Reporter’s Notebook: How much would you sell your Mother for?

Traumatised yet undefeated, locals at Kalinganagar spend sleepless nights sitting outside their homes, protecting their land from greedy eyes of Tata goons 
Priyanka Borpujari Kalinganagar

It is 6am on June 21 and she has just finished sweeping the floor. She offers me a cup of strong tea as we sit under the shade of a large tree, we talk about food. Soon, she will have to run to the fields - not to work, but to see the huge bulldozers coming in and leveling her land. The previous day was a rather relaxed one for everyone as it was a Sunday

While talking about food, McDonald figured in the discussion. Every outlet, at least in the Indian cities, has a four-foot tall bin to throw the waste food. Despite having a refrigerator, almost every urban household throws food into the bin. I tell her this, and she is shocked, but a moment later explains this phenomenon to me. 

"I know why people in the city do this. It is because they do not grow their own food. They just buy it. We farmers tend to every plant that we grow on our fields. It would be an exaggeration if I said that this is the reason why we relish our food. But yes, because we have slogged ourselves while growing it, we can never throw it. But it seems like people in the cities eat steel and money," she laughs. 

There are no words or arguments to defend what she accused the urban folk of. Before I could conjure up some more words, she touched the ground and added, "This land is my mother. She has given me food, water and clean air. When I die, she will take me back into her womb. Tell me, would you be willing to sell this mother? And if so, then at what price? 

Each time an officer comes in a big car to convince us to give up our land, we ask him the same question. He has no reply. But we help him with an answer: "Let us know the price at which you will sell your mother. We will then think about the price you can quote.  As far as we are concerned, we will not sell our mother." 

The government says that these steel plants are being made for our development. Forget jobs, not even a needle will come to us from these plants! Do they think humans can survive on iron and steel? Perhaps they can! After all aren't the city folk always hungry for money?" I lower my head upon hearing the stark truth.

 I try to change the topic and ask her about the movement. She says that earlier people would be scared upon seeing a policeman. "Ever since the crossfire on January 2, 2006 took place, we have never retreated. We now look at the cops as pieces of dirt. God has given us that strength to fight back. After all aren't we fighting for our God?" 

I realise that I too need to find a place from where I could file reports about all that I see, hear, smell and feel. But when I propose this idea to Rabi, he is defiant. "The cops come to level the fields from 8am to 12 noon. You just cannot go in front of them. The goons are drunk and the cops will catch you and label you a Maoist." 

I argue with him that I need to see for myself what is happening, but he explains patiently. "See, you need to walk a minimum of 3km to the main road to take a bus to Jajpur Road, where you will find cyber cafes. But you cannot go there, it is not safe. Some of our young boys have gone there, but they have not returned. What do you do when there are cops all over?" 

Around 12 noon, I begin to walk towards the main road. I revel in the cool breeze thanks to an early morning shower, while the green grass on either side of the rough patch of road makes me want to lie down and look up at the clouds. But the euphoria comes to a sudden halt when I see three men carrying bows and arrows, sitting under a tree.