The Hindu Business Line : He spreads happiness around

Visiting Nagpur after more than 10 years, the city had a big surprise. No longer a shabby town but a beautifully laid-out big city, it has broad tree-lined avenues, well-paved lanes, lovely houses and super bazaars. With good roads to drive on and footpaths where you can walk comfortably, it has the look of a rich city. Chandrasekhar, Commissioner of the City Corporation, who has made this new Nagpur possible, is a man with a mission. He must have surely used a magic wand!

One wishes the memories were just of the friendly people of a nice city. But it was not to be.

One evening, Venktesh, our nephew who is a chartered accountant, said, "Anyone for a long drive? I will take you to my farm and show you a bit of the other Vidarbha."

About 20 km from the city, his five-acre farm greeted us. The lush wheat crop was indeed a pleasant sight. In the farmhouse were spread out yards of red chillies and pulses ready to be sent to the market. After a walk around the farm, we were treated to fresh oranges and a delicious hot cup of tea. As we were driving back home after a pleasant evening, Venktesh said: "It should be a good wheat crop; just a week to harvest." But it was not to be. In the hot and humid Nagpur, that night there was a sudden downpour. Newspapers next morning wrote about the `welcome rain' and how the city would be cool for a couple of days. A last line said the rain might have damaged the standing crops.

When I saw Venktesh a little later, his look confirmed what I feared: `There goes my wheat crop'. He added a thoughtful interlude, "Well, the farm is not my bread and butter; it is just a passionate pastime but think of all those small farmers. So much of work put into a crop for which you have already borrowed money. Well, this is Vidarbha for you. Don't be surprised if you hear of farmers' suicide tomorrow."

As I battled with disturbing thoughts on the numerous farmers' deaths in Vidarbha, Suresh Chari, a scientist and devoted Rotarian, suggested that I meet Anand Pandurang Sovani. "He is a one-man army. His main aim is to help those farmers deal with such tragedies."

At Sovani's flat, we find him clad in kurta/pyjama. As he speaks in Marathi, it's good to have Suresh with me. On the table in front of him is spread a whole lot of files containing newspaper clippings, revenue records and his own notes about the poor farmers' plight.

To him I am a journalist who has come to collect data. Holding a diary in his hand, and with no preliminaries he gets straight to the facts. "Do you want to know the number who have committed suicide? According to my own data, it's 839. This, mind you, is in the last two years. The number could be more. We are a system known to hide facts."

The figure is staggering, disturbing... but we tell Sovani that we need to understand from him the humane aspect of this huge tragedy that confronts the country.

Do we really care? Weighing the question, Sovani is silent for a while but his eyes soften.

"I retired from the State Bank of India four years ago on a pension of Rs 4,000. Our unions were fighting for better privileges and my pension has doubled. Looking around I consider myself fortunate. Money to buy a small flat came through the bank; yes, SBI took care of me... But look at our farmers who give us our daily bread, particularly those whose landholding is less than 10 acres; mostly dry in this region. They have no income security and credit to them is a major problem. Interest rates are as high as 120 per cent. They cannot borrow from banks, for they cannot fulfil the security requirements. Their land has already been mortgaged to local moneylenders."

He adds that government subsidies are grabbed by the middlemen who exploit the illiterate farmers. Depleting groundwater, huge loans at atrocious interest rates and erratic power supply oppress the farmers. They cannot go back to their old farming methods, for, there is no one to help repair their old tools; the village blacksmith, the cobbler, the carpenter have all disappeared or perished. The young have gone away to the towns in search of any jobs that can ensure a decent meal.

Sovani poses a question. "If I could get a pension, why not these poor farmers? Has the government thought of any pension schemes for them?" Trapped in the midst of moneylenders, middlemen, local bigwigs and power/money seeking politicians what is the life of a farmer? Do the budgetary allocations really reach the small farmers?

"Once upon a time in this cotton-rich land there was a ready buyer at the door of the farmer," Sovani recounts the time when England was in India. "There was a train every week from Vidarbha to Mumbai. The train had five compartments — four for cotton and only one for passengers. The Mumbai merchants readily paid the market price and transported the cotton. The train travelled to Mumbai city, where I am told, there still exists a station called Green Cotton. And from there the cotton was shipped to Manchester!"

Now the small farmer growing cotton has to wait for days in front of the dealer. With no money to sustain him, he parts with his produce for a sum the merchant fixes. And by the time he reaches the village, the moneylenders are waiting...

He returns empty-handed to a home where the sons have left and where the daughters, if any, pose a big problem. If married, in most cases they are sent back, for want of a good dowry. If not married, they pose a bigger worry. Sovani tells us the story of a farmer who fixed his daughter's wedding, but committed suicide just 10 days before the marriage as he could not raise the dowry amount fixed.

A haunting story; of farmers born in debt, living in debt, and dying in debt.

The village moneylender, also a dealer in seeds, manure and pesticides, is totally unconcerned. His seeds are produced by multinationals and unsuited for our soil, says Sovani. His manure and pesticides are adulterated. For all you know, he adds, it is perhaps the same pesticide that kills the farmer both on land and in life.

Sovani carries a diary with the names and addresses of farmers who committed suicide, and the kith and kin they've left behind. Do you know why he keeps these addresses? He does this because he sends Rs 500 to each victim's house. And, he has done more. Constantly talking to his friends about the dire plight of farmers, he now has a group of 18 sending Rs 500 to 18 families. His first name is Anand, and sure enough he is spreading happiness around. Meeting Sovani was a great experience; the impression he has left on me is a life-long guidance: Ask not what others have done; do what you can.

His happiness is the little notes the postman brings from the families of the dead farmers.

Wish there could be more Sovanis in our country!

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