A Dirge for the Dammed

by Vishwas Patil, Keerti Ramachandra

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

It begins with a familiar story of displacement. The people of Jambhli have been ousted from their homes with promises of rehabilitation, and compensation in cash and land, to make way for an irrigation project and the construction of a large dam. The Jambhlikars? anguish at leaving behind everything they have known and resettling among hostile strangers ? the beneficiaries of the dam project ? and their desperate search for alternative employment, for which they are neither trained nor qualified, are just the beginning of their troubles. In their search for a place to call their own, they must battle petty local politicians, scheming government officials strengthened by exploitative laws and self-serving social workers, and face the ultimate betrayal at the hands of trusted leaders. Yet, even as the fabric of their social structure disintegrates, their courage, faith and innate goodness shine through in the face of unspeakable hardship. Heartbreaking, humane and utterly relevant to our time, this remarkable Sahitya Akademi Award-winning novel stands apart in giving a voice to those who pay the price for progress and development, and in vividly encapsulating the struggles of the impoverished against a ruthlessly corporatized world.

Release date: February 5, 2014

Publisher: Hachette India

Print pages: 475

Sample

PART ONE

Chapter 1

Dusk was falling, and Gomya Koli, a ghungroo-topped whip slung across his shoulder, was striding towards the river. Halya, the he-buffalo, trotted behind him, head bobbing to the rhythm of the bells. Kolis need to lead their water-carrying animals, but not Gomya. Never had he put a bridle on old Halya who followed him like a shadow. They had spent a lifetime on this water-route, a path with overgrown weeds, the river bank, and these houses where they supplied water twice every day. Be it the scorching sun of Chaitra, the freezing cold of Paush, or the pouring rains of Ashadh, their routine was the same – filling the leather pakhal and emptying its waters into the troughs of their patrons in the village. Today, four houses remained to be supplied water and Gomya had to hurry. The womenfolk would be straining to catch the jingle of his ghungroos.

When they reached the river, Halya slid down the mud bank, flank-deep in the flowing waters of the Vaghjai. Gomya tucked his shirt in at the waist. There was no dhoti under it, only a loin cloth. That’s how Gomya always dressed. He had worn a dhoti only once, the day he married Kamli. Reaching for the small dol dangling beside the pakhal, Gomya pulled out its wooden stopper and dipped it in the river. Water gurgled into the dol. Gomya filled the container, and then poured the water into the pakhal, first right, then left, so that the pakhal would lie evenly balanced across Halya’s back. When the pakhal’s maw was satiated and Halya shook himself out of the wet earth, it let out a contented burp. ‘Haiyya!’ shouted Gomya, cracking his whip, and like a well-trained circus animal, Halya rolled along behind his master.

Nothing affected these two, neither disasters nor calamities. Their lives continued unchanged. Halya was truly fortunate. Not for him the drudgery of ploughing or tilling fields that the other animals were forced into. After the water rounds all he did was rummage in the grassy bank or tug at the stumps of jowar by the river. Feeding all day made him enormous. Gomya took life easy too. Once work was done he went around collecting dry bhakri and whatever else he was offered. Occasionally, he asked for buttermilk. This life of ease showed on his squat body. With his dark shiny skin, a snub nose and round eyes buried in plump, fleshy cheeks, he could have been Halya’s double, perhaps his twin in a previous birth.

A cool evening breeze was blowing through the lush guava and banana plantations that flourished in the rich black soil. The orchards were regularly watered so the chill never left the countryside. From the low lying area where he stood, Gomya looked up at the slope of Laduba’s hill, where the village of Jambhli, with its population of about twelve hundred lay. Most of the village was lost among the trees in the distance, but Gomya could see a few of its tall, colourfully painted buildings – Lala Jadhav’s wada, Dattu Karvande’s three storeyed mansion, the brahmin Digu Anna’s house. Clumps of graceful bamboo-grass and tangles of lantana and other bushes circled his village. Beyond it lay Devban, the thickly wooded forest. He caught a glimpse of a tin shack, which was Laduba’s shrine, the slanting rays of the setting sun sprawled across it. It was evening and the path leading down from Devban began to hum as if in prayer. The sky was filled with evening sounds – the tinkling bells of cattle coming home and cries of the cowherds urging them on, the bleating of goats skipping down the hillside.

As they approached the path, Halya tensed and lowered his head menacingly. Gomya shot ahead and took him by his muzzle to walk him past the animals from the other side. Soon they were near the Maruti temple. It had been built on the outskirts of Jambhli some ten years ago with money given by young men who had left for faroff Mumbai in search of work. An old tamarind tree sheltered it and a colony of chittering monkeys kept the deity, Maruti, company throughout the year.

As they neared the village, Gomya saw the crumbling boundary wall. Parts of it had collapsed in heaps of white mud and grey stones. Only the arched gateway stood firm and strong, asserting that Jambli was invincible. Halya walked through the gate and past Dadu Yeskar, the gatekeeper. Dadu drew deeply on his chillum and peering into the shadows, called out, ‘Arrey Gomya, come here, re! Have some tobacco.’ Gomya stopped, took the wad and tucked it into his right cheek. Noticing Dadu’s wrinkled brow he asked, ‘Are you worried about something, Yeskar?’

‘Hmmm. Can’t say anything about that dam project, can we, Gomya?’

‘What’s happened now?’

‘Khasdar Shingade’s hunger strike ...’

‘I heard it was over?’

‘But the ghost isn’t off his back yet.’

‘What?’

‘That’s why one can’t be sure of what will happen. Lightning strikes without warning, Gomya. Like that dam. Who can tell when it will descend on us.’

‘Where’s Guruji?’

‘At the weekly bazaar. He didn’t return by the last bus, God knows why.’

Halya turned into the lane leading to the Pawar house. The lady was waiting impatiently. The sun had set but her earthen trough was still empty. Halya stopped beside it. Every house had such huge water troughs at its entance and Halya knew exactly what to do. He’d stand beside the trough so that when the mouth of the pakhal was opened, the water flowed straight into it. Then Gomya would put the stopper back and Halya would move to the next one.

Night had fallen by the time they finished. Gomya went to collect his evening meal. Four men of a hunting tribe wandered through the forest, Devban, around Laduba’s shrine. Fifteen acres of stately mango, jambhul and ain trees, looked down on the shrine. It was believed that if a man as much touched a twig in Devban with an axe, his entire family would be wiped out. That is why this forest had lived and thrived.

The wild animals from the valley were on the prowl, moving towards the little lakes around Devban. They came, quenched their thirst and bounded back into the jungle. Sometimes they were careless and the hunters managed a kill.

Cautiously the hunters moved, nimbly sidestepping dry leaves and twigs to prevent the animals from sensing their presence, their loaded rifles sighing on their shoulders. Their leader had a blinking torch wedged into his head cloth. They stopped beside the lake. The headlight glowed like the eyes of a wild cat. With bated breath they gazed across the dark water, then furtively began to circle the thicket. Trees murmured, leaves rustled, rifles heaved to cautious feet and suddenly a tremor passed through the bushes. The hunters startled. They had been scented. Thudding sounds broke the stillness and in an instant, the beast leapt into the jungle. The torch flashed, a trigger went off and a sharp crack shattered the silent valley. Birds screeched, herds of deer scattered wildly, coughing out a warning. Rabbits, antelopes, jackals, wild boar, every beast and fowl picked up the signal and passed it on, ‘The hunters are here!’ The animals gave the men the slip and fled to safety.

The seven o’clock bus from Masanmal arrived. But no one got off. The people of Jambhli were puzzled. As the bus began to move off, someone from inside it shouted, ‘Your menfolk were rounded up there.’ The Jambhlikars were alarmed.

The Dam! That’s what it was. Khasdar Shingade Patil had begun a fast unto death a fortnight ago demanding immediate implementation of the Jambhli Dam Project. Eight days later, the Jambhlikars, as well as the inhabitants of six other villages which were to be submerged, began to panic. Build the dam and we’re all dead. Where should we go now after having lived here for generations? Shingade Patil was a powerful man, with contacts in far-off Mumbai. His influence extended to Delhi. His ‘fast unto death’ had clearly created ripples right at the top. Why else would the Minister rush to Vaghethana in the middle of the night, the red light of his car flashing furiously? The DSP, Collector, Superintending Engineer were with him. Who knows what Kalubai, our goddess, has in mind!

The news spread like forest fire. Something had happened at the weekly bazaar at Vaghethana but no one knew what. They would have to wait for the last bus to find out. Crowds gathered at the village square, outside the Panchayat office, at Kalubai’s feet. They voiced their fears in hushed whispers, their hearts knocking against their ribs. They waited, shivering in the sharp night air, for the bus to arrive. Dadu Yeskar stared into the darkness, restlessly tapping his baton. He was shaken. His younger brother, Vasant Khairmode, affectionately called Master or Guruji, had also gone to the bazaar. Instead of leading a sedate, peaceful life as a teacher, he had been spearheading this agitation against the dam for the last ten years. I will never allow the dam to be built, he had declared many a times and the Jambhlikars always supported him. Dadu could not understand any of it. Why did he have to get involved in a controversy? He was comfortable, had a secure government job. How did all this matter to him? What happened to the rest of Jambhli would happen to him, that’s all.

Dadu’s father had also been the Yeskar of the village. After him, Dadu had taken on the responsibility of ensuring Jambhli’s safety. He had brought up Vasant, educated him, made him a teacher. For the first four years Vasant had taught in a school in Koyna. Then he was transferred to this place. And his obsession with the dam, and the gradual transformation to Khairmode Guruji, had begun. His slogan, Death before Dam, echoed everywhere. Dadu often said to him, ‘Vasanta, why get into all this? Do your job, that’s enough.’ And the response always was, ‘How can you say that, Aba? We are Yeskars, aren’t we? It is our duty, our responsibility to protect Jambhli.’ Dadu knew that many evil eyes were on the idealistic Master and one could never tell when they would take his job away.

Dadu could no longer sit by the village gate. Jangling his baton he marched towards the village square presided over by the huge rock, Kalubai. All the men who mattered – Khairmode Guruji, Limbaji Patil, Sabhapati Lala Jadhav, Udim the grocery merchant – were stuck in Vaghethana. Those at Kalubai’s feet were a frightened group jabbering foolishly among themselves, trying not to show their anxiety. Gomya Koli sat apart under a neem tree watching the crowd, picking his teeth. A bundle of bhakri lay beside him. He had sent Halya home. Seeing the animal return by itself, Gomya’s oldest daughter ran to the square looking for her father. Gomya handed her the bundle of bhakri but stayed where he was.

Old Pandu Yetal was worried. His two older boys had gone to the bazaar with baskets of guavas and bananas that morning and hadn’t come home yet. Hot-headed Babu Pawar brashly declared, ‘It’s all that Shingadya, the horned one’s doing. He must have gored them.’

‘They’re not afraid of him. Our Khairmode Guruji will finish him off,’ bragged Bhairu.

As night advanced, the anxiety of the crowd increased. Their eyes strayed back and forth from the bus stand to where Kalubai the patron goddess of Jambhli, stood. A magnificent black boulder, of twenty tons perhaps. No temple sheltered her, only the branches of gnarled neem and banyan, as she watched over the village. Digu Anna, the Brahmin, sat at her feet and collected the offerings placed before her. That day saw a rush of devotees to Kalubai’s side. With rice and supari they made a contract with her despite the brahmin’s solemn assurance that the village would come to no harm. Numb from sitting in one place all day Digu Anna stood up and gathered the offerings of food in his shoulder cloth. He carefully wiped the haldi-kunku smeared coins and tucked them into his waist. Then he started to waddle off towards his home. The cluster of women under the tree did not stir. Durpada, the carpenter’s wife, called after him, ‘Will it really happen?’ Digu Anna was annoyed. Pointing to Kalubai, he barked, ‘Will SHE drown?’ Frightened, the women shook their heads. ‘She won’t, will she? Then how can we? If Kalubai lives, so will we. Do those engineers even know how sacred this land is? Tell the fools to place their heads at her feet before they build anything. Some good sense might enter their thick skulls,’ he shouted and huffed on, supporting his ample belly with both hands. But the despairing faces in the square made him stop. Shamefacedly he looked around. The breeze sharpened to a wind. Little bonfires flared here and there. Expectant eyes scanned the eastern horizon.

A blur of light was coming towards them. Gradually it separated into two headlamps – the ST from Vaghethana at last. In a flurry they stood up. The bus, already an hour and a half late, hurtled into the village. Even before it ground to a halt the passengers for Jambhli crowded around the door. One by one they jumped out. All women, not a man among them. A moment’s stunned silence exploded into a clamour. ‘Where’s everybody?’ ‘What happened?’ ‘Tell us, quick.’ ‘It’s the Government’. ‘They banged their heads against the police station walls,’ blabbered the women, their remarks coloured with the choicest abuses. Pandu Yetal’s patience snapped. Waving his baton at them, he snarled, ‘Will someone tell me what exactly happened?’

‘What else? The ruination of our village!’

‘Yes, but how?’ shouted Bandu the barber.

Shivaram Sangar’s woman, Nakusa spoke up. ‘The Mamlatdar announced a meeting at three. Then they came in a van and took all the men from Jambhli to the thana. The rascals, they even took him, my...!’

Gradually, a picture of the day’s events emerged. The policemen had ruthlessly kicked aside the baskets of fruit and whisked the men away. The women, terrified, had sold off everything for the price of dirt. Their worst fears had come true. The dam was inevitable, death inescapable! Jambhli was finished.

The dispirited crowd sank to the ground. What now? Voices were raised, opinions expressed. Dadu Yeskar’s pleas to keep calm were carried away by the wind. A meeting of Jambhlikars was called. Digu Anna stood bewildered, clutching his bundle for support. Dadu pressed the baton to his stomach to keep down the knot rising inside him. Pandu Yetal’s eyes would not stop blinking and Gomya’s eyes reflected Halya’s vacant expression. The leaves of the towering pipal trembled, just like the Jambhlikars. The cold had seeped into their bones.

Just then Babu Pawar stood up. Twirling his fledgling moustache, he announced, ‘Blood may spill, men may die, but we will not allow the dam to be built.’

Daulu Patil took over. ‘Early tomorrow morning we will occupy the dam site. We will not retreat even if they kill us.’ Young blood was on the boil. Pandu Yetal, unnerved by this show of foolhardiness advised them to fetch Dattu Sarpanch. ‘Tell him the village is gone, buried.’

Within minutes the boys were back, panting.

‘Where’s he?’ asked Pandu.

‘He has a stomach ache.’

‘Didn’t you tell him the village was about to...?’

‘He said we’ll see when it happens.’

‘Naturally! He’s secure in his new house in Vaghethana. What does he lose if the village is destroyed,’ said Pandu sarcastically.

‘He’s no sarpanch, that man,’ snarled Babu Pawar. ‘Why waste time trying to milk an ox?’

Gloom spread. In the dark silence only one image rose before their eyes – a lean six foot frame, wiry and tough, a nut brown body clad in crisp white khadi. Khairmode Guruji, a human dynamo. He would have known what to do. Single-handed, he would have dealt with the government.

Twenty-five years ago, when Shingade Patil and others from the drought-affected eastern portions of Vaghethana had first made a demand for the Jambhli dam, Khairmode Guruji had just been transferred there from the little school at Koyna. When he was in Koyna, Guruji had seen the river being blocked for a huge hydroelectric project. The villagers had been forced to move to the upper regions. With no electricity and no money to afford kerosene, they could do nothing but complete their evening meal by firelight. They washed their clothes in stagnant clayey water, the youngsters played catch with sheep and goats and walked eight miles to the new colony to post a letter! Children from three or four such settlements trudged all the way up to attend Khairmode Guruji’s school in the dim precincts of the Bhairoba temple. By four o’clock the schoolroom would be dark. Guruji had waged a lonely battle against all kinds of difficulties for two years, in the hope that at least a few children would become literate. But the inevitable happened and one day, a cryptic order arrived. The school would be closed down because of an insufficient number of pupils.

But the irony of it all! The dam became operational, Koyna got electricity and Maharashtra prosperity. But the local people on whose land it was built, were left in abject poverty. Even after Guruji returned to his village, the anguished, defeated faces of the dam victims haunted him. The mere mention of the word dam set his blood pounding. Often he’d cry out in his sleep, ‘Dam? Over my dead body!’

Khairmode Guruji was born into a poor Mahar family on the other side of the nallah. His family were the official gatekeepers, the Yeskars of Jambhli and he had kept up the tradition by awakening his people to the dangers they faced. His love and concern for the Jambhlikars threatened by the dam, his perseverance to get them recompense, his morchas and satyagrahas to draw attention to his demands, had made the Jambhlikars forget the nallah that separated him from them. Though a Mahar he had endeared himself to all of Jambhli. They hero-worshipped him. In fact, Guruji was now synonymous with Greater Jambhli even in the eyes of the Vaghethana authorities.

This was why news of Guruji’s arrest sent shock waves through the people. ‘What now?’ they asked in hushed tones. ‘Let’s take over the land,’ declared some youths.

‘We’ll do just that,’ asserted old Jalindar. ‘Before daybreak we’ll go and camp on the site. Bring enough bhakris to last us four days, all of you.’

‘Fight unto death,’ exhorted the young.

The crippled Tarakka appeared just then, astride her nephew’s shoulders, cursing Shingade Patil loudly. ‘Shingadya, you will be destroyed, your family wiped out, your government will die,’ she ranted.

Old Jalindar advised the young men, ‘Think over it once more, boys. God knows how long we will have to spend in jail, perhaps even vomit blood ...’

‘Sure. We are prepared for that, our minds made up. Death before dam.’ Their determined voices reverberated in the chilly night sky.

Into this momentous meeting swayed Thaya Kambli, casting a bleary look over the gathering. He lisped, ‘Ahaa... meeting... you fools, you will all die. The government will push your heads under the water till you choke.’

‘Get lost, you good-for-nothing lump of dung,’ yelled Babu Pawar.

‘You are all under the spell of that master. Fools, even the demon Pakistan was pulped by our government, so powerful is our sarkar. You think you can fight it? A fist-sized village and a thumb-sized master! What can the poor bastard do?’

Thaya’s tongue had run away with him. Babu lost his head. He rushed at Thaya and slapped him hard. Thaya fell in a heap. As he slowly struggled to his feet, he looked around once again, then lurched into the night cursing, ‘Jambhli will die. You will all perish.’

The meeting came to an end. Digu Anna picked up a small container of sacred ash from Kalubai’s feet and applied the angara to every forehead. Hope-filled eyes rested on the impassive Kalubai. Leaves on the trees rustled, vines and creepers around her sighed. Old hands shook as they were raised in prayer and parched lips whispered fervently, ‘Aai Kalubai, forgive your children their mistakes. Protect us, save our homes, O mother!’

Each one turned homewards to prepare for the next day. But Kalubai remained in their thoughts. How long ago had Jambhli been born? Digu Anna’s Pune-based son said it was a very old settlement, a riverine one with a unique character. The arched village gate was there to prove it. Kalubai must have been here before the village came up since the gods come down to earth first for men to follow. In fact, Sakya Gurav says that Mumba Devi of Mumbai is Kalubai’s fortunate younger sister. She was sent to Mumbai with the fanfare of a princess, while her sister stayed back to watch over this little hamlet on the banks of the Vaghjai in the Sahyadris.

Digu Anna’s father had built his wada more than fifty years ago. Jadhav followed with his two storeyed house. Then one night Kalubai appeared in Vashya Gurav’s dream. Tearfully she said to him, ‘You knaves, you have built yourselves comfortable homes, while I stand here, in sun and rain, watching over you. You didn’t even think about a shelter for me, you ingrates.’

Vashya Gurav had given her his word right away, ‘Aai, we will not leave you unprotected any longer!’

Kalubai warned him, ‘Think carefully before you make a commitment to me. If you decide to build a temple you must observe my conditions: All work must commence only after sunset. Construction must be completed before daybreak. If not, a curse will befall the village.’

Everyone was aware of these conditions so they were afraid to begin the work. A few months later Kalubai appeared again to Vashya Gurav and reminded him of her plight. The people of Jambhli were ashamed. How could they sleep in the warmth of their homes while Kalubai shivered in the open? Plans were made. Those days the local people were only about five hundred in number. So messages were sent out to all Jambhli’s sons living far away, Come and help us fulfil our duty to Kalubai. They came at once.

An auspicious day was determined. As soon as the sun disappeared, everyone set to work, women and children too. Some dug the foundation, others chopped wood, some sawed planks, a few piled up stones. Light from torches spurred their efforts. Soon it was midnight. ‘Hurry, hurry,’ they exhorted each other. And before their eyes, walls emerged from the ground and rose to head level. They had to move fast to position the beams and arrange the reapers to support the tiles. On that of all days, Dadya Sutar, the carpenter, had had too much to drink. As he was hammering the crossbeam in place, he lost his balance and fell, like an overripe fruit, taking part of the roof with him. It was tough extricating him from the debris. He was badly hurt, his leg grotesquely twisted. They bandaged it and laid him aside. The poor man’s agonized screams rent the air, but work had to go on. In a flurry of hands, legs, saws, hammers, sweat and tears, only one thought prevailed – the work must be completed. But Jambhli was unlucky, its fate flawed. With forty tiles remaining to be laid, the angry red eye of the sun glared at their efforts from over the top of the distant mountain. Under its baleful gaze, Jambhli’s backbone broke. Tools fell out of nerveless hands, legs collapsed under lifeless bodies. A betrayal, that’s what it was. They began to blame themselves. ‘So arrogant we’ve become that we dared to take up Kalubai’s challenge. We deserve this. Someday the curse will strike. We’re all doomed.’

This was fifty years ago. After the temple fiasco, Vashya Gurav took to his bed for two years till he was carried off to his final destination. The remaining Guravs lost heart and surrendered their privilege to perform the puja to Digu Anna. Slowly things started looking up. Youngsters went to seek their fortunes in the cities, and those who stayed behind worked hard to reap the rewards of their labour. Twenty years of peace and prosperity had gone by when the ominous drums of the Greater Jambhli Irrigation Project began to roll.

All these years Khairmode Guruji and the Jambhlikars had been agitating to prevent the project. Guruji, recalling his experience with the Koyna victims, warned the people, ‘Carrying our homes on our backs and moving to a new location is like counting stars in broad daylight. Not even a dog will care about our plight.’ His honesty and earnestness moved them. They believed his every word, followed his every instruction. He called the tune and they danced to it. The weak became strong. A non-cooperation movement was set in motion. Nobody would accept tax notices sent from the district headquarters. Even the revenue officials were in awe of Guruji, so they came to Jambhli reluctantly, stealthily. They brought black police vans to escort them. The women of Jambhli too defied them, obstructed their vans. ‘Run over us first, then measure the area,’ they challenged the officials. ‘We will die before we let you build this dam,’ was their slogan. Under strict police surveillance, the dam site was marked out. Three times the bhoomi puja was performed. Each time the minister and his party would appear on the banks of the Vaghjai, lay a foundation stone and go away. As soon as their cars were out of sight, the village youth would uproot the stone and toss it into the river. So the construction of the dam was never begun.

In the meanwhile, about ten years ago, Lala Jadhav was elected to the Zilla Parishad. He and Shingade Patil hit it off immediately. Lala made a million promises and won over most of Jambhli. He arranged for the Irrigation Minister to lay the foundation for the dam. But Guruji continued to turn a deaf ear and a blind eye to his plans. On the appointed day, the Minister arrived with a retinue of officials and Shingade Patil in tow. It was an impressive gathering. All the villagers from the drought affected areas had turned up. The Minister was given a traditional welcome by the women. Avadai, of the Jadhav family, was one of them. The ceremony was about to begin. The Minister was waiting for the pujari’s instructions, when Avadai happened to look up towards the river. And suddenly, the waters of the Vaghjai flooded her eyes. In the raging waters, she saw Jambhli getting submerged, Kalubai drowning, houses collapsing, helpless animals floundering. She could not let it happen. She turned on the Minister and kicked the puja thali right out of his hands. Pandemonium broke loose. The welcome turned to hostility as the women closed in on the Minister, urging Avadai on as she screamed, ‘You want to destroy us so that your families can prosper? Have you no shame, no decency?’ The few policemen present managed to whisk the Minister and his officials to the waiting car. A barrage of stones followed them as they drove off in a cloud of dust. The bhoomi puja was thwarted once more. The next day, more than half of Jambhli, including Avadai, Khairmode Guruji, Pandu Yetal, was taken into custody and held for a full six days.

Now Jambhli was in a trap once more. Guruji was determined to prevent the construction but Shingade Patil’s hunger strike had caused the demon of the dam to raise its head again. It hung over them like a sword, haunting them at every step. Would it get them this time? The Jambhlikars’ clamour for a road to the upper regions was ignored because sooner or later it would be submerged anyway. For the last ten years, the walls and the roof of the primary school had almost collapsed. Guruji had managed to prop them up with bamboo and thatch. A government hospital had been sanctioned on the left bank of the Vaghjai, but the order was later revoked. All because of the Dam.

The stoic Jambhlikars were at the end of their patience. The word ‘dam’ made them bare their fangs. Their peaceful community was prosperous, their land fertile and generous. Guava trees were bent over with fruit, the sturdy banana stems bowed under enormous bunches. Farmers found a market in Vaghethana, even in faraway Ambepur and Pune. They returned with newly minted coins jingling in their pockets. The Harijans and the Mangavadas found enough work there and the Kathodi tribals, the Mahadev Kolis in their grass huts, were all a part of the village community. Break up this society, destroy these homes, abandon these open spaces, to go jostling against each other’s ribs in an alien land?

Jambhli did not sleep that night. Those who managed to snatch a few moments, moaned restlessly while others huddled in their coarse woollen ghongadis and waited for sunrise. The bitter wind whooshed through bamboo clumps and whistled around the trees.

Birds brooded over their fledglings, animals gathered their young closer to them. Road and path drew up their mantle of red earth and lay motionless, still. In Devban, the hunters stalked their prey. The animals deceived them and fled. Through gorge and gully, mountain, forest and stream echoed a warning, ‘Run! Run! We’re under attack! Run, run...’

chapter 2

In the dim glow of her lantern Avadai marched towards the village across the dry bed of the nallah. It was close to amavasaya and the night was black. The monkeys chittered as they jumped from branch to branch. But Avadai was not afraid of them. No, she was not afraid of anything, man, beast or ghost. And yet, when she thought of Haibati, her young son, who had not yet returned from the bazaar, her heart fluttered like the wick of a lantern.

Jadhav basti, where the Jadhav family lands were, was about two kilometres from Jambhli village proper. Lala Jadhav had his wada there. Avadai’s man, the lame Govinda Jadhav, had a share in the property too.