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Declining productivity in Chilika Lake, Orissa, has severely affected the livelihoods of this fishing community. Worst-affected are the widows of Arkhakuda, whose lives focus on the hunt for one square meal a day |
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Laxmis husband, a traditional fisherman, died 25 years ago leaving behind two young daughters and two sons. Today, the children are married and desperately seeking a living, much like their father did. Declining productivity in Chilika lake, in Orissas Puri district, has meant that Laxmis children have to get by selling fish for a living whenever theres some available with the local fishermen to sell. Otherwise they hang about doing nothing. Acute poverty and lack of livelihood options are a double-whammy for Laxmi: her husbands death not only robbed her of two square meals a day, but, as her children cannot afford to look after her, she lives alone and manages as best she can. Laxmi does not get any monetary support from the plethora of government-funded schemes, such as a widow or old age pension, despite appeals to the local administration. I gave up long ago. The money I spent travelling to the local functionaries office could have fed me for days. So why waste it? Nothing is going to happen anyway, she says. So what does she do for food? On one of the lucky days when she has money, Laxmi buys fish from the local fisherman for Rs 10-Rs 15. The fish she buys and sells are croakers, ribbon fish, lesser sardines, etc, considered low quality by the fishermen (which is why Laxmi can afford to buy them off the fishermen) but in terms of nutritive value as good as the commercially-important fish species. She then trudges seven to eight kilometres selling the fish in nearby villages. A days trade could fetch her a profit of Rs 20. These are her earnings for the day — a lucky day! For around seven to eight days a month she has nothing — no money, no food, no support system. She sleeps on an empty stomach, or prays for someone to help her. Laxmi is almost incredulous when asked about her diet. Its something she has never considered. Food? she asks quizzically. And then she smiles: What about food? Sometimes I have it, sometimes I dont, she says with a wave of her frail hand. When I have the money, I buy some tea for Re 1 and some mudi (puffed rice) for another rupee. This is my breakfast. At 10 am I make a meal of 200 gm of rice and some aaloo (potatoes) that I buy for Rs 2. Otherwise, if theres no aaloo I buy some vegetables or fish. In the evening, I sometimes have some tea for Re 1, with mudi. Since atta (wheat flour to make chappatis) costs Rs 20 a kg, I very rarely make chapattis. This is the story of all traditional fishermens widows in Arkhakuda village, Krishnaprasad block, in Orissas Puri district. With a population of almost 10,000, the village is situated on the banks of Chilika lake, a picturesque 58 km drive southwest of the city of Puri. But the picture-postcard scenery belies the underlying reality. Women who have lost husbands or breadwinners do not have a roof over their heads and are desperate for one square meal a day. There are 209 below the poverty line (BPL) cardholders in Arkhakuda; 850 are non-BPL cardholders. Only around eight to 10 people are Antyodaya cardholders, and no work is available in the village under the much-vaunted National Rural Employment Guarantee Scheme (NREGS). The irony is that the non-BPL cardholders are as desperately poor as the BPL cardholders. The village has one public distribution system (PDS) shop that opens one day a month; people allege that rice here is sold at Rs 8.50 instead of Rs 6.50 per kg. No one says anything because 90% of the villagers here are illiterate. Kadamari Panda, an auxiliary nurse midwife (ANM) who lives 20 km away in Brahmagiri village, visits Arkhakuda every Wednesday. Although Arkhakuda is a panchayat headquarters, it has no dai (midwife) and no medical facilities. The nearest primary health centre (PHC) is 35 km away, at Chilika Naupada. Getting there is like a triathlon run: travelling 20 km by road, 5 km by boat, then again 10 km by road. Otherwise people travel to Puri, 58 km away.
She adds that although the Gajalaxmi Primary Marine Fisherwomen Cooperative Society Limited is a registered society supported by the government of Orissas Support to Training and Employment Programme (STEP) for women, it hasnt been able to do much for the fishing community because it has not set up linkages with banks. As a result, society members are unable to access bank loans. There is a ban on fishing in the lake from May 15 to June 30 every year. Also, the fishermen of Chilika do not have the resources to go fishing in the sea with trawlers, large nets, etc. So, we have no option but to sit out the ban, she says. But sitting out the ban for poor fishermen is not an option, she adds. We depend on fish, and when there is no catch to sell we have no income. We cant stop eating, can we? So what do they do in the interim? Manual labour, if work is available. Or else sell fruits, vegetables or jungle wood for a living. But these get us only half of what we would otherwise earn from selling fish. So we either eat less, or go hungry, Bulidei says resignedly. What about borrowing money to tide over a tight situation? If we are not able to make ends meet, especially during the lean season, she says, then the fishermen take loans, pawn their ornaments, or borrow from family and friends. The sahukar (moneylender) comes from Vizag. If people have no money, they borrow from the sahukar at an interest rate of Rs 100 for every Rs 1,000 borrowed. And this is only for two months. Then the rate doubles! With no bank loans available to them, the fishermen fish both for their livelihood as well as their food. Theres also dal (pulses), rice and sabzi (vegetables), which, given declining productivity in Chilika lake, is fast becoming part of the staple diet. Unfortunately, says Bulidei, when fish is dried, a kilo of fish weighs 400 gm. So we lose out in weight. Not only this, but fish dried on the ground (as opposed to a cement floor, or racks) fetches only Rs 10 per kg (fish dried on racks by the society fetches Rs 30 per kg). But theres no one willing to buy fish at Rs 30 per kg. We need market linkages if we are to become viable and help our members earn a decent living. Sitting in front of her small hut in a corner of the village, Gunni Bewa (65) says she cant recall how long its been since her husband passed away. I have two sons — one is mentally challenged and lives with me, the other is married and lives separately. I look after the boy and am the only breadwinner. My other son gives me nothing. Like Laxmi Bewa, Gunni Bewa is amused when asked about her diet. I sleep hungry for three to five days a month. When I do have money, I have tea in the morning for Re 1, with some mudi, alsofor Re 1. For lunch (which is usually at 10 am), my son and I have a cupful of rice each (200 gm) with some fish that we either buy or are given by the fishermen. Otherwise we manage with potatoes. In the night, if theres money, we eat much the same as what we ate in the morning. Otherwise we just go to sleep, she says looking at her son with worry writ large on her face. I am worried about my son. Who will feed him after I am gone? My other son has four daughters and couldnt care less. Who can blame him — he has no money to feed an extra mouth.
We have half-a-kilo of rice and half-a-kilo of mandya (rice starch) for the first meal of the day, at noon. After lunch, usually at 10 am, our next meal is at 7-8 pm, comprising largely of rice and around 150-200 gm of fish. While we need an average of two kilos of rice every day, we usually manage with much less, he says. Beheras wife says the family spends between Rs 25 and Rs 30 every day on food. The children need pants, shirts and slippers to go to school. But since there is no money to buy these luxuries, they do not go to school. We can either feed them or send them to school, we cannot do both. Laxmi Behera (45), whose husband died around 22 years ago, lives with her two sons and two daughters. One daughter is also a widow; her husband died a decade ago. We all live together in one house. In one night I turned into a mother and a father, a trader, a fisherman I didnt think I could provide for my family, but there was no time to grieve. We had to get along, or the children would have suffered. The need to eat actually helped us pull together. I walk to nearby villages to sell fish, and earn Rs 20-40 on a good day. Sometimes, when I am not able to buy fish from the local fishermen to sell, I dont earn any money. Rice costs Rs 12.50 per kg in the open market, and I get 12.5 kg of rice per month on my BPL card. I know the local ration shop dealer cheats me of at least two or three kilos of rice. If I complain, he gets angry and stops giving us anything. Controlled rice is sold to us at Rs 8.50 instead of Rs 6.50 per kg.
Indias National Rural Employment Guarantee Act (NREGA), which promises villagers a minimum of 100 days of paid work a year, has also not worked here, Behera adds. Several families have reported that their NREGA job cards were being withheld, and that they were receiving Rs 25-30 for a days work, when they should legally be getting Rs 58. And there are many instances where job cards say people have been paid for 10-15 days of work, when in reality they have been paid for only two to four days of work. The village has almost 200 disabled persons — largely mute, deaf or polio victims — but only two or three get any benefit, because of illiteracy. Now you know why people go hungry here. Thirty-five-year-old Sarsa is mute and speaks through an interlocutor. She tells us her husband left her and her 10-year-old daughter almost 10 years ago. Since then, she has been selling firewood for a living and earns Rs 20 a day. But, she says proudly, she has saved enough to buy her daughter a slate for school. What she finds difficult is the bribe of Rs 5 she has to pay to the man who allows her to gather wood from the forest, which she then sells in the village. Rs 20 does not buy her much, but Sarsa has little choice though she tries to supplement her income by doing manual labour. The rainy season is the worst time, and a wedding or illness in the family is enough to upset whatever little financial stability she may have managed. Using gestures, she says she tries to give her daughter some biscuits in the morning, but thats about all. As for meals, she says they share 500 gm of rice between them, or some rice mudi or mandya if rice is hard to come by. Whenever they can, they buy vegetables and fish to supplement their meal, but again, only if they have the money Fish trader Ravi Narayan Behera says that because the village has such an unusually large number of widows who are all illiterate, they are cheated and harassed by the traders for food supplies. Look at me. I work as a fish trader for only three months in a year. The rest of the year theres no business (because of the fishing ban), thus no work. Ravi and his family also beat a path to the local moneylender, often to ensure they have enough to eat. Most of us take loans, not for a TV or clothes but to buy rice, dal, kerosene and cooking oil. Otherwise its to buy medicines. Shankar Behera (35) migrates to Bangalore for three to four months in a year for work to feed himself and his family back in the village. Although a fisherman at heart, he now does manual labour to survive. I come back for a month or so to fish during the fishing season. If I incur losses, I go back to Bangalore. Sometimes I do business for only 10-15 days in a year, because there is no fish left in Chilika, he says. My priority is to ensure that we all have enough to eat, and no one falls ill, because we cannot afford medical bills. Other things dont matter today, he says with a sad smile.
(Aditya Malaviya is a Bhopal-based journalist and researcher. This article was written as part of Bursaries for Journalists, supported by CDL/GAA/EU) InfoChange News & Features, November 2007 |
They say that everything in life has a purpose, says Laxmi Bewa (70). But this one
someones got a lot of explaining to do, she adds with a rueful smile. Laxmi should know. In her village, Arkhakuda, every widows name has bewa (widow) attached to it, as if after your husbands death your surname ceases to be of importance to anyone! 
Bulidei, secretary of the Gajalaxmi Primary Marine Fisherwomen Cooperative Society Limited says: Ours is a landless community of traditional fishermen; fishing is the only source of livelihood for us, the only source of income and sustenance. No fish means we have to go hungry. Almost all of us are Noliya fishermen, and because the government says we come under the classification other backward class (OBC), it does not recognise us as harijans, denying us important benefits. 
Banchanidhi Behera (35), a fisherman by profession, suffers from polio. He is one of the luckier ones — he gets Rs 200 per month as a disability pension. This is his monthly budget. Behera says: I have to manage on this money, and, whenever I can, supplement it with extra work. But because I am disabled, no one is willing to offer me work. Married, with a daughter and a son, he says the only way the family manages is with additional income from his wife who earns Rs 15-20 a day doing manual labour whenever its available. 
Arjun Behera, the local postmaster, says: Government ration cards are supposed to be a safety net, but here even this net is like our fishing net — full of holes! Less than half the families in Arkhakuda have ration cards that enable them to buy subsidised grain from the governments public distribution system. Even those who own cards are not sure if they will get the right quantity when they need it most.