Haradhan Bag Dies. ‘why…?

Haradhan Bag passed away on 11 March by consuming pesticide in a remote village of Singur, called Beraberi, in the district of Hooghly, West Bengal. Haradhan Bag was no minister, no leader, no Nobel laureate, no anything. He was just a farmer of Singur, who had been happily living in peace and moderate comfort with his modest income from a multicrop plot of land in Singur which is[or perhaps I should say was!] known for its remarkably fertile land and innovative patterns of farming, leading to rich yield of varied crops and vegetables throughout the year.

But Haradhan Bag, along with his relatives, friends, neighbours in the zone, was pushed back and fenced off from his own land by barbed wire, because the Bengal government had decided to gift these rich plots of land to a private entrepreneur ( in some secret deal – the terms and conditions of which lack transparency) for manufacturing motor cars; because the government had enforced the decision with compliant armed police, and violent armed CPI(M) cadres. The people offered some genuine resistance but it was too inadequate in the face of the monstrous state apparatus reinforced by an army of pistol-wielding ‘hangman’s horror’ cadres. On 3rd December 2006 the electronic media showed the police coming down upon the villagers in a repeat of the efficient brutality of the British colonial police as shown in Dinabandhu Mitra’s Nīldarpaņ (‘The Indigo Mirror’:1860). A girl, Tapasi Mali, gave lead to small protest gatherings throughout the day; was gangraped in the grey of the following dawn and burnt alive. What accuracy and thoroughness of criminality! Before long tall brick walls came up, encircled by long miles of barbed wire, complete with searchlights, police dogs, and hounds in human form flaunting party ‘collar’. Again what remarkable efficiency in installing these new Gulags!

So Haradhan Bag, or for that matter anybody who continued to be unhappy at the development, was henceforth an ‘outsider’, a ‘rebel’, an ‘antisocial’, ‘undesirable anti-industry element’ to the perception of the ruling Party [Party and Government should be taken to mean the same thing in the case]. From this side of the barbed wire, day after day, he watched what had been his own plot– made fertile, rich, moist, black with the loving care of a lifetime—now lying beaten, mauled, bricklayered. Then one day on the eve of another season of seeding he could not take it any more and killed himself in the small hour of the night to put an end to his endless night.

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The wounds of Nandigram are still raw in our psyche with countless killed, missing, tortured, raped, mauled; even women and children were not spared; the ferocity of the heinous attack upon children reminds one of the ogres, rākşasas of the ancient myths. Since 14 March (three days after Haradhan Bag’s death) Nandigram has emerged as a scarlet emblem for state terrorism (perpetrated by a horrifying combine of police and ruling party cadres who have proved horrifying thoroughness in their criminality) unleashed against poor villagers who had protested against the usurpation of their land by the government, again, in order to gift it, to a foreign entrepreneur this time, for installing a ‘chemical hub’. But the seeds of the desperation of Nandrigram villagers had been already planted in Singur by the monstrous drilling machines of the Tatas– mounted and guarded by CPI(M) government and cadres. It is because Nandigram saw what happened at Singur that they had a foretaste of what was going to happen to them. Haradhan Bag epitomizes this grim tragedy of the farmer turned pauper; so, before we launch on this discussion that Nandigram compels us to face, let us kneel once to spare one drop of tears for that obscure man, and then rise up to ask with all our residual strength—‘Why? Why must this be? What’s the way out?’

The following is the English version of Sãoli Mitra’s article on Haradhan Bag , in Dainik Stateman, a Bengali daily of Kolkata (25-03-07); MS Mitra is a renowned playwright, actor, choreographer; recently she has been the target of official criticism for staging Paśukhāmār, her Bengali adaptation of George Orwell’s Animal Farm, which seems to be strikingly relevant in the context of today’s Bengal ‘Communists’.

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The Grim Battle

Sãoli Mitra

A few youths from the Beraberi area of Singur had sought to stage our play Paśukhāmār. A day in February had been fixed too. But on 4th February trouble erupted in the area again. Driven by a desperate hope of getting back their land the farmers had drawn close to the fence, and they were violently beaten up ‘for the good of the cause’ or ‘the security of the state’. On 13 March I met nearly all those who had to be hospitalized as fallout of this thrashing. That was my first visit to Singur.

Going there I saw those bruised faces,– wrenched by pain. I saw those men and women who, even after losing dear ones, are still determined not to give up their resistance. All political parties have united there to form the ‘Committee for saving agricultural land’. They include Trinamul activists, SUCI workers, former CPI(M) workers, and who not! But today they have been standing shoulder to shoulder in this battle for saving the land. It is precisely such a battle that is the need of the day, a battle in which the sole issue of survival will become clear and pronounced. It is not the issue of winning power to the throne, of capturing the votebank. The problem is that city-based intellectuals as well as political leaders — thanks to a long lack of practice– have nearly forgotten to think about land, the soil, the earth. They have nearly forgotten that the most precious battle is man’s battle for survival. It is the battle for humanity, dignity. The cub of a tiger automatically grows into a tiger, so does the kitten become a cat. But does one become a human just by emerging from a human womb? Perhaps not. One has to ‘become’ man. I have seen the contours of that human face in Singur, for whom the battle is not just for land, but for the dignity of life. Do we have any choice but to stand by them in this battle? ‘We’ mean those who still have a residual longing to stand up with the head held high. Those who have gone to Singur again and again, have been chased by the police, have sought to express solidarity with the women there, told me: ‘Go to Singur yourself. You’ll understand at once.’ Now I have understood what is the meaning of that ‘understanding’.

A cluster of prosperous villages. This kind of prosperity is rare in our villages. Most of the houses are brick-made. Almost every house contains iron gates, barns of rice, cattle in the cowshed. How could one think of shattering this peaceful prosperity to shreds and dust. What kind of persons are they! Why such cheating in the name of ‘development’! Can one do anything he wishes just because he happens to wield state power? Autocracy has done precisely this through ages. It is our misfortune that we had to witness such an autocratic government in Bengal. But symptoms of this autocracy had been glimpsed much earlier. Unpredictable whimsical bandhs for 48 hours, 72 hours. There is no way to take even a dying patient to the hospital. This autocracy and hypocrisy had indeed begun much earlier. Perhaps power enjoyed for thirty years at a stretch has made its expression so naked. Even after witnessing this naked show we, the urbane elite class kept mum; even now many are continuing mum. How can they! Singur did not allow us to keep silent. I have felt so earlier; now after coming here I feel once again the name ‘Singur’ becomes the synonym for protest. It was because Singur had protested that the protest in Nandigram could flare up so quickly. There too the situation is critical. I bow in respect to them who have fought there the battle for dignity at the risk of their lives.

Yesterday Manab Panja, a farmer of Singur, told me, ‘They say this is single-crop land. Is it? Sister, please take a little sample of this soil, have it tested in laboratory, then write in the paper about its rich quality! It is from this land that we meet our expenses throughout the year. What does it not yield? Rice, Jute, betel, vegetables, everything!’ The women roared out from behind, ‘Even yesterday they have again said it is single-crop!’

‘Why does he shout in the Brigade? Why does not he come here and say this is single-crop!’

‘ They have planted cadres here in police trousers to harass women! Shame!’

What bottomless disgust for the rulers! What condemnation! I am amazed to think that those who have perpetually vented their solidarity for the working class,– farmers and workers– have invited this kind of disgust from the people! Then was it the only fault of these people that they had transformed an initially marshy land into high-yielding multi-crop land and thereby enhanced the supply of food to the market; that they had by the sweat of their own brow had established themselves as well-off householders? Must they be again reduced to the ‘have nots’? What is the conspiracy? I fail to understand.

Haradhan Bag , who had been in the front rank of protests from the very beginning, eventually committed suicide. … Last September (25th) his daughter-in-law and granddaughter – of two and a half years—had been arrested; even the kid had a case framed against her name. The kid does not know yet her grandpa has died by consuming poison, a death for which the government is entirely responsibile, a government which was supposed to protect him, his family. … The women gathered round me. A young housewife said, ‘Uncle was a worm-like man.’ My urbane readers, please don’t get it wrong. It is an utterance of great respect. The girl said, ‘As the worm clings to the earth, so did uncle cling to the land. He would spend the whole day, working or lingering around the land.’

Till the other day the strong elderly man used to stand by the fence, staring at his gold-yielding plot. At last when the news came that secret pact too has been signed with Tata, he had perhaps felt there was no chance left any more to get back his loved plot of land. So…

Perhaps the establishment is gloating. It is precisely this aim of crushing the stamina to resist that is being pursued at every level. Coming out of the house we went to a condolence gathering – a few flowers before a small dais. Going there I got the feel that their stamina has been boosted further by this death. They do not have any doubt that this battle will have to be fought with clenched fist till death. Rows and rows of women came to attend, they were raising slogans. Nayantara Dhara, a girl of Gopalnagar, sang a song she herself composed:

When shall we have you back Ma!

They put us behind the bars

They closed in on Ma…

It has been so long since we had our last bowlful of rice

It has been so long since we had our last night of long peaceful slumber

When shall you ever return Ma?

With that one hope

We wait by the roadside

When shall we ever have you back, Ma!

I fear if these people will also be finished off with bullets like Nandigram . We have seen yesterday a country within the country,– villages after villages encircled by barbed wire. Rows and rows of police! Watch tower! As if gearing up for protecting the sovereignty of a country! As soon as we joined the meeting the police force on the other side of the barbed wire began to swell. What degree of cowardice it indicates when battalions of armed police draw in to guard against people like us, common unarmed villagers gathered at a small condolence meeting! I have seen this with my own eyes! As I am writing this I can hear my friend in the next room sending his request through the electronic media, “You come! Come to Nandigram with ambulance and blood. Stand by the people here. Hundreds are killed, injured. There is no medical facility!’ Can we still keep quiet? We apprehend a serious threat to the security of the country itself, if we consider the geographical location of the area that this government has been handing over to multinationals, foreign agencies. Perhaps all this is being done as part of a well-hatched conspiracy. Finally an appeal: Those who are still keeping silent please end your silence and come forward. Please come to take your place by the dying people! After all man means ‘human’! and being ‘human’ involves, doesn’t it, at least a minimal commitment!

[Translation: Rama Kundu]

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This is the first time in the 30 years of Communist misrule that people are coming out in the streets, and joining hands across party lines to voice a protest against ‘man’s inhumanity to man’.

*[These are lines (translated from Bengali) from the poet Sukanta Bhattacharya,

uncle of Buddhadeb Bhattacharya; showing the irony of life, times and politics!]