted 34,931 tests, according to the Indian Council of Medical Research -- or 19 tests per million people. Kumar said testing at a private hospital or lab in India costs 4,500 rupees ($60), while free tests in government hospitals are very limited.

Mahender is a cleaner for a residential community in Mumbai, earning 5,000 rupees ($66) a month, which he uses to support his wife, three children and his 78-year-old father. If he needs medical care, it will not be covered by the stimulus package provisions.

"My phone has been ringing nonstop and the residents of the building where I clean have been calling me back to work," he said. "But I have to go into the building, outside each person's house and collect their trash.

"I have not been given a mask or gloves, not even a soap to wash my hands before my meals. I know if I don't go today, they will hire someone else?"

Migrants who want to go home

Over the weekend, tens of thousands of India's 45 million economic migrant workers began long, arduous journeys back to their rural villages. With India's rail network temporarily shut, many had no choice but to try walking hundreds of miles home.

There was little reason to stay. Most had lost their jobs in the cities due to the lockdown, and the slums have the potential to feed the spread of the virus.

Researchers from the Center For Sustainability said last week that while the reproductive ratio (R naught) for Covid-19 -- the disease caused by the coronavirus -- globally is between two and three, in India's slums it could be 20% higher due to the dense living conditions.

As the slum exodus began, on Saturday the state governments of Uttar Pradesh, Bihar and Haryana arranged for hundreds of buses to ferry migrants home, causing chaotic scenes as thousands descended upon stations trying to claw their way onto buses.

On Sunday, however, Modi urged all states to seal their borders to stop the virus being imported into rural areas. Officials are now scrambling to find millions of migrant workers who had already returned to small towns and villages across the country, in order to quarantine them for 14 days.

Sia, who lives on the construction site in Gurugram, wasn't able to catch a bus. Her options of escaping the slum during the coronavirus outbreak are looking bleak.

"Since our work has stopped, I haven't been paid for 20 days. I get paid $5 a day, the little money I earn helps my family survive," she said.

"As everything is shutting down, I believe we have no option but to live in this poverty and filth in the city."

(Source: CNN)

Coronavirus: India's pandemic lockdown turns into a human tragedy

When I spoke to him on the phone, he had just returned home to his village in the northern state of Rajasthan from neighbouring Gujarat, where he worked as a mason.

In the rising heat, Goutam Lal Meena had walked on macadam in his sandals. He said he had survived on water and biscuits.

In Gujarat, Mr Meena earned up to 400 rupees ($5.34; £4.29) a day and sent most of his earnings home. Work and wages dried up after India declared a 21-day lockdown with four hours notice on the midnight of 24 March to prevent the spread of coronavirus. (India has reported more than 1,000 Covid-19 cases and 27 deaths so far.) The shutting down of all transport meant that he was forced to travel on foot.

"I walked through the day and I walked through the night. What option did I have? I had little money and almost no food," Mr Meena told me, his voice raspy and strained.

Informal workers are the backbone of India's big city economies. Getty Images

He was not alone. All over India, millions of migrant workers are fleeing its shuttered cities and trekking home to their villages.

These informal workers are the backbone of the big city economy, constructing houses, cooking food, serving in eateries, delivering takeaways, cutting hair in salons, making automobiles, plumbing toilets and delivering newspapers, among other things. Escaping poverty in their villages, most of the estimated 100 million of them live in squalid housing in congested urban ghettos and aspire for upward mobility.

Last week's lockdown turned them into refugees overnight. Their workplaces were shut, and most employees and contractors who paid them vanished.

Sprawled together, men, women and children began their journeys at all hours of the day last week. They carried their paltry belongings - usually food, water and clothes - in cheap rexine and cloth bags. 

The young men carried tatty backpacks. When the children were too tired to walk, their parents carried them on their shoulders.

They walked under the sun and they walked under the stars. Most said they had run out of money and were afraid they would starve. "India is walking home," headlined The Indian Express newspaper.

Migrant labourers feel they have more social security in their villages. Getty Images

The staggering exodus was reminiscent of the flight of refugees during the bloody partition in 1947. 

Millions of bedraggled refugees had then trekked to east and west Pakistan, in a migration that displaced 15 million people.

This time, hundreds of thousands of migrant workers are desperately trying to return home in their own country. Battling hunger and fatigue, they are bound by a collective will to somehow get back to where they belong. Home in the village ensures food and the comfort of the family, they say.

Clearly, a lockdown to stave off a pandemic is turning into a humanitarian crisis.

Among the teeming refugees of the lockdown was a 90-year-old woman, whose family sold cheap toys at traffic lights in a suburb outside Delhi.

Kajodi was walking with her family to their native Rajasthan, some 100km (62 miles) away. They were eating biscuits and smoking beedis, - traditional hand-rolled cigarettes - to kill hunger. Leaning on a stick, she had been walking for three hours when journalist Salik Ahmed met her. The humiliating flight from the city had not robbed her off her pride. "She said she would have bought a ticket to go home if transport was available," Mr Ahmed told me.

Ninety-year-old Kajodi Devi is walking from Delhi to her village. SALIK AHMED/OUTLOOK

Others on the road included a five-year-old boy who was on a 700km (434 miles) journey by foot with his father, a construction worker, from Delhi to their home in Madhya Pradesh state in central India. 

"When the sun sets we will stop and sleep," the father told journalist Barkha Dutt. Another woman walked with her husband and two-and-a-half year old daughter, her bag stuffed with food, clothes and water. "We had a place to stay but no money to buy food," she said.

Then there was Rajneesh, a 26-year-old automobile worker who walking 250km (155 miles) to his village in neighbouring Uttar Pradesh. It would take him four days, he reckoned. "We will die walking before coronavirus hits us," the man told Ms Dutt.

He was not exaggerating. Last week, a 39-year-old man on a 300km (186 miles) trek from Delhi to Madhya Pradesh complained of chest pain and exhaustion and died; and a 62-year-old man, returning from a hospital by foot in Gujarat, collapsed outside his house and died. Four other migrants, turned away at the borders on their way to Rajasthan from Gujarat, were mowed down by a truck on a dark highway.

As the crisis worsened, state governments scrambled to arrange transport, shelter and food.

But trying to transport them to their villages quickly turned into another nightmare. Hundreds of thousands of workers were pressed against each other at a major bus terminal in Delhi as buses rolled in to pick them up.

There is a precedent for this kind of exodus during crisis. Getty Images

Delhi chief minister Arvind Kejriwal implored the workers not to leave the capital. He asked them to "stay wherever you are, because in large gatherings, you are also at risk of being infected with the coronavirus." He said his government would pay their rent, and announced the opening of 568 food distribution centres in the capital. Prime Minister Narendra Modi apologised for the lockdown "which has caused difficulties in your lives, especially the poor people", adding these "tough measures were needed to win this battle."

Whatever the reason, Mr Modi and state governments appeared to have bungled in not anticipating this exodus.

Mr Modi has been extremely responsive to the plight of Indian migrant workers stranded abroad: hundreds of them have been brought back home in special flights. But the plight of workers at home struck a jarring note.

"Wanting to go home in a crisis is natural. If Indian students, tourists, pilgrims stranded overseas want to return, so do labourers in big cities. They want to go home to their villages. We can't be sending planes to bring home one lot, but leave the other to walk back home," tweeted Shekhar Gupta, founder and editor of The Print.

The city, says Chinmay Tumbe, author of India Moving: A History of Migration, offers economic security to the poor migrant, but their social security lies in their villages, where they have assured food and accommodation. "With work coming to a halt and jobs gone, they are now looking for social security and trying to return home," he told me.

Also there's plenty of precedent for the flight of migrant workers during a crisis - the 2005 floods in Mumbai witnessed many workers fleeing the city. Half of the city's population, mostly migrants, had also fled the city - then Bombay - in the wake of the 1918 Spanish flu.

When plague broke out in western India in 1994 there was an "almost biblical exodus of hundreds of thousands of people from the industrial city of Surat [in Gujarat]", recounts historian Frank Snowden in his book Epidemics and Society.

The fleeing migrants could spread the disease all over the country. Getty Images

Half of Bombay's population deserted the city, during a previous plague epidemic in 1896. The draconian anti-plague measures imposed by the British rulers, writes Dr Snowden, turned out to be a "blunt sledgehammer rather than a surgical instrument of precision". They had helped Bombay to survive the epidemic, but "the fleeing residents carried the disease with them, thereby spreading it."

More than a century later, that same fear haunts India today. Hundreds of thousands of the migrants will eventually reach home, either by foot, or in packed buses. There they will move into their joint family homes, often with ageing parents. Some 56 districts in nine Indian states account for half of inter-state migration of male workers, according to a government report. These could turn out to be potential hotspots as thousands of migrants return home.

Partha Mukhopadhyay, a senior fellow at Delhi's Centre for Policy Research, suggests that 35,000 village councils in these 56 potentially sensitive districts should be involved to test returning workers for the virus, and isolate infected people in local facilities.

In the end, India is facing daunting and predictable challenges in enforcing the lockdown and also making sure the poor and homeless are not fatally hurt. Much of it, Dr Snowden told me, will depend on whether the economic and living consequences of the lockdown strategy are carefully managed, and the consent of the people is won. "If not, there is a potential for very serious hardship, social tension and resistance." India has already announced a $22bn relief package for those affected by the lockdown.

The next few days will determine whether the states are able to transport the workers home or keep them in the cities and provide them with food and money. "People are forgetting the big stakes amid the drama of the consequences of the lockdown: the risk of millions of people dying," says Nitin Pai of Takshashila Institution, a prominent think tank.

"There too, likely the worst affected will be the poor."

(Source: BBC)

Remembering the Khasi singer who immortalised fading folktales and village life

Through his music, Skendrowell Syiemlieh spoke of forgotten myths, folktales, ethics and ways of life.

Born on March 1, 1945, Skendrowell Syiemlieh was the first son of Plentimai Syiemlieh and Romuel Ryntathiang. He grew up in his native village called Umthied Bynther in West Khasi Hills, Meghalaya.

Raiot

At the age of eight, he started to mesmerise the village with the melodious sound of his four-stringed duitara and his soulful singing. In 1967-’68, he was given an opportunity to sing on an All India Radio programme. After that, Syiemlieh became a regular artiste on All India Radio Shillong and his songs were loved by many.

Living old memories

Syiemlieh would begin many of his songs with the words “Ha sngap ho para ngan iathuh khana” (Listen o my brothers and sisters, I will tell you a story). Indeed, his songs were stories. But they were narrated not only to entertain, but more importantly to teach. Like a storyteller of old, he would sing his stories. The duitara, the guitar and the violin were accompaniments as he would retell tales about his people, the Khasis, and in particular, the rural folk.

The origin myths of the Khasis, ancient sacred tales, histories, tragic tales of fallible Khasi heroes and doomed romances were the subjects of his art. In his songs, he repeated the tale of Tirot Sing in prison (Iing Byndi), the awe-inspiring account of the ancestral father of his clan, U Lohryndi, the tragic tale of U Manik Raitong, and the story of Ka Suna.

For Syiemlieh, storytelling and singing were the same. The accompanying musical instruments – such as the duitara, guitar and violin – deepened the union between the stories and his music.

Though his musical creations are tales of yore, they present different perspectives. In Iing Byndi, for instance, he does not sing about the heroism of U Tirot Sing Syiemlieh (a native chief who led the Khasis in their fight against the British during the 1929-1933 Anglo- Khasi War). Rather, he chooses to sing about the anguish in Tirot Sing’s family after his arrest.

In U Lohryndi, he tells us about U Lohryndi the Thawlang (or ancestral father) of the Syiem Sutnga and Syiemlieh clan. While many have sung about the Iawbei (root-ancestress of the clan) Ka Lidohkha, Skendrowell shows us another perspective by making Lohryndi his song’s protagonist.

In Ka Mahadei (Syiem’s Wife), he talks about how the Syiem (traditional Khasi chief) had asked his myntri (nobles) to fetch a poor woman for a wife, especially someone who is a khun khatduh, the lastborn daughter in a poor family. The Syiem hopes to marry a humble and self-sacrificing woman who knows how to keep house and serve him and her family too. There is one such woman, but her elder sister is envious of her. She lies and gets married to the Syiem instead, claiming that she is the khun khatduh who takes care of her parents. The younger sister has no idea about this. She marries a baker. But as justice would have it, the Mahadei (Syiem’s wife) gives birth to deformed children who do not live long. The Syiem understands that there is something the Mahadei is hiding from him. She confesses and the Syiem imprisons her. 

The Syiem then orders his nobles to fetch him another wife. They come back with the Mahadei’s youngest sister whose husband, the baker, dies before fathering any children. They find her to be the best match for him.

Skendrowell sings:

Ko jingpihuin ko jingbishni phin lah shan slem oh katno sngi?

La phi leh bein ha sla pyrthei ia rangli ki juki, 

Ka jinglanot kan wan ha phi, 

Khatduh ym slem kan thad lyngkrang ia phi.

Oh envy, oh jealousy! For how long would you last? 

You may have ill-treated the poor, 

but suffering will come to you and in the end,

you will be shamed and laid bare.

Uniquely, in many songs, he would begin without singing and without music, instead imparting a moral lesson. Once the music started, so would the singing.

Romanticism in songs

Inspiring his songs were the natural beauty and serenity of rural areas. In one song after another he would sing about the four seasons (like in Saw Aiom Ki Por) and his village.

In Ah Moina – “Ah Moina! Ah Moina! Bu chong cha ri bujngei (Oh Mynah! Oh Mynah! That lives in a faraway land”) – and in U Sohkhia, the image of the mynah reappears. The bird is a recurring motif that symbolically suggests a love that is lost and has flown away. In several songs, plants and flowers – like U Tiewlyngksiar, U Tiewlyngskaw, U Tiewdohmaw (all wild orchids) – are nature’s symbolic suggestions of the manners and qualities of human beings.

In Khublei Khublei, Skendrowell uses the imagery of flowers to describe the difference in the way he is treated in his village and in a town. In his village, he is U Tiewlyngksiar (an orchid symbolising an honourable gentleman), but when in town, he is forced to apologise since to the urban elites, he is just U Tiewlyngskaw (a flower symbolising the rustic). Amidst this drama, he mentions how U Tiewdohmaw (a flower symbolising a wise person) would listen to the songs sung by U Tiewlyngksiar, who is but U Tiewlyngskaw to the urban elite.

The rural landscape inspired his singing. In Ah Moina, Skendrowell sings of a life lived in the soothing embrace of nature, a life filled with the simple joys of catching a bird or a mountain rat, when ploughing the field, when playing the duitara and when eating u sohphlang (a white edible tuberous root that has a sweet crunchy flavour).

Singing in the Mawiang dialect (one of the many Khasi dialects spoken in the West Khasi Hills), he begins with the words:

Chi bu duk bu toi

Set synduk ia ka loi loi

We who are poor,

we lock up the nothing we have in a box.

The empty box symbolises poverty as well as the meaninglessness of material possessions. This box, which is seemingly empty to the urban folk, is in fact a treasure box containing the most precious experiences of rural life. In Skendrowell’s eyes, these rural experiences are valuable. They must be carefully locked in a box, a box that the urban rich sees as having nothing or “loi loi”. This is proof of his unwavering belief in the serenity and freedom of rural life, even if it is sometimes hard or poverty-stricken.

Amid a difficult village life, his songs talk about 1. Ka Tip Kur Tip Kha; 2. Ka Tip Briew Tip Blei; and 3. Ka Kamai ia ka Hok (1. To know one’s maternal and paternal relations – the sacred principle that defines family relations; 2. To know man and know God – the sacrosanct value that defines human relations and our relationship with God; 3. To earn righteousness – the ideal and belief that one must work one’s righteousness out).

These are the Khasi ideals, ethics that were ingrained in him since childhood while he would sit around the hearth with his family and other villagers. His love for the rural and the natural, however, is unlike Wordsworth’s pantheistic ideology, unlike Keats’ worship of beauty and it indicates nothing of Shelley’s escapist desire. Like a true son of his village, he sang his songs – a villager singing his songs.

His songs are a magical description of the intoxicating, inspirational and soul-soothing rural life, of which he was a part. He did not wait for a Wordsworth to describe his life. Indeed, Skendrowell’s songs are not poems about a Yarrow Unvisited (a poem of Wordsworth’s) but he was part of his own Yarrow, meaning the Khasi rural landscape.

His love for his village is mirrored in Shnong ba nga ieij (The Village I Love). If WB Yeats could not help but go to Innisfree, where he hoped to find peace, Skendrowell gave in to the call of his village hut – a call made by Mother Nature (Ban khot noh ia nga, Ba phah ka Mei Mariang). Like a true Khasi, he saw nature as a Mother (Mei meaning mother – Mei Mariang or Mother Nature).

His songs, however, are not descriptions of a utopian Khasi world. He was not blind to the loss of values among Khasis and with an honest eye, he saw the moral decadence in his society. In Akor Khasi, he mourns the loss of Khasi manners and values. “Akor Khasi pat la ha niamra (Good Khasi manners and values are now in dark caves).

Raising questions

While entertaining, his songs were also meant to teach and reflect on human nature.

His search for meaning in life starts with questions that dig deep into the deepest pits and chaotic labyrinths of human nature. There are questions aplenty in his songs. Balei (why)?, he would ask. In Balei jinglong briew? (Why is human nature such?), Skendrowell sings,

Balei jinglong briew kum ka sla halor um kaba shu per?

Why is human nature like a leaf that floats on the water surface?   

This suggests his understanding that humans are simply drifters – wavering like leaves on the water surface.

In the same song, he continues:

Balei jinglong briew ka shu lum Dorbar khlem nongbishar?

Why do humans gather a Dorbar when there’s no proper judge or righteousness?  

This suggests corrupt practices in the traditional Khasi Dorbar.

Balei jinglong briew ba shu kwah ban her sha ka ri ki khlem kam tang shyntur suda?

Why do humans want to escape to a land where people don’t work but only talk?  

This suggests tall talk but no action.

Balei jinglong briew ba shu kwah ban her shaba sting u ba met ba khia u stait?

Why do humans want to escape to where the edible part of the rice grain is light and the husk is heavy?

The part of the rice grain that is edible should have been described as being heavy since we toil and labour for our food. 

But Skendrowell turns this upside down. The edible portion is light but the husk, which is unnecessary, is heavy. This suggests a chaotic and absurd world, where there is a total inversion of values as opposed to the world of his village, where the simple joys of life amidst nature are soul-soothing and where everything is in order.

However, like Pablo Neruda in The Book of Questions, Skendrowell does not provide solutions to the human predicament. He sees his people as being caught in a dilemma (Ka Dum Dngiem) and he firmly believes that it is the greed of man and the loss of the old Khasi value of “Ka Kamai ia ka Hok” that the Khasi world is now absurdly chaotic and seemingly irredeemable.

True to roots

His inability to sing in English meant he was never fully embraced by the urban elite. Even the Padma Shri bestowed posthumously in 2009 did not help raise his image among them. They continue to regard his art as a subaltern art belonging to a subaltern rural narrative. They fail to notice his brilliance.

However, he remains “the singing storyteller” for many in the villages and small Khasi towns considered Nongkyndong (a pejorative term used by the Khasi urban elite to paint village folks as village idiots). His courage to sing about himself as a son of the village brought him success when, without inhibition, he sang Ah Moina in the Mawiang dialect.

The Mawiang dialect is associated with the rustic life. Nobody imagined that a song sung in a dialect of West Khasi Hills would be appreciated. But it was. Till date, Ah Moina remains one of the most popular Khasi songs, bringing fame to him but also to West Khasi Hills.

Skendrowell is not purely a folk singer. Though much of his music is fusion music, yet it enhances folktales and it helps our generation – who are more attuned to the sounds of a Western drum or guitar – relate to them. In Skendrowell, the duitara found a companion who could take it to a new generation. With Skendrowell, the oral storytelling tradition became a singing tradition, making our generation connect with our roots. Ancient folktales were given a new life and they are now sung to our generation.

The old has given way to the new, but folktales are part of our cultural memory and Skendrowell’s songs have contributed much to their retelling. By immortalising memories, he has immortalised himself. Thanks to Skendrowell Syiemlieh, many Khasi folktales have become flesh and blood. Let us all tell our own stories in songs and maybe we too will live forever.

(Source: Scroll)