Yet another International Day of the World’s Indigenous Peoples went by on August 9. That day, in one part of rural Andhra Pradesh (R&R colony, ASR district), Kondareddis and few other adivasi communities took out a procession under the aegis of the Agency Girijana Sangham. This procession, which I saw in photographs, was different from their long march I’d witnessed in person in 2016, at Kondamodalu.
That procession was an amazing blend of colours: golden sands, red flags amid lush green fields, with the Papikonda hills serving its almost theatrical backdrop, through the ancient and almost linear path of historic adivasi revolts and resistance since colonial times onwards. The Kondareddis and other adivasis of that march had shouted the slogans: johaar amara veerula ki, Bhoomi kosam, vimukti kosam poraadali (salute the martyrs, let us fight for land and freedom/autonomy), while the August 9 procession demanded corporates to quit agriculture and forests. Things have changed.
A long march in Kondamodalu. Photo:
Respecting the idea behind designating a day for indigenous peoples, one remembers a space and its people, marginalised in the mainstream development discourse, screaming ‘Hindutva’. You could see it reflected in the symbols entering the physical space of the parliament building: a ‘Sengol’ so far removed from the history and culture of the indigenous peoples of the country. And what’s equally patronising is that the symbol comes from a Tamil historical context (of a regime), not necessarily benevolent to communities such as the Tamil Jainas or Buddhists of that era.
It may be apt, then, to wonder as to where we are with the idea of indigenous peoples. Globally, do nations across the world represent them in fairness, truth, and equality?
Ikkada and Akkada, Intimacy and Distance
Intimacy and distance seem to be two idioms, or ‘posts’, within which the adivasi life histories could be written. And then, there are two other metaphors: ikkada and akkada (here and there). In the case of Kondamodalu adivasis, intimacy and belonging happened (in the here) in the world of the forests on hilly ranges, amid which were their homes, at one end, and a river (Godavari) at the other, towards whom they walked a few kilometres each day: to cross-over (to the other villages, or to work), or to bathe and wash in, and generally, to watch as the moon rose and the sun set. Or, even simpler still, to spend time with the fishermen, whose intimacy belonged in the river alone.
Kondamodalu panchayat, under a vast open sky, was an expansive space with large homesteads snugly situated under the shades of wide Tamarind trees (with their own botanical and cultural histories dating back several centuries), within walking distance from those equally ancient Ippa (Bassia latifolia / Madhuca indica) and tadi chettu (Toddy). Theirs truly became the last post of resistance to the Polavaram dam (I wish I had not titled my piece thus, those many years ago), until they could hold no longer. Today, they have accepted forced distance, from all of it.
On the eve of August 9 (this year), I received a most unexpected phone call, and the chance to listen in, all over again, to the Kondamodalu people.
Vijaya (of Kathanapally) told me the difference between then and now, between home and a house: “akkada adanta manadi kada? Mana, ane undedi, ekkadaina vellocchu…” [There, all of it was ours, wasn’t it? It was the sense of our(s), we could go anywhere (with the feeling that we stroll around in our space).” Today, she says, they are forced to live in cemented houses on approximately 2.5-4 cents of land.
Vijaya and others. Photo: R. Umamaheshwari
Godavari had given me many metaphors and idioms over the years. What I used to see as simply ‘terms’ became words laden with meaning, reflecting the human-non-human connect, or the way nature was perceived, signifying the centrality of a phenomenon, or form of life, to the community in their everyday contexts. Phrases, proverbs, ways of addressing a form or phenomenon revealed connections, which had otherwise become forced binaries within modernity and colonialism, world over.
In recent times, after centuries of struggle, the Maoris were able to convince the governance systems that Wanghnui wasn’t simply a river, but a person, their ancestor; but what is more, that ancestor could have legal rights, just any human. That Godavari came, stayed, went, retreated (or she will not come this time) – occhindi/ occhinadi, untundi / untadi, potundi / potadi, teesindi – may have had the same idea of a person in people’s language, but the river is still ruled by the colonial legacy of power and control, to be dammed and commodified purposefully and politically.
So, the Kondareddis fields inundated by ‘Godavari’ is a political flooding (of waters, and not the natural coming of Godavari), as a result of the 42.5 ft Polavaram Coffer dam.
Vijaya says, “water is not receding like it did earlier. Godavari would come around August 15, and recede within two weeks; now the water stays longer in the fields.”
Digressing here, in the context of Himachal Pradesh, roadways have eaten into rivers and mountains and the present destruction is yet another example of the politics of deluge. It is fascinating to look at how ritualistic intimacy with rivers during certain religious occasions sits uncomfortably (or comfortably, who is to tell?) with the distance built through the political economy of networks and highways.
I first saw Kondareddi Madi Muttemma of Kokkarigudem in 2006 (when I did not know her name) at the Panchayat office, in pouring rain (during the 2006 Godavari); she had the loudest voice as she questioned government officials on relief material not reaching them. In 2009, I got to interview her. She was then the MPTC (member of the Mandal Parishat Territorial Council) of Kondamodalu. And it was her usage of the words, ikkada and akkada, that made me see her wisdom about the true meaning of dispossession. There was a sense of home in that argument.
After that conversation, I would listen more carefully to these two words, realising that women used them more often than men did. Ikkada reflected the intimacy (thereby belonging in, being in) and akkada the distance (via a forced becoming through governance and power); akkada made ‘oustees’ of a people.
The ikkada of a village becomes the akkada of the colony. The Kondareddis are now living in the R&R colony, which they have named (from a sense of nostalgia and pain), Kottha (new) Kondamodalu. And hence, now Patha Kondamodalu, which was once their intimate ikkada, has now become the distant akkada via their nemesis, the Polavaram dam. So now you have to understand in a different sense when Muttemma or Vijaya or others tell you that they cannot go to Kondamodalu (the original) because “ippudu akkada Godavari unthandi (now there is Godavari there); by this, they mean the political waters from a political project, and not the natural coming of a river.
Thus, Muttemma had told me in the past: “In this locality, since this is an agency area, we have access to everything, except for salt, which we purchase at the Santa fair. However, in the plains, we’ll need to purchase everything, including vegetables and fruits.”
The adivasis of the Godavari region always referred to their spaces as ‘agency’ and the outside world as ‘plain area’, from the long legacy of colonial configuration of their spaces, followed right through post-independence times, for better or for worse. Ikkada (home) was where things were simply accessed from the natural world around, while in akkada, you bought things from the market.
A mother and daughter in Godavari. Photo: R. Umamaheshwari
From home and village to R&R colony: what they said
Today, Madi Muttemma is living the life she was dreading, in the R&R colony (though not necessarily in the plain area, administratively speaking, yet ‘plain’ in terms of the gradient and non-presence of hilly forests they were used to) in Neladonlapadu, near Gokavaram, approximately, they say, 15 kilometers from Rajahmundry town in Andhra Pradesh. When asked what had changed from there to here, she said, “ikkada Godavari ledandi” (there is no Godavari here).
The ikkada of the past, where Godavari was, or came from, has been turned over. The same woman who spoke of the ideal world, her home, which was here so many years ago is now speaking of a house here, the kind she feared. The intimate here has become the distant there, and now, nostalgia is the only freedom available: “We had Godavari and used to have free water for our needs; here they release water only once a day (sometimes it is every alternate day) for an hour and we have to fill our utensils for all our needs.”
The intimacy of touching and feeling the river has ended. I remember the other image of the past, of a mother and daughter catching seer meen (tiny variety of fish that only comes around I summer months when there isn’t enough turbulence in the river) in their saree standing knee-deep in the water.
She continued, “After coming here, it is indeed hard for us. As the day breaks here, we need to buy everything, even milk. We are not happy here, even though we have been here since a year now. It still feels new. We keep wondering why we came here… No officer has come by to meet us after dumping us here. Many are yet to receive the complete R&R (package); they have not given us the land they promised. Many are making ends meet by doing physical labour (coolie pani) … There, we grew our own food-crops… There are no wild animals here, no wild boars, either. We have to buy meat from shops. But we do have our hens here. We had to sell away our cattle to traders before moving here because there is no place for them to graze here… Tourist launches are still plying on Godavari from Polavaram to Perantapally…”
Back in 2007, I had taken a boat ride and a long walk from Pochavaram to Kunavaram with Varada Kumari (of Kathanapally) and her spouse and we had waited at 3 am on the sand beach of Godavari for the boat to arrive. Today, Varada Kumar introduced herself on the phone, saying memu Polavaram nirvasitulam (We are residents of Polavaram).
“We were put through a lot of difficulties there (in Kondamodalu) and were forced to move here without even getting the complete R&R. There is no Godavari here. There is no river at all. There is a kaluva (canal) under Bhupatipalem project. They had promised they would give us 426 acres of land if we came here. They are yet to do so. We have no land right now to cultivate.”
“Our people now work for other farmers, the Kammas and Kapus. They pay us Rs 300 per day and we work from 9 am till 4 pm… There [in our previous homes] we had fish from Godavari, vegetables, tubers, etc. Here everything has to be purchased, including milk. None of us has cattle anymore. They gave us Rs 6,80,000 as compensation per family. Those who could save, did; the rest have already spent it all on emergencies and so on…There we had large homes. Here we are in two rooms and a kitchen in the verandah. We can no longer go hunting. There are no hills or forests…Do you remember the house we slept in at Kathanapally? It is also under water now. These days, every time it rains our fields are inundated, unlike in the past.”
Bullebbayi of Kokkarigudem had in 2016 walked me, literally, through the resistance history of Kondamodalu, showing me the martyrs’ column that they constructed for those who died in the struggle for land and forests here.
He said, “This place cannot be compared to our village there… We left everything back there and we are still perplexed… I can foresee a very tough life ahead for girijans (adivasis). We fought for very long there. But the government snapped our electricity connections and many other facilities. In Kachuluru village, they broke down houses, too. They took away all the basic facilities, so even if one of us fell sick, it became very difficult to take the person to the hospital. We fought and remained there, despite all this, and demanded that we will move only if the government will give us what they promised. They fooled us saying if we went to the colony, we will get everything…”
I asked him, what about all the history he had told me about, in the past.
“The struggle of our people, girijans (adivasis), will have to continue, if our history has to remain. Today, numerous adivasis in our country are losing out to big projects and national parks; governments have taken over forests, too, from adivasis. Though our (country’s) president may be a girijan (adivasi), yet there is no empathy towards them. We are still looked down upon. Even in Manipur, you can see how they are attacking girijans. Aren’t we seeing it all?”
From being adivasi farmers, cultivating food crops for self-consumption on their own fields, they are now daily wage labourers for ‘upper’ caste landlords. Gone is the Sivagiri-Kondamodalu connect, gone are the people’s boats and the boatmen and several villages that dotted the banks.
Vijaya said, “Kondamodalu was totally ours. Svechchamga undevallam; ikkada svechcha ledu (we used to live on our own terms, but here, autonomy/freedom does not exist). There no fields for cultivation. There, from the time we woke up, till we went to bed, the Godavari, the breeze, and water was all ours; here we have nothing. There is no water body either, barring one small channel for the fields of other farmers… All our tamarind trees, toddy trees are there…We used to get Kalapa to build our homes (from the forests) … We used to get toddy; there are no toddy or ippa trees here. Ikkada emi ledu (There is nothing here) … May be for education, it is alright since there are schools here, but children do not have the kind of lifestyle they had there, to play around in the open in a free environment…”
Incidentally, Vijaya says the ‘road to nowhere’ to reach Kondamodalu (since there are no boats anymore) still exists (and that thankfully remains as a historic pathway, for nobody needs to walk down that road anymore), so may be taking their invitation (warm as always, to partake of their food) one could walk down that pathway again in a future time.
Finally,
For some, home is a space / land elsewhere that they seek to make their own.
For some others, it is a structure they are yet to make sense of as their own.
For some, it is a structure (or several of them), built in a fantasised elsewhere (or several elsewheres), that money can buy.
For some others, it is that place which money cannot buy.
For the adivasis of Godavari, it will now forever remain akkada: a valley that was, and never can be, no matter how many R&R colonies force them to accept it, ikkada.
The author is based in Shimla. Her recent (related) publication is titled Spheres of Injustice, edited by Albeena Shakil, Gopal Guru, (Routledge India, 2023.)