<p>Chilli harvesting on the farms of Andhra Pradesh and Telangana draws many young workers from the bordering states of Chhattisgarh and Odisha. They come here not for the wages, but to take home chillies for the whole year. Such is the desire to stock the hot condiment that some of the boys and girls probably even miss school to join the large chilli-harvesting labour force. It&rsquo;s their only chance in the year to collect and bring home this daily staple.</p>

<p>The children consume far fewer chillis than the adults in their families, for whom it&rsquo;s a daily food item. But they are in the forefront here &ndash; at least half of the labourers here are children &ndash; stocking up the entire year&rsquo;s supply. They manage to &ldquo;earn&rdquo; enough of the precious chillies to last till the next harvest. Instead of Rs.120 as daily wages, they prefer to get paid in chillies worth that amount &ndash; it adds up to half or even a full quintal of chillies for some families, depending on the amount of work done. At around Rs. 100 a kilo, that works out to Rs.10,000 for a quintal.</p>

<p>This is rich earnings, and more economical for the families. A family may consume between 12-20 kilos of chillis a year. What remains could be sold in the market for an extra income. And it ensures a year-round stock at home of the best and freshest farm plucked chillies.</p>

<p>&ldquo;We are 20 people from our village and we will stay here for three weeks,&rdquo; Umashankar Podiyami from Gutumuda village of Odisha&rsquo;s Malkangiri district said. &quot;Everyone in this group prefers to work for chillies rather than for money.&rdquo;</p>

<div class="ui-state-default" contenteditable="false"><img alt="" draggable="false" src="http://s.wionews.com/photos/02-dsc_0024-pst-children_of_the_chilli_fie.max-1400x1120-20171120062241.jpg" />
<div class="media-description">
<p>Umashankar has come from Malkangiri district to earn chillis for his family (Others)</p>
</div>
<a class="close-mark close-div" href="javascript:void(0)" id="jqclosemark">&times;</a></div>

<p>Massive mounds of the bright red spice are piled on the roads alongside the green chilli farms of both Telangana and Andhra Pradesh. The chillis are in abundance from February to April. The mostly tribal labourers from adjoining Odisha and Chhattisgarh pluck, sort, stack, fill and ready the chillies for transportation to the market for retail or export.</p>

<p>Enthusiastic children &ndash; around half of the labour force here &ndash; run around the chilli mounds, sorting and packing the chillis into jute sacks. Despite the enthusiasm, it is poverty that drives the children to these farms. Most of their families live below the poverty line. A lack of employment in their own regions compels them to cross the border into India&rsquo;s top chilli-producing states.</p>

<div class="ui-state-default" contenteditable="false"><img alt="" draggable="false" src="http://s.wionews.com/photos/03-dsc_0064-pst-children_of_the_chilli_fie.max-1400x1120-20171120062325.jpg" />
<div class="media-description">
<p>Adivasis from Chhattisgarh and Odisha work on collecting the chillis (Others)</p>
</div>
<a class="close-mark close-div" href="javascript:void(0)" id="jqclosemark">&times;</a></div>

<p>Besides, chilli is the only consistent item in all their meals, including breakfast. It has nutrients that enable them to subsist without many other food items. It also adds spice to some otherwise unpalatable dishes. Chilli is also used in their rituals and therefore the demand for it is even greater.</p>

<p>Vetti Moye, 14, was among those who had crossed the Chhattisgarh border to work in the chilli fields of Andhra Pradesh. After Moye, who is from Badecity village in Sukma district, lost his father to malaria two years ago, he had to leave school to earn a living from the family&rsquo;s small plot of land. Sometimes, he also works on construction sites. After harvesting his own land, he was here for the chilli collection.</p>

<p>Moye had come with 35 other workers from his village. All of them said they prefer to take chillies home instead of money. &quot;The wage for plucking chilli is Rs. 120 a day, &ldquo; Moye said. &ldquo;If paid through chilli, we get one out of every 12 lots of chilli we pluck. We prefer this as our wage.&rdquo;</p>

<p>At the end of the season, the young labourers from across the borders take the chilli bounty home to sustain their households and add a bit of spice to their lives. Schooling and other activities take a backseat when the chillies have to come home.</p>

<div class="ui-state-default" contenteditable="false"><img alt="" draggable="false" src="http://s.wionews.com/photos/04-dsc_0108-pst-children_of_the_chilli_fie.max-1400x1120-20171120062357.jpg" />
<div class="media-description">
<p>Sacks-full of chillis being taken home to stock up for the year (Others)</p>
</div>
<a class="close-mark close-div" href="javascript:void(0)" id="jqclosemark">&times;</a></div>

<p>This <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/articles/children-of-the-chilli-fields">article</a> was originally published on 21/11/2015 on the <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/">People&#39;s Archive of Rural India</a>.</p>


Groups of labourers, many of them children, cross the borders to work on the farms of Andhra Pradesh and Telangana ? and take home chillis as wages

Chilli harvesting on the farms of Andhra Pradesh and Telangana draws many young workers from the bordering states of Chhattisgarh and Odisha. They come here not for the wages, but to take home chillies for the whole year. Such is the desire to stock the hot condiment that some of the boys and girls probably even miss school to join the large chilli-harvesting labour force. It’s their only chance in the year to collect and bring home this daily staple. The children consume far fewer chillis than the adults in their families, for whom it’s a daily food item. But they are in the forefront here – at least half of the labourers here are children – stocking up the entire year’s supply. They manage to “earn” enough of the precious chillies to last till the next harvest. Instead of Rs.120 as daily wages, they prefer to get paid in chillies worth that amount – it adds up to half or even a full quintal of chillies for some families, depending on the amount of work done. At around Rs. 100 a kilo, that works out to Rs.10,000 for a quintal. This is rich earnings, and more economical for the families. A family may consume between 12-20 kilos of chillis a year. What remains could be sold in the market for an extra income. And it ensures a year-round stock at home of the best and freshest farm plucked chillies. “We are 20 people from our village and we will stay here for three weeks,” Umashankar Podiyami from Gutumuda village of Odisha’s Malkangiri district said. "Everyone in this group prefers to work for chillies rather than for money.” Umashankar has come from Malkangiri district to earn chillis for his family (Others) × Massive mounds of the bright red spice are piled on the roads alongside the green chilli farms of both Telangana and Andhra Pradesh. The chillis are in abundance from February to April. The mostly tribal labourers from adjoining Odisha and Chhattisgarh pluck, sort, stack, fill and ready the chillies for transportation to the market for retail or export. Enthusiastic children – around half of the labour force here – run around the chilli mounds, sorting and packing the chillis into jute sacks. Despite the enthusiasm, it is poverty that drives the children to these farms. Most of their families live below the poverty line. A lack of employment in their own regions compels them to cross the border into India’s top chilli-producing states. Adivasis from Chhattisgarh and Odisha work on collecting the chillis (Others) × Besides, chilli is the only consistent item in all their meals, including breakfast. It has nutrients that enable them to subsist without many other food items. It also adds spice to some otherwise unpalatable dishes. Chilli is also used in their rituals and therefore the demand for it is even greater. Vetti Moye, 14, was among those who had crossed the Chhattisgarh border to work in the chilli fields of Andhra Pradesh. After Moye, who is from Badecity village in Sukma district, lost his father to malaria two years ago, he had to leave school to earn a living from the family’s small plot of land. Sometimes, he also works on construction sites. After harvesting his own land, he was here for the chilli collection. Moye had come with 35 other workers from his village. All of them said they prefer to take chillies home instead of money. "The wage for plucking chilli is Rs. 120 a day, “ Moye said. “If paid through chilli, we get one out of every 12 lots of chilli we pluck. We prefer this as our wage.” At the end of the season, the young labourers from across the borders take the chilli bounty home to sustain their households and add a bit of spice to their lives. Schooling and other activities take a backseat when the chillies have to come home. Sacks-full of chillis being taken home to stock up for the year (Others) × This article was originally published on 21/11/2015 on the People's Archive of Rural India.

Children of the chilli fields

<p>Is Gundhar Naik home, I asked a woman scrubbing pots and pans outside the house next door.</p>

<p>&quot;Where have you come from, and what do you want here?&quot; she demanded.</p>

<p>I am a journalist from Khariar who has written stories about Gundhar in the past, I explained. I have come to find out how he is doing.</p>

<p>The woman looked closely at me and asked, &quot;Are you Thakurji?&quot; Yes, I said, pleased that she had recognised me after all this time.</p>

<p>I had visited Barlabaheli village in Bangomunda block of Bolangir district, Odisha, several times in 1996-97. Now I was back after a gap of nearly two decades.</p>

<p>In 1996, a severe drought in western Odisha &ndash; across Bolangir, Nuapada and other districts &ndash; had caused hunger and starvation. It led to an exodus &ndash; many migrated for work to the brick kilns of Andhra Pradesh. Sadly, it was not unusual for this area &ndash; every 2-3 years a drought caused such conditions at that time.</p>

<p>Balmati Naik, alias Ghamela, a 32-year-old Adivasi widow of an agricultural labourer, was one of around 300 residents of Barlabaheli village. Her husband had died two years earlier. Ghamela had been forced to give up the little piece of land they owned to repay a loan. She worked as a daily-wage labourer, but following the drought, there was no work to be found in the village. Her six-year-old son Gundhar and she were starving. The locals claimed they had informed block development officials of Ghamela&rsquo;s situation before her death, but they did nothing.</p>

<p>On September 6, 1996, after roughly 15 days of starvation, Ghamela died. Many hours later, the neighbours had found her son screaming and crying beside her body.</p>

<p>My stories on this starvation-driven death and its aftermath were published in Dainik Bhaskar in October 1996. Local social workers and some opposition leaders visited the village and took up the issue. Members of the Human Rights Commission also came and noted that it was a death caused by starvation. Political leaders, the block development officers, the district collector and district magistrate made tracks to the village. Even the then Prime Minister H.D. Deve Gowda was scheduled to visit, as part of his tour of drought-hit regions, but did not show up.</p>

<p>&nbsp;</p>

<div class="ui-state-default" contenteditable="false"><img alt="" draggable="false" src="http://s.wionews.com/photos/02-img_3446-pt-the_long_aftermath_of_hunger.width-1440-20171016074818.jpg" />
<div class="media-description">
<p>Reports on Ghamela&#39;s starvation-driven death and her orphaned son Gundhar, in &#39;Dainik Bhaskar&#39; in October 1996 (Others)</p>
</div>
<a class="close-mark close-div" href="javascript:void(0)" id="jqclosemark">&times;</a></div>

<p>The villagers told the visiting officials that employment opportunities were what they needed most. But when they pressed their case, village leaders had alleged, the district magistrate warned them not to play politics or take their protests too far, or the village would be denied the few benefits (such as ration cards) &nbsp;it was getting.</p>

<p>After his mother&#39;s death, Gundhar was very weak. Local panchayat leaders took the child to Khariar Mission Hospital, nine kilometres away, where he was diagnosed with severe malnutrition and cerebral malaria. He was critically ill, but survived.</p>

<p>After he recovered, Gundhar was sent back to the village. The national media arrived to cover the story. The district administration granted him Rs. 5,000 &ndash; a fixed deposit of Rs. 3,000 and Rs. 2,000 in a savings account. And with that, they washed their hands of the orphan.</p>

<p>For 19 years, I had wondered what had happened to Gundhar.</p>

<p>Ghamela&rsquo;s husband had a son, Sushil, from a previous marriage. When she died, he was around 20 years old and working at a road construction site on the Khariar-Bhawanipatna road.</p>

<p>The neighbour told me that Gundhar now works at the Pappu Rice Mill in Tukla village, less than five kilometres from Barlabaheli. His in-laws live in Tukla, she added, and he has a two-month-old baby. His stepbrother works as a haliya (helper) at a nearby farm.</p>

<p>Riding my motorcycle over the ridges of the fields, I found the farm where Sushil was tilling the land owned by his employer. His three daughters and a son were nearby. Sushil, now 40, was unmarried when I had met him following Gundhar&#39;s mother&rsquo;s death. He did not recognise me, but when I reminded him of the stories I had written, he remembered.</p>

<p>Sushil is paid Rs. 4,000 a month, or Rs. 130 per day, on which the family subsists. Some of his kids had clothes on, some did not. Their poverty was evident.</p>

<p>I left for Tukla to meet Gundhar. At the Pappu Rice Mill, I met the owner Pappu, and he informed me that Gundhar had gone to his village that day. I went to his in-laws&#39; house where I met his wife Rashmita, who was holding their baby boy, Subham. Her husband had gone to Barlabaheli to clean the house and had been gone a long time, she said.</p>

<div class="ui-state-default" contenteditable="false"><img alt="" draggable="false" src="http://s.wionews.com/photos/03-dsc03627-crop-pt-the_long_aftermath_of_hun.width-1440-20171016074939.jpg" />
<div class="media-description">
<p>Gundhar&#39;s wife Rashmita (standing, left), his sister-in-law, and parents-in-law outside their house in Tukla village (Others)</p>
</div>
<a class="close-mark close-div" href="javascript:void(0)" id="jqclosemark">&times;</a></div>

<div class="ui-state-default" contenteditable="false"><img alt="" draggable="false" src="http://s.wionews.com/photos/04-dsc03633-pt-the_long_aftermath_of_hunger.width-1440-20171016075045.jpg" />
<div class="media-description">
<p>Rashmita and their son Subham (Others)</p>
</div>
<a class="close-mark close-div" href="javascript:void(0)" id="jqclosemark">&times;</a></div>

<p>I went back to Barlabaheli. Gundhar was indeed at the house. He smiled and greeted me. The six-year-old had become a young man, a husband and a father. &nbsp;But there was still an innocence about him. And he had never fully recovered from the weakness and malnutrition of his childhood.</p>

<p>The house made of mud and tile was much the same. Gundhar&#39;s family lived in one room and Sushil&#39;s family in the other. Gundhar said they had been living with their in-laws for the delivery of the child. They would return to Barlabaheli soon.</p>

<div class="ui-state-default" contenteditable="false"><img alt="" draggable="false" src="http://s.wionews.com/photos/05-dsc03611-pt-the_long_aftermath_of_hunger.width-1440-20171016075117.jpg" />
<div class="media-description">
<p>Two of Sushil&#39;s children at the family&#39;s bare home in Barlabaheli village (Others)</p>
</div>
<a class="close-mark close-div" href="javascript:void(0)" id="jqclosemark">&times;</a></div>

<p>How much do you remember of the past, I asked Gundhar.</p>

<p>&quot;I remember my parents were never well because they were always hungry,&quot; he said. &quot;My mother had a fever. She starved for several days and then she died.&quot;</p>

<p>When he returned to the village from the hospital, prompted by all the publicity that followed my reportage, the administration got him admission at a local ashram (residential) school for Adivasi students.</p>

<p>&quot;I studied till Class 2 or 3,&quot; Gundhar says. &quot;But when I came home for the summer holidays, it was difficult to get any food. So I shepherded goats and sheep for people and ate whatever they gave me. I never went back to school. Then I worked at a hotel near Tukla. They gave me food and Rs. 50 a day. Once I went with 2-3 friends to work at a brick kiln at Mahasamund. We worked for 3-4 months, but the brick kiln owner did not pay us, intimidated us, and drove us away. &nbsp;We came back and started shepherding cows and bulls for the villagers.&quot;</p>

<p>His brother and sister-in-law got him married. &quot;I am a poor man. The day I earn is the day I eat. So I could not afford any celebration and just brought my bride home.&quot;</p>

<p>How much do you earn at the Pappu mill in Tukla, I asked.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I sew jute sacks there, for which I get Rs. 80 per day,&quot; he replied. &quot;Those who lift sacks of rice get Rs. 130 per day. But I cannot lift the weight in this heat, so I tailor the jute sacks.&rdquo;</p>

<p>Gundhar does not have a BPL (below poverty line) card but has an Antyodaya card under which he gets 35 kilos of rice per month.</p>

<p>Will you educate your children, I ask him.</p>

<p>&ldquo;I am a poor man. I will educate them as much as I can. Because we have trouble getting enough food, my wife cannot breastfeed the baby. So we have to buy Amul milk; that takes most of our money.&quot;</p>

<p>When I once again visited his village a month ago, Gundhar had left for Andhra Pradesh to work at the brick kilns. His entire family had gone to the kilns, to work and raise money for his sister-in-law&#39;s wedding. But they had to work so hard against the six-month advance payment of Rs. 18,000 they received per person, that after returning to Barlabaheli recurring illnesses and medical expenses took up a lot of the money they had earned and tried to save for the wedding.</p>

<p>After a while, Gundhar went back to the kilns. He is now working as a loader there, piling bricks onto tractors for their onward journey.</p>

<p>Nineteen years on, this young man and his family are still struggling to stave off the hunger that claimed his mother and left him with a lifelong frailty.</p>

<p>This <a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/articles/the-long-aftermath-of-hunger/" rel="nofollow" target="blank">article</a> was originally&nbsp;published on 21/ 10/2016&nbsp;on the&nbsp;<a href="https://ruralindiaonline.org/" rel="nofollow" target="blank">People&#39;s Archive of Rural India.</a></p>

<p>Photo Credit: Purusottam Thakur</p>


Balmati Naik died of starvation in Barlabaheli village, Odisha, leaving behind her six-year-old son.

Is Gundhar Naik home, I asked a woman scrubbing pots and pans outside the house next door. "Where have you come from, and what do you want here?" she demanded. I am a journalist from Khariar who has written stories about Gundhar in the past, I explained. I have come to find out how he is doing. The woman looked closely at me and asked, "Are you Thakurji?" Yes, I said, pleased that she had recognised me after all this time. I had visited Barlabaheli village in Bangomunda block of Bolangir district, Odisha, several times in 1996-97. Now I was back after a gap of nearly two decades. In 1996, a severe drought in western Odisha – across Bolangir, Nuapada and other districts – had caused hunger and starvation. It led to an exodus – many migrated for work to the brick kilns of Andhra Pradesh. Sadly, it was not unusual for this area – every 2-3 years a drought caused such conditions at that time. Balmati Naik, alias Ghamela, a 32-year-old Adivasi widow of an agricultural labourer, was one of around 300 residents of Barlabaheli village. Her husband had died two years earlier. Ghamela had been forced to give up the little piece of land they owned to repay a loan. She worked as a daily-wage labourer, but following the drought, there was no work to be found in the village. Her six-year-old son Gundhar and she were starving. The locals claimed they had informed block development officials of Ghamela’s situation before her death, but they did nothing. On September 6, 1996, after roughly 15 days of starvation, Ghamela died. Many hours later, the neighbours had found her son screaming and crying beside her body. My stories on this starvation-driven death and its aftermath were published in Dainik Bhaskar in October 1996. Local social workers and some opposition leaders visited the village and took up the issue. Members of the Human Rights Commission also came and noted that it was a death caused by starvation. Political leaders, the block development officers, the district collector and district magistrate made tracks to the village. Even the then Prime Minister H.D. Deve Gowda was scheduled to visit, as part of his tour of drought-hit regions, but did not show up. Reports on Ghamela's starvation-driven death and her orphaned son Gundhar, in 'Dainik Bhaskar' in October 1996 (Others) × The villagers told the visiting officials that employment opportunities were what they needed most. But when they pressed their case, village leaders had alleged, the district magistrate warned them not to play politics or take their protests too far, or the village would be denied the few benefits (such as ration cards) it was getting. After his mother's death, Gundhar was very weak. Local panchayat leaders took the child to Khariar Mission Hospital, nine kilometres away, where he was diagnosed with severe malnutrition and cerebral malaria. He was critically ill, but survived. After he recovered, Gundhar was sent back to the village. The national media arrived to cover the story. The district administration granted him Rs. 5,000 – a fixed deposit of Rs. 3,000 and Rs. 2,000 in a savings account. And with that, they washed their hands of the orphan. For 19 years, I had wondered what had happened to Gundhar. Ghamela’s husband had a son, Sushil, from a previous marriage. When she died, he was around 20 years old and working at a road construction site on the Khariar-Bhawanipatna road. The neighbour told me that Gundhar now works at the Pappu Rice Mill in Tukla village, less than five kilometres from Barlabaheli. His in-laws live in Tukla, she added, and he has a two-month-old baby. His stepbrother works as a haliya (helper) at a nearby farm. Riding my motorcycle over the ridges of the fields, I found the farm where Sushil was tilling the land owned by his employer. His three daughters and a son were nearby. Sushil, now 40, was unmarried when I had met him following Gundhar's mother’s death. He did not recognise me, but when I reminded him of the stories I had written, he remembered. Sushil is paid Rs. 4,000 a month, or Rs. 130 per day, on which the family subsists. Some of his kids had clothes on, some did not. Their poverty was evident. I left for Tukla to meet Gundhar. At the Pappu Rice Mill, I met the owner Pappu, and he informed me that Gundhar had gone to his village that day. I went to his in-laws' house where I met his wife Rashmita, who was holding their baby boy, Subham. Her husband had gone to Barlabaheli to clean the house and had been gone a long time, she said. Gundhar's wife Rashmita (standing, left), his sister-in-law, and parents-in-law outside their house in Tukla village (Others) × Rashmita and their son Subham (Others) × I went back to Barlabaheli. Gundhar was indeed at the house. He smiled and greeted me. The six-year-old had become a young man, a husband and a father. But there was still an innocence about him. And he had never fully recovered from the weakness and malnutrition of his childhood. The house made of mud and tile was much the same. Gundhar's family lived in one room and Sushil's family in the other. Gundhar said they had been living with their in-laws for the delivery of the child. They would return to Barlabaheli soon. Two of Sushil's children at the family's bare home in Barlabaheli village (Others) × How much do you remember of the past, I asked Gundhar. "I remember my parents were never well because they were always hungry," he said. "My mother had a fever. She starved for several days and then she died." When he returned to the village from the hospital, prompted by all the publicity that followed my reportage, the administration got him admission at a local ashram (residential) school for Adivasi students. "I studied till Class 2 or 3," Gundhar says. "But when I came home for the summer holidays, it was difficult to get any food. So I shepherded goats and sheep for people and ate whatever they gave me. I never went back to school. Then I worked at a hotel near Tukla. They gave me food and Rs. 50 a day. Once I went with 2-3 friends to work at a brick kiln at Mahasamund. We worked for 3-4 months, but the brick kiln owner did not pay us, intimidated us, and drove us away. We came back and started shepherding cows and bulls for the villagers." His brother and sister-in-law got him married. "I am a poor man. The day I earn is the day I eat. So I could not afford any celebration and just brought my bride home." How much do you earn at the Pappu mill in Tukla, I asked. “I sew jute sacks there, for which I get Rs. 80 per day," he replied. "Those who lift sacks of rice get Rs. 130 per day. But I cannot lift the weight in this heat, so I tailor the jute sacks.” Gundhar does not have a BPL (below poverty line) card but has an Antyodaya card under which he gets 35 kilos of rice per month. Will you educate your children, I ask him. “I am a poor man. I will educate them as much as I can. Because we have trouble getting enough food, my wife cannot breastfeed the baby. So we have to buy Amul milk; that takes most of our money." When I once again visited his village a month ago, Gundhar had left for Andhra Pradesh to work at the brick kilns. His entire family had gone to the kilns, to work and raise money for his sister-in-law's wedding. But they had to work so hard against the six-month advance payment of Rs. 18,000 they received per person, that after returning to Barlabaheli recurring illnesses and medical expenses took up a lot of the money they had earned and tried to save for the wedding. After a while, Gundhar went back to the kilns. He is now working as a loader there, piling bricks onto tractors for their onward journey. Nineteen years on, this young man and his family are still struggling to stave off the hunger that claimed his mother and left him with a lifelong frailty. This article was originally published on 21/ 10/2016 on the People's Archive of Rural India. Photo Credit: Purusottam Thakur

The long aftermath of hunger

Author

Zee News Rajasthan

Editor

Purusottam Thakur

Home

Live Tv

Latest

World

India

Business

Entertainment

Sports

Opinions

Videos

Photos

Gravitas

Lifestyle

Science

Tech

Rajasthan News in Hindi: In-depth coverage of Rajasthan Crime, Political News, Education, Rajasthan Weather Update and Latest Rajasthan News on Zee News Rajasthan.