The Dam-Displaced : Hardship and an Unending Ordeal - S. V. Kolekar

It was evening. The state transport bus, having dropped off its last passenger in Aundha village, disappeared in a cloud of dust. It would have been a surprise if the men gathered on the village , the communal platform, weren't curious about the lone man who had alighted. His gait seemed familiar, so Shankar Mathe called out to him. “O Dhanaji… come here!” Dhanaji climbed the embankment from the side of the road and came towards Shankar, sitting down on the . He washed his face with water from a large earthen pot buried in the ground and drank deeply. Looking at Shankar, he said, “Shankara, you recognized me well! You haven’t forgotten!” Shankar replied, “Dhana, no matter what, we played and grew up together! Friends like that are never forgotten.” “The taste of this water from the pot is still the same.” “No other water can ever match its taste!” “Come, now that you’re here, let’s have tea first and then you can go on,” Shankar insisted. Dhanaji couldn't refuse. They went to a dilapidated, shack-like stall nearby and drank tea from stained steel cups. In the course of their conversation, Shankar remarked, “Dhanaji, this water reminded me… because of this water, the rehabilitation happened, and our entire lower hamlet was displaced to the ghats. Some of our dearest friends left, with stones on their hearts, just to survive. Some made their way to Mumbai, where Annasaheb embraced them. I thought at least one person from your family would stay back, but you all left too…” Cutting him off, Dhanaji said, “Shankara, I thought you all would have forgotten those memories…” After a brief pause, he continued, “In the very first phase of the dam, so much water collected that all the land in our hollow was submerged. My eldest uncle said, ‘Instead of rotting away here, the government is offering rehabilitation. What’s the harm in going there?’ So, we all followed him.” Shankar looked at him and asked, “Where are you staying tonight?” Dhanaji replied, “I haven’t decided yet. The whole village is my own, after all. I’ll spend the night at someone’s place and take the same bus back in the morning.” As he paid for the tea, Shankar said, “You said one thing right—the whole village is your own. But what a wound they inflicted. To quench the thirst of those downstream, they snatched the water from our own mouths.” They left the stall. Shankar insisted on taking Dhanaji to his home. Saying he had come to the village of his ancestors, Dhanaji expressed a wish to first pay his respects at the village Maruti temple and set off. Seeing Dhanaji head down the old road, Shankar shouted, “The Maruti temple is no longer down there! It’s been moved up to the rocky hill. You have to go there. The old Maruti is now underwater. You can still see it, but only in the summer when the water recedes. That’s why we established a new one on the hill.” Dhanaji simply folded his hands in reverence from where he stood and followed Shankar. “Dhanaji, are you all happy over there?” Shankar asked. Dhanaji began his story. “We left with nothing but the clothes on our backs and a few belongings, but the government arrangements were delayed. Somehow, we made it up the ghats. The moment they saw us, the villagers there looked at us the way we used to look at beggars. The lands they showed us were barren; nothing but coarse grass grew there. They said water would come, but the canal channel has been lying there, mouth agape, for years. We were disillusioned, but we had no choice. They gave us a lot of trouble while handing over the land. We are people from the hills; they mock us, calling us ‘Konkani.’ The government babus were always in a hurry to complete the rehabilitation, their only goal to get as many people as possible to accept it. Eventually, we got houses, a school, a water borewell, and electricity, but for our stomachs, we had no option but to find work. We had to go to the city again. There was too little farm work and too many labourers. Many of our people took the bus to Veta or Mumbai and started working for our old village acquaintances.” “Now that our names are on the voter list there, the politicians visit us. The canal gets water, but it only carries down the dried filth and dung from the upper villages. When that water reaches our village, the sluice gates above are closed. All that’s left for our fate is dried filth and dung.” Shankar was stunned. “So you left, but you only jumped from the fire into the frying pan!” he exclaimed. Now it was Shankar’s turn. “Dhanaji, after you left, about twenty or thirty of us from the upper hamlet stayed back. But because we were branded ‘dam-displaced’ and ‘rehabilitation refusers,’ the administration completely neglected us. Every year, a new officer comes and dangles the carrot of ‘rehabilitation within your own district.’ It’s the same old story. Patkarbai came many times to fight for our demands, but the government remains unmoved. Two or three people even committed suicide by drowning in the reservoir, but as they say, when fortune turns against you, even the pillars of your house conspire. We don’t get rations on time, no doctor, no facilities. The school, which used to be up to the seventh grade, is now only up to the fourth. One teacher for the whole school. There’s no proper bus service—one in the morning, one in the evening. Our fertile land went under the dam. Now, we can only grow groundnuts and jowar on the barren hillsides. Fed up with all this, many have gone to Pune or Mumbai to survive. The crowd is large for the annual village festival, but the priest was rehabilitated and moved away. If he doesn’t come, we have to perform the rituals ourselves. The rest of the year, the same dam that quenches everyone’s thirst puts our own lives in jeopardy during the monsoon. The sight of a JCB fills our hearts with dread—more measurements to raise the dam’s height, to store more water. The government has marked new levels. Then Patkarbai comes again, and we make more trips to the government offices. On top of that, the police threaten us, ‘Settle this quickly! We have to come to this godforsaken place for duty because of you!’” “They don’t understand that we are still living under a shadow of fear, and all they care about is their duty. The hamlets on the hills have prospered. Because of the windmill business, they have roads everywhere and good facilities. The bus now goes all the way up. Those same hamlets now laugh at us. The ones who had no option but us twenty years ago have now started their own separate festivals. We, however, are left to wonder what sins of a past life we are paying for.” Their conversation seemed endless. It must have been around eight-thirty at night. After visiting the Maruti temple, they turned back. On the hill above, they saw a truck carrying a gigantic windmill blade. It was stuck on a turn, its wheels spinning uselessly, unable to find purchase, kicking up dust everywhere. Dhanaji couldn't help but ask, “Shankara, how far have these windmills spread?” Shankar replied, “Many powerful people bought the land on the hills for a pittance and set up these windmills. Some of the locals got jobs there. Those who sold their land, once their money ran out, left for Mumbai.” By now, they had reached home. It was time for dinner. Shankar’s two children were already asleep. Dhanaji suddenly remembered something. “Oh, dear! I completely forgot! I brought grapes and pomegranates from the ghats. The children would have eaten them,” he said, quickly taking out the fruit. Shankar’s mother’s eyes widened. “Dhana, you’ve become a landowner with an irrigated farm!” Dhanaji replied sheepishly, “Mother, I work as a bonded farmhand at a landowner’s house. That’s where I brought this from. I, the dam-displaced from here and a drought-affected man over there—how can I become a landowner?” “What do your children do?” Shankar’s mother asked. “One is at the docks in Mumbai, and the other is in the twelfth grade. I’ve married off one daughter in the village of Ghoti down below.” “Then why did you come here?” she asked again. Dhanaji thought for a moment. “My son is of marriageable age. The wedding must happen this year; the stars are changing. After this, there can be no wedding for three years. Most of our relatives are here, so I thought I’d spread the word among them and also make a vow to the village deity, Malai, for my son’s marriage.” At this, Shankar suggested, “Find a match on the ghats and get it done with!” With his head lowered, Dhanaji said, “The people there don’t have the mentality to marry into our families. They treat us with contempt, so marriage is out of the question.” Shankar’s old mother consoled him. “Let it be, child. Don’t grieve so. These days too shall pass. Come, have some food.” Shankar’s wife served a simple, traditional meal. For the first time in ages, Dhanaji ate a vegetable made of moringa leaves. The sight of urad dal and nachni filled him with joy. He ate to his heart’s content that day. That night, the two friends slept on the veranda. It was very cold, but there was no alternative. At the crack of dawn, Shankar’s mother lit a fire outside and placed a large brass pot on it to heat water for everyone’s bath. Dhanaji rose quickly. Today, he had to make his vow to Malai and meet his relatives. After freshening up, Shankar’s mother gave him a cup of jaggery tea, prepared on the glowing embers. It instantly warmed him. By then, Shankar was also ready. They went to the Malai shrine. Dhanaji made his vow: ‘Let my son’s wedding happen this year, and I will come to your festival for the rest of my life.’ By now, the whole village knew that Dhanaji, the dam-displaced, had returned. Everyone was asking questions, comparing their lives: ‘Is this better, or is that better?’ ‘Was the rehabilitation beneficial or a loss?’ Dhanaji found it difficult to compare, but he said, “Friends, this dam craze came, and our lives have been cursed ever since. The life before the dam was much better. To light someone’s hearth, someone else’s must be destroyed. But you can’t dwell on it. Once you are born, you have to cross a mountain of difficulties. Life is life. The government’s interference has made it bearable for some and unbearable for others. That’s the only truth.” Dhanaji met a good number of his relatives. In the afternoon, he started walking towards the village of Badhegaon. There were no buses or other vehicles from there for the rest of the day. As he took his leave, Shankar’s family made him promise to come for the festival. As he walked, he kept looking back. He could see the giant blades of the windmills turning, and it seemed to him as if the vast reservoir to his left was laughing at him. Looking at the dam, Dhanaji thought to himself, Looking up at the sky, Dhanaji said, “God, it is good that you brought this suffering upon our generation. At least our children were not scorched by it; the poor souls would have been crushed. We didn’t accept it then, but now the children have settled. The stamp of ‘dam-displaced’ is on them, but they have accepted it.” With this internal conflict raging within him, Dhanaji reached Badhegaon. The bus was waiting. He was on his way back to his home on the ghats. With a firm resolve to return for the next festival. - S. V. Kolekar  +91 86007 71010 (This article is the translated version of the original Story धरणग्रस्त : परवड अन फरपट  written byS. V. Kolekar published in the Sahitya Chaprak Diwali Ank 2025 )

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