Night at Gira

 (Journal notes, 9th November 1995) 

It is some unknown hour of the morning (maybe 4 am??) and I am sitting in a little mud hut in Gira, high up in the hills of south Orissa, and caught in a cyclonic storm. There is a solitary lamp glowing which provides me with light to write this. I can't sleep any more. Pramod, Misra, Panda and I came to Gira last evening from Balamunda - this morning we head back to Karadasing. It was overcast last morning and began drizzling while we were at Balamunda. Then the rain and wind began in earnest. By the time we got here, my salwar, sweater and sleeping bag were all wet and i was freezing cold. Lit a fire and warmed ourselves up - I stood around till my clothes steamed. one of the villagers here - Suresh - cooked us a hot meal of rice and daal and legumes. It was hot and warmed me up a bit, then I slept. Earlier there was talk of rats and snakes that fall from the attic and I was a little scared to be by myself. The men are all alseep next door. But the night was fine except for the noise of the rats, and the roof which began leaking over where I lay, so I had to move. I was warm as toast in the sleeping bag (luckily the interior was dry though the cover had got wet) and i am glad i carried it up here with me. I am worried about today, though. Yesterday when Pramod and all came up the water was waist high in the rivers. Today hit will be deeper,and I hope I can keep my notebook and the drugs and the sleeping bag dry. 

Some other bit of roof has fallen in just now in a shower of dirt. 

Adventure? - Gram Vikas offers you enough and more. The wind is still howling outside and driving the rain in sharp, cold, needle-prick drops. I can't see the valley - everywhere is this grey curtain of rain.

Reusing envelopes

 

Recycled envelopes

I have before me a bunch of recycled envelopes. They are in various sizes, some as small as a postcard, others double the size. Some are plain, others have pictures or quotations pasted on as decorations. They were made by my brother-in-law's father in Pondicherry, in his last days when he was too breathless to do anything else but sit up in bed. It was one hobby of his that he pursued till the end. 

Reusing envelopes has been a habit of mine for years. Some you can reuse as they are, some you need to paste a paper on the address section so that you can write the address afresh. Some you need to open out and then cut and paste them again (sometimes inside out) to make a usable envelope. 

What was a fun hobby enabling me to use glue and a pair of scissors now calls to me differently. Not only reusing envelopes, I did and still do, reuse paper that has been printed only on on side. I remember being laughed at by some people, sometimes being called a "kanjoos" or miser, too tight-fisted to spend money on fresh stationery.

I still repurpose envelopes nowadays, though not as much as before. I realize how my childhood hobby, and that of my brother-in-law's father, helped to conserve, to reduce waste, how it led us to what we now keep emphasizing on - reduce, recycle, reuse. 

I am glad I came across this packet of envelopes he sent to me. I will use them now with joy and mindfulness about our earth and how we use the resources we have.

My friend Nazakat

Nazakat was my tailor in all the years I lived in Bhopal. A gaunt man, unfailingly polite and cheerful, he had his shop in Manisha Market in Shahpura. He had no assistants and did all the work himself, producing neatly tailored salwar-kameez sets. His wife sometimes accompanied him to the shop and would sit stitching on buttons or hooks if required. His customers included women in the Bharatnagar slum as well as from the middle-class Shahpura colony. He lived in a village outside Bhopal and would cycle to and from work each day. Festival times were busy and happy times, and one had to wait many days to get clothes stitched. Completed outfits would be hung neatly on hangers on a rod to a side of the store.

Demonetization was the first blow. Suddenly money was tight, the number of customers dropped sharply. People lost jobs in the informal sector by the thousands. (The hotel near my house that employed eight men shut down as the owner could not pay the wages - he had to choose between paying the workers full wages or purchasing provisions with the small amount of money he could withdraw each day). Women from the slum stopped getting new clothes stitched. Only a few completed outfits would be hanging up, and festival time did not bring a rush of orders.

After a couple of years, business started looking up again though it never picked up to the pre-demonetization level. Nazakat diversified into readymade garments - nighties, underwear and socks. These were in great demand and he was getting back to being cheerful again. 

Then came the lockdowns during Covid, and Nazakat's business never recovered from the blow. Apart from the days the shop had to be kept locked, very few people came to purchase anything even after it reopened. Not even the underwear got sold (remember the men's underwear index?). He was also competing with cheap, synthetic ready-made clothes that are mass-produced and were now freely available. I rarely had to wait for my clothes to be stitched.

By 2021, Nazakat was not earning enough to pay the rent of his shop, and had decided to give it up and to move back to his village. Several days he had only one customer the whole day - someone who would make a small purchase He was no longer cheerful. He was desperate to finish selling the stock already purchased and ended up selling it cheap to someone so that he could recover at least a part of the money. He left for his village and I missed seeing him at his sewing machine in his shop. Soon after, my husband and I moved to Bangalore. 

I kept sending material to him through people going to Bhopal and he would send the tailored clothes back.

I met him last August in Bhopal - and was shocked at his appearance. He was even more gaunt than before, and was breathless. He said he could no longer cycle and could walk only a little bit before becoming breathless. I was not sure whether it was his heart or his lungs that was the source of the problem. He needed work, he said, and I gave him several sets of clothes to be stitched. (When they were returned, I could make out that Nazakat was not well: the cut was not as precise as before, the stitching a bit eccentric).

It turned out that he had had tuberculosis that had destroyed large parts of his lungs. He had what is known as COPD - chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. And that had led to heart failure. A bronchodilator helped him to some extent but not much. He was also severely malnourished. Had the loss of earnings worsened his illness and his COPD? Had he and his family been eating enough to stay well-nourished?

We kept in touch over the phone, and I would call him every few weeks. Sometimes he would say he was doing ok, with no breathlessness, sometimes he would say he had no appetite. I urged him to eat eggs every day and meat whenever he could afford it. He refused my offer of monetary help, saying his son was earning now. But how well he earned, and whether they were eating well, I could not say. He would always thank me for enquiring about his health. "Aapka aur mera ek vishesh hi rishta hai" he told me in his weak voice. You and I have a special relationship.

Last month when I called him there was no answer. A week later, the cellphone service said the number was no longer in use. 

This evening I got a phone call from Bhopal telling me that Nazakat had passed away last month. 

I mourn the loss of a friend, a gentleman. What really killed him, though?

Winter hazards

On a field visit last week I was called to see a woman who had fever and swollen legs. No other information was available and so I went to see her. 

Deep in the Achanakmar forest, Dharmin Baiga lives in Dabripara, a part of Bindawal village. She lives with her husband, son and daughter-in-law. A small square of land to grow crops, a cow, a few possessions, and a two roomed, mud plastered hut is what they own collectively. Among the Baigas they are among the better-off ones.

When the cold increased this year, they did what they always do- sleep around a fire inside the house. Last week, Dharmin's husband found an extra big log to put in the fire so that he need not wake up in the middle of the night to put on another log. But their room is very small, and one end of the log extended under the cot that Dharmin slept on. During the night the log burnt along its length, including the part under the cot. The cot was made of nylon tapes that caught fire, burnt the blanket on top and burnt Dharmin's legs. Luckily she was not injured more severely. 

They applied some herbal preparation on the burns, and thought no more about it. However, in four days, both legs were swollen and the burn wounds oozed pus. Dharmin had fever and severe pain. 

When I saw her she was sitting in front of her hut in the sun, in obvious pain. She had badly infected burn wounds with cellulitis. She did not say a word about herself and I spoke to the husband about the need to get her to hospital. He was reluctant at first  - the crops needed tending, the cow had to be looked after. The son did not help them much, he said. But he agreed to come to hospital in our vehicle. 

Dharmin is undergoing treatment now and I am happy to say she is recovering. Sadly, hers is not an isolated case. Burn wounds in winter are a common feature seen in forest, rural and poor communities. Where warm clothing is insufficient or the hut lets in cold air, sleeping around a fire in winter is the norm rather than the exception. It is a hazard of poverty.

Dharmin outside her house in Dabripara