A fresh start for Singur...

The monsoon has filled up ponds in Singur, and coloured the paddy fields green. Flowers of the Kash (a grass species native to the subcontinent) sway in the breeze. At the Mansa Mata club in Dobandi village, a pandal is being built with magenta and white and pink cloth. Durga Puja is returning to Singur after a gap of at least six years. There is talk that some of the pandals will be modelled like the Supreme Court building to honour its verdict favouring the locals. (On August 31, the apex court quashed the allotment of 1,000 acres by the former CPI(M)-led government to Tata Motors in 2006 for building a Nano car plant.)

On September 14, Chief Minister Mamata Banerjee started handing back the land to more than 9,000 Singur farmers. “Some villages had declared that they will celebrate Durga Puja only after getting their land back,” says one of the men working on the pandal. This village had seen starvation deaths after the acquisition.

An empty watchtower borders the Tata Motors fence, a remnant from the days the plant was surrounded by security — private and the West Bengal police force.

A group of young men chat in front of a shop selling snacks in Dobandi. “It is good that the land has been returned to villagers, but who among us wants to farm? We’d rather get jobs in cities,” says a young man in a grey checked shirt and lungi, reflecting the mixed feelings in Singur over the returned land.

After the initial euphoria over the judgement, discussions now centre on the future. Several young men from industrial training institutes had joined a training programme under Tata in 2006 as apprentices. They have since moved to nearby cities like Durgapur and Kolkata. “But my children are not educated enough to get jobs in factories or cities,” says farmer Nemai Das, citing a supposed declaration by Tata Motors that only those who scored high in its entry exam would be given jobs. “They will get menial jobs in cities and factories. Isn’t it better to hold on to our land, our source of food and income, and remain free?”

At the Manna household in Beraberi village, the mood is quietly jubilant. “It’s been a long fight and the verdict was a vindication,” says Krishnachandra Manna. “I am 80 now, my life is ebbing. But I derive consolation from the fact that at least my children and grandchildren will get something. That we were able to leave them something for a better future.” The Manna house has two floors and is bigger than most in the area. The second-floor terrace has a wall with a huge colourful fresco of a ship. Krishnachandra’s wife Alochhaya talks about the days when the Singur movement was at its peak. “They terrorised us, they beat up my son. He still has problems with his neck and spine,” says the 72-year-old. The field in front of their house was used for making bombs. “Now it has a Swachh Bharat toilet,” Alochhaya says with a laugh. “We will keep our land. Those who don’t want to farm, and would rather work in cities, are not likely to,” she adds.

The Mannas say people will have to match their land deeds with the government records to ensure they are not being duped. “Officials are saying they may have lost some land deeds,” says Alochhaya. “They said ‘come back later’, which basically means they want… you know...” she breaks off, gesturing with her thumb and forefinger to indicate money.

A large population of wage-labourers and sharecroppers — mostly belonging to the Scheduled Castes — who depended on the land for their livelihood, are anxious about their fate. All the families in Dobandi village, located adjacent to the factory site, are landless and completely dependent on sharecropping income from other’s lands. After the takeover 10 years ago, many worked as labourers for low wages. Anima Das, a Dobandi resident, doesn’t show enthusiasm for the verdict. She was devastated by the takeover as she had earlier been earning a decent living from sharecropping paddy, potatoes, and vegetables. After the land acquisition, her son was forced to become a daily labourer. “The monthly dole from the government was not enough,” says Das, referring to the ₹2,000 allowance and 16 kg rice given by the State. “I had to find work elsewhere, get up at 4 am and walk two-and-a-half hours every day. I have five people in my family. We could not eat. We could not educate our children properly. What compensation can they offer for ruining our lives?”

A group of men in gumboots take a break at a temple in Baraberi village, under the watchful eyes of a row of idols of Kartik, a Hindu god of war and victory. “We are cleaning the land, marking boundaries with pegs and ribbon, getting the land ready to be handed back to individuals,” says Rodi Boli. “We demarcate the boundaries according to the maps and deeds that are with the BLRO (block land revenue office).” They are clearing out the thick overgrowth at the factory; their full gear — gumboots, gloves and caps — are meant to protect them from snakebites in the abandoned grounds. Boli says they had even hired a snake-catcher. About 300 people have been engaged for the job under the 100 days’ NREGA job scheme.

After lunch in Bajemelia village, made up of clusters of mud huts and ponds, women scrub dishes at water pumps. At the New Ujjwal Sangha club, a long vertical banner of Mamata Banerjee and TMC legislator Becharam Manna flaps in the wind. The club was a hub of the movement against land acquisition. It was raided many times by the police in search of weapons and crude bombs. Bordering a field adjacent to the club, are two copper-coloured busts of Tapasi Malik and Rajkumar Bhul. The latter was killed in September 2006 when he jumped into a pond to escape the police. Malik, a member of the Save Singur Farmland Committee, was raped and murdered in December 2006. The 18-year-old’s charred body was recovered from a field adjacent to the Tata Motors’ project site, galvanising the protests against the factory.

A stone’s throw away from the busts, Malik’s mother Malina collects water at a hand pump. “My husband’s gone out,” she says in clipped tones, not looking up. A man walking by with a cycle stops. “Please leave,” he says tersely. ‘Why are you bothering us?”

The villages of Beraberi, Bajemelia, Khaserbheri, and Gopalnagar were hubs of the anti-acquisition movement. The landless labourers of Bajemelia say they were handed a raw deal even though they had powered the movement. “This is the work we will continue to do,” says one woman, pointing at the dishes piled up by the pump, waiting to be cleaned.

A 10-minute walk leads to Gopalnagar, where row upon row of two-storey, concrete houses make it appear like an urban area. Young people walk by, nattily dressed, some wearing tony glasses, and with backpacks. Houses have electricity. Television antennae are visible. “People are educated here,” says resident Krishna Ghosh. “They have jobs in Kolkata or the nearby towns.” Those who gave up their land had a substitute income from a city job, he explains, whereas those who were dependent on agriculture surrendered under duress. Several of the protesting landowners even refused to collect the compensation cheques offered by the government. Today, people who were unwilling to give up their land are ready to hand it over on the condition that they get a good price.

Those who want to return to farming are wondering about the time and resources that would be needed to make the land cultivable again. Fly ash and sand dumped at the site to raise the ground level have to be scooped out. Compounding the problem is the confusion over how the Tata Motors structures like factory sheds and offices would be dismantled before securing the land. But the Mannas are optimistic that this barren tract holds the promise of a better future. They repeat CM Banerjee’s claim to return the land in cultivable form. “ Chaash shob shomoy hobey (farming will always go on),” says Krishnachandra. “ Shilper ayu kom, chaasher ayu beshi (industry has a short lifespan, farming longer),” is how he sums up the ‘victory’.

Anuradha Sengupta is a Kolkata-based freelance journalist and founder-editor of Jalebi Ink, a media collective for children and youth

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