An Unlikely Encounter -
An account of my visit to Dausa, Rajasthan
I boarded a train to Dausa, Rajasthan as an inexperienced researcher looking to survey farmers on the use of a highly hazardous pesticide. The train got there before 5 in the morning and as I groggily made my way to my hotel I don’t remember being impressed. Dausa lit by the first rays of the sun, however, was a whole different story. Its air was crisp, its sky a vivid blue that you expect to see as you head away from the city but are still left astounded by. My budget hotel room had an uplifting view of a nearby hillock and the surrounding greenery. The brilliant green foliage hid the fact that the water sources in the region are drying up, and that the farm yields have fallen to half of what they were a decade ago.
Ramavtar Sharma, the first farmer I interviewed, is as hard to pin down as Dausa was. The scrawny 26-year-old has a degree in agriculture, and two children — Jayshree and Piyu, who go to school during the day and cavort, like wildlings, on the family farm once they get back home. Though he has been doing it for the last eight years, farming wasn’t the first choice for Ramavtar. After graduating, he spent some years preparing for government exams, which he couldn’t pass. When he did take to farming, Ramavtar did so with an unmistakable zeal. He was one of the first in his village to take up drip irrigation. Today, he experiments with organic farming and new hybrid varieties. These efforts are being recognised by the local agriculture extension officers and researchers, who give him special attention.
Ramavtar is my father’s namesake, and this was one of the first things I said to him, but he didn’t seem especially interested. He was more concerned with his last name. He made sure that I wrote down his full name — Ramavtar Sharma — in my notebook, and I did, even though I had planned to only take first names for the survey. He is proud of his brahminhood and he wears a shikha, a tuft of hair at the back of his head so there is no mistaking who he is, or more importantly, what he is. He never steps into restaurants that serve meat since he believes that just being in the presence of impure things (and people) is enough to “pollute” one’s soul. He dislikes the reservation policy and the Meenas, a Scheduled Tribe community that makes up half his village. He believes that Hindus are endangered in India today, especially in Rajasthan which is ruled by the Congress. He believes in Narendra Modi.
Ramavtar’s strong convictions extend to farming practices. He believes that chemical fertilisers are the bane of farming today, and that if things go on as usual, the land in the region will be uncultivable within 15 years. He told me he plans to shift entirely to organic farming within six years. I think that his plan is brave, maybe too much so. With the drying of the nearby canal and retreating water tables, termites threaten crops in the region like never before and have made chemical pesticides a necessity. Ramavtar told me that a fifth of the people in his village have sold their land in the last decade. A part of it is still cultivated, but the plots close to the road have been turned into commercial establishments catering to highway traffic.
As he led me to a nearby village to survey other farmers, Ramavtar pointed out bunds that are used to store rainwater. A government scheme gives farmers a capital grant of 80% of the cost to build these bunds. Ramavtar has one on his farm, and he supports other farmers in enrolling for the scheme. He also helps train them in organic farming, partnering with a grassroots organisation. I asked Ramavtar about the largest hardship he has faced in his years farming. He was reticent at first; he said, “Hardships are a part of life and we have to persevere.” When I pressed on he admitted that the last six years have been hard on everyone in the village. With the drying up of water sources, the fluoride concentration in the groundwater has increased dangerously. It has caused the farm yields to plummet and is behind a variety of ailments ranging from yellowing teeth to joint pain.
I write this as I head back to Delhi, by way of Jaipur, in an AC chair car. Dausa already seems distant, and being reduced to a few adjectives probably doesn’t do it justice. I am sure Ramavtar would feel the same about his description, should he get to read this. To be fair, the lasting image of Ramavtar that remains with me is not that of his shikha, the symbol of his brahmin pride, nor is it the gleam in his eyes when he talks about progressive farming practices. The image I carry with me, back to Delhi, back to an office life of 9.30 to 5.30 and two chais at the same times every day, is one of Ramavtar talking about the future.
Before we parted ways, I had asked Ramavtar about his hopes for the future. What did he wish to achieve with his organic farming and watershed development? Did he hope to get back to the way things were before the water sources dried up? A brief look of solemn reflection came to his face as he answered in the negative. The look seemed alien on a face that was used to registering mostly enthusiasm and earnestness, and occasional playfulness. Gravely, Ramavtar told me that the best they could hope for was to safeguard what they had left. This is the nagging image in my head — not Ramavtar, the proud man and progressive farmer; not Ramavtar, who could talk for days and not get tired; but Ramavtar, who, behind his pasted-on smile, stops himself from dreaming of better days, so used is he to disappointment.
