A Mumbai that belongs to everyone or a Mumbai that belongs to none?

Those who value the city's time-honoured inclusive character can only pray it doesn’t fall prey to the vultures of parochialism

Krishna Kumar Sahu, who cooks for a living, arrived in Mumbai three years ago. The Jaunpur native is already quite weary. He pours his heart out. His words lack the sparkle of his freshly rustled up curry.

“I've always sensed an undercurrent of tension here,” he says. “I am an outsider and am never allowed to forget that. So I don't mix with the locals.” Krishna’s eyes turn moist when you ask him if he feels safe here. He admits that his mother back in UP is worried stiff. “She calls me up every day to enquire about my well-being,” he says.

The story of Sarita Yadav, a housemaid, is pretty much the same. She was brought to the city when it was still Bombay. As a child she shared her mother’s workload. Her lot hasn’t improved while the city has changed beyond recognition. Sarita is a domestic help in an upscale Juhu apartment.

Every day, she takes a B.E.S.T bus to work. She usually chooses to stand even when there are empty seats in the vehicle. Why? “I've had a few bitter experiences in the past. I’ve heard my community being cursed in the local language when I’ve occupied a seat. Why spoil my mornings? I prefer to stand and get off at my stop.”

Krishna and Sarita live on the edge of the city of dreams. Since the 2008 wave of attacks on North Indians, it is difficult to draw these people out of their shells. They do not want to hurt the sentiments of the locals. They have seen what happens when these feelings are exploited by political forces.

The north Indian influx hasn’t slowed down. This state is after all a melting pot. According to the People of India Project Report, Maharashtra has 202 Hindu communities, which constitute over 70 per cent of the state's overall population. Seven distinct Muslim communities account for nearly 8 per cent of the state’s population, while Christians and Protestants add up to 3 per cent.

Though nearly 70 per cent of Maharashtra's population speak the state’s native language, Marathi, the Hindi and Urdu-speaking segments constitute nearly 20 per cent. The remaining 10 per cent of the population speak a range of other languages – Gujarati, Kannada, Tamil, Telugu and Tulu, among others.

Mumbai is a metropolis that no single community can lay exclusive claim to. But sections of the Marathi manoos have other ideas. Says Girish Zarekar, an IT officer from Pune: “This is our land, and nobody should be allowed to step in here if they take away our job opportunities. We have a great history and it's our right to protect and preserve this historic land.”

But not every Marathi-speaking resident shares that sentiment. Cabbie Shailesh Surve says, “I don't feel threatened. I was born in Nasik. I realise that the greater the influx, the better for us." He doesn't feel all migrants are gripped by alienation. “When an outsider first lands here, Mumbai tends to inspire a sense of disorientation,” he says. “But once you surmount that feeling, things ease out for most migrants,” he adds.

Ramesh Singh, part of the Mumabi workforce, migrated from Patna in 2007. “Things may have deteriorated but I don't let fear get the better of me. If you go along with the city's pace and aren't unduly belligerent, you will not even realise that there is a divide.”

Gujarati-speaking Suresh Solanki, who has grown up in Maharashtra, says, “This state has nurtured us. We are proud of it. You can stop new entrants, but you can't boot out people who've lived here ages.”

Solanki does not understand what the fuss is all about. “We've all contributed to making Mumbai what it is. It belongs to us as much as to any other Maharashtrian,” he says. But will groups that thrive on identity politics allow an inclusive Mumbai to retain its essentially cosmopolitan character?

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In the war to save Goa from the avarice of builders and profit-seeking entrepreneurs, the force seems to be on the side of the good guys.

Management Guru Arindam Chaudhuri Dean Business School IIPM

Peaceful resistance, the latter’s only weapon, is making steady inroads

Peaceful is an adjective that is often used to describe laid-back Goa. So an uprising isn’t an act that is quite in keeping with the serene spirit of the tiny coastal state. But what if the uprising happens to be peaceful? Well, then it would be different. It indeed is.

This isn’t about armed Maoists of the Red Corridor, agitating villagers of Niyamgiri Hills or angry farmers up in arms against land acquisition in the boondocks of Uttar Pradesh. In the tourist hotspot of Goa, anger is frequently parlayed into song and even a litany of woes has a lilt all its own.

So, in this sun-kissed, sea-lashed coastal state where life is primed to float into susegad mode at every opportunity, a successful civil society mutiny against the attack of land sharks and their political backers has demonstrated that an all-out war can be waged without resorting to physical violence.

As cineastes attending the 41st International Film Festival of India in Panaji’s Old GMC Heritage Precincts savoured a sampling of world cinema and swigged draught beer – it was, of course, rather difficult to tell what held the greater appeal – a tectonic shift was taking place in Goa. And Dr Oscar Rebello, who was until recently the face of the Goa Bachao Abhiyan (GBA), had reason to rejoice. So did the residents of the villages of Lautolim, Verna, Sancoale and Kerim.

On November 26, the Bombay high court in Goa upheld the state government’s decision to scrap its SEZ policy and quashed the allotment of land to several SEZ promoters by the Goa Industrial Development Corporation (GIDC). This ruling signalled the death-knell of the contentious Regional Plan 2011, which had triggered the Goa Bachao Abhiyan in 2006-2007 with Dr Rebello as its convenor.

GBA received instantaneous support from a cross-section of Goans determined to save their state from being turned into a concrete jungle by greedy builders. “The campaign was propelled by the people. It was purely non-political. We did not want the movement to be hijacked,” says Dr Rebello.

Earlier in November, Goa chief minister Digamber Kamat had, in letter and spirit, also accepted the draft Regional Plan 2021, drawn up by a task force spearheaded by architect Charles Correa, town planning expert Edgar Ribeiro and Dr Rebello. On November 24, a ban on all construction in Eco Zone-I and strict regulation of development in Eco Zone-II, as enunciated by the task force, took effect all across the state, beginning with formal notifications for Pernem and Canacona.
Goa’s most popular musician and singer, Remo Fernandes, lent the power of his voice to the agitation when, at a massive public rally in Panaji’s Azad Maidan in 2006, he strummed his guitar and spewed fire: ‘Hey minister, I see your desire/I see that your loins are on fire/Please don’t violate your mother/Please don’t violate my mother’. The following year, Fernandes turned down a state government award in protest against the Regional Plan 2011 and requested the state to donate the prize money to GBA.

In the end, this was a completely bloodless insurrection. The will of the people triumphed. On his blog, an elated Dr Rebello wrote: “The week that lapsed must be a golden week for Goa. The SEZs were given a decent burial... and the Regional Plan 2021 finally left its womb (unaborted and undeformed) to chart out a brave new path for this innocent little lamb standing for slaughter by the Arabian Sea.”
But no movement in India can be without its share of controversy. Konkani filmmaker Rajendra Talak, whose newest film, O Maria, addresses the question of land ownership, says: “The movement is going in one direction... My case is that development of the state should not stop. But yes, we need sustainable growth.”

Talak emphasises the need for better transportation facilities. “Merely fighting the builders’ mafia won’t do. We must aim for all-round development of the state’s economy,” adds the director whose previous film, Aleesha, dealt with the theme of mining and its long-term impact on Goa.

Accepting that there is bound to be some carping about the road map that RP 2021 has laid out for Goa, Dr Rebello, who quit as the convenor of GBA last year, asserts that “a balance between environmental concerns and economic exigencies is essential for any plan to succeed in the long run”.

Sitting in his clinic in the heart of Panaji Municipal Market, Dr Rebello says: “The Regional Plan 2021 could serve as a model for the rest of the country.” And what a model it would be! It bears testimony to the fact that peaceful resistance can do the trick against corrupt politicians and greedy builders.

Emotions ran high when the Regional Plan 2011 was notified in 2006. The plan went against the wishes of Goans and sought to open prime forest land, ecologically sensitive mangroves and coastal regulation zones to unbridled urbanisation. The people raised their voices and sang angrily in protest. Not a shot was fired, not a stone pelted and not a life lost. Within a year, the government was forced to put its land allotment policies on hold and set up a task force to make recommendations acceptable to the people of the state.

All this happened under the provisions of the 73rd and 74th Amendments of the Indian Constitution, which make it mandatory for any plan of long-term public import to be circulated among the people for their endorsement before being adopted and implemented.

In RP 2021, the wishes of the people have been incorporated. “Every square inch of the Goan landmass, down to the last detail, has been mapped. Every hill, valley, forest, water body, paddy field, orchard, road and mine has been put on the map to prevent manipulation. Any violation can now be detected and severely punished,” says Dr Rebello.

The new plan envisages the creation of alternate economic thrust areas connected by road and rail links. As Dr Rebello puts it, “People need jobs to survive. They can’t surely sustain themselves on love, fresh air and moribund economic theories...”
Congress MP from Goa, Shantaram Naik, has since met Union commerce minister Anand Sharma and sought denotification of the three SEZs against which the Bombay high court has ruled – one each in Verna (24 lakh sq meters), Sancoale (2 lakh sq meters) and Kerim (12 lakh sq meters).

Addressing a rally, Remo Fernandes had once said with characteristic eloquence: “Everyone comes to Goa. They fall in love with Goa. They want to buy Goa.” But Goa isn’t for sale anymore.

So is the battle to save Goa finally over? Yes. But the war isn’t. Just a year shy of the 50th anniversary of its liberation from the Portuguese, Goa is seeking freedom from those who, given half a chance, would happily sell the state. It is easy to see why politicians are such a hated lot here.

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India 2001-2010 resurrection Bihar: Freedom from fear

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Central Bihar, once a theatre of bitter caste conflict, has given way to an oasis of peace as the forces that fought for supremacy have been tamed by changing social equations

As the month of November reaches its last leg, autumn is on the wane. In an expanse of spent fields, the only consistent voice is that of jackals. A perfect setting for a rural murder mystery. And me and my photographer friend don't want to play the victim. We want to leave Jahanabad district as soon as possible.

Somewhere down the road, half a dozen-odd flashlights blind our driver and our car comes to a screeching halt. In the dark, we clearly see a few shadows advancing towards us. Is this the end? I ask myself. The mind runs fast. Depending upon which sena (private army) it is, I'll have to preempt and concoct my surname. As the figures draw near, I contemplate. Should I say I am a Sharma or Yadav. Sitting merely ten inches from me, my photographer must be going through the same dilemma, I assume. Any sensible man would. “Where are you coming from?” asks the apparent leader, apparent because of his tone and demeanor. “From Senari,” my voice somehow escapes my throat. A sudden melee ensues. Amid a babel of several central and north Bihar dialects, I finally notice the Gypsy that reads Bihar Police, and relax.
We are asked to get down. Our car is thoroughly searched. Our photographer, clearly insulted by the action of what he insists a “lowly officer”, grumbles. “You are passing from Kurtha and coming from Senari; we need to search,” assures Sub-Inspector Sanjeev Bhushan. Then, almost as an afterthought, he adds, “You people are roaming freely with such costly equipment and have not been mugged or chopped off yet in these region. I think you need to give credit to us.” We leave with my friend nursing his little ego.

Sanjeev epitomises the administrative reforms in the state. He is the reason why Bihar and 'change' are not mutually exclusive words. He is guaranteeing the security of our equipment at a place were merely a decade ago, no one would have guaranteed our life. The place where we were standing had seen uncountable bloodbaths. When the human being turns into a number, guarantees cease to exist.
Let's make a detour. Wind the time machine. This is March 18, 1999, and we are standing in the same Senari village whose mere mention had elicited a thorough search of our vehicle just minutes ago. It is seven in the evening. After completion of a year in office, Prime Minister Atal Bihari Vajpayee has just concluded his address to the nation. People were discussing the natty-gritty of the speech as a group of men wearing police uniform barge in. They are apparently looking for some of the recruits of 'Ranvir Sena', a private army that claims to protect the interests of the upper caste Bhumihar community. The men in uniform ask villagers to gather at the primary school building just outside the settlement. They are also told that the SP himself has come to take the identification parade.

Unaware of the impending danger, people of all castes gather at the building. Suddenly scores of Naxals emerge from the adjoining fields and encircle the villagers. They ask everyone except Bhumihars to leave. They are tied up by their hands and feet as the 'rippers' swing into action. Suresh Sharma, 26, first sees one of his uncles and a cousin being ripped at the throat and later the abdomen. Suresh sees a burst of blood and faints. He regains consciousness briefly when a sharp weapon touches his throat and a warm stream of his own blood drenches his face. He passes out again.
A good 75 hour later when he regain consciousness at Gaya Medical College, two of his uncles, five cousins, two nephews and 34 other villagers have already been cremated. Suresh recalls, “I was unable to decide whether to celebrate my life or mourn the deaths of family members. A few days later, when I could move, every villager I saw had his head shaven. Everyone had lost a relative.”

After ripping his throat, the Naxals ripped open Suresh's abdomen as well and left him for dead. He was somehow saved. The macabre dance of death played out for two hours. But a lot of people managed to survive.

A few kilometers away is Mianpur. This village witnessed another massacre. This time by Bhumihars on June 16, 2000. In the indiscriminate firing, 35 bodies of Dalits and backwards fell, many of them women and children. Senari and Mianpur were but numbers in the scores of massacres that became routine in central Bihar.

It all started in the 1980s. A mix of private armies and Naxal outfits came into being. Sunlight Sena, Lorik Sena, Ranvir Sena, PWG and MCC became custodians of their respective caste groups. The caste wars were a fight for dominance in the region. It was a free for all. It was difficult to tell who was pitted against whom.

For example, in Patna district, backward classes like Yadavs and Kurmis were taking on Paswans, Musahars and other Dalits (in 1977, at Belchi, the OBC private army killed 14 Dalits). In adjoining Jahanabad, Yadavs were fighting with Bhumihars (in 1980, at Parasbigha, Bhumihar goons killed 14 Yadavs whereas the Yadavs retaliated with killings in Dohia). In fact, in Jahanabad and adjoining Aurangabad, the fight had upper castes, OBCs and Dalits gunning for each other (in 1987, at Dalel Chak Baghaura, OBC goons killed 52 Rajputs whereas at Nonhi Nagwan in 1989, Yadavs slayed 18 Kurmis and Dalits). Even in Bhojpur, the heartland of the Ranvir Sena, the pattern was the same. Every caste was at the receiving end and every caste had perpetrators.

The rationale behind the massacres were both social and economic. To understand this, one needs to understand the social hierarchy of a typical Bihar village. The three tier set-up had Bhumihars, Rajputs and Brahmins on top. The middle-rung castes, or the backwards, primarily consisted of artisans such as Luhars (ironsmiths), Kumhars (potters), Nais (barbers), badhais (carpenters) and others. At the lowest rung were agrarian labourer castes such as Musahars, Dusadhs, Tatmas and sometimes Jatavs.

Agriculture was a binding factor among these three strata. But the advent of machinery and new techniques led to less dependency on labour intensive activities. This led to massive migration among the second and third categories. While the dependency of upper castes on artisans and labourers decreased, the inflow of money from cities made these two categories a bit more financially independent. Now these castes were no more completely dependent on agriculture and allied activities. But the group that bore the brunt were Yadavs, Kurmis and Koeris. These intermediary castes were agrarian in nature but were not landowners as such. They did share-cropping and thus depended both on the upper castes and the labourers.

The system was in place and the labourer castes maintained the hierarchy. While Brahmins were venerated, Bhumihars and Rajputs continued to dominate because of money and muscle power. But even this arrangement was fast approaching its expiry date. Needless to say, upper castes indulged in unspeakable atrocities and harassment. But their economic status was diminishing because of overall fall in income from agriculture and allied activities. Whereas backward castes had grown financially sound. The gap had diminished. Tensions boiled over.

“The people who suffered the most from caste violence were agrarian labourers. They were not in a position to counter the dominance of the upper castes, or the backward castes, and never attempted to disturb the arrangement. However, they were targetted by both. Backward castes and Naxals used agrarian labourers, mostly Dusadhs and Musahars, as shields in their fight against the upper castes,” explains Prof Ramakant Thakur, a keen watcher of caste violence and dynamism in Bihar.
But things have changed. No major massacre has occurred since the Mianpur incident of 2000. But what has changed?

The fight was between upper castes and backwards. The latter used Dalits to attack the former by disturbing the social arrangement and exploiting the Dalit anger against the upper castes. However, the emboldened and financially independent backward castes started dominating and harassing Dalits. This did not go down well with Dalits and they started leaving the rank and file. It sapped the blood and iron out of the movement. On the other hand, private armies were mostly individual-centric and thus lost their bearings when their respective leaders were either arrested or gunned down.

“The major factor with Dalits was their aspiration to climb the social hierarchy, and that was achieved with economic independence. It took the steam out of the movement. And, ironically, migration was a moderating factor as youngsters started leaving state in droves,” concludes Thakur. Yadavs got new opportunity in contracts and other businesses thanks to the Lalu-Rabri regime and lost their motivation too. However, the biggest boost to the process was that fewer politicians were willing to side with one group or another. All's well that ends well.

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