When you can no longer mute their loss of livelihood

Human, After All

The drive from Kochi to Palakkad was a relief because after months of being at home during the lockdown it was good to be out, driving. It was a relief to see the world existed around me just as I had last seen it. That drizzly morning last week, the air was fresh and the roads endless and wide because I was the only one there for miles. I will take the liberty to say, it was bliss.

For once, I didn’t think about how the day would unfold or how I wanted it to. I was just going to enjoy this day which, at this point, felt profound, euphoric and surreal for the reasons above. Little did I know that the drive back would be equally profound, but for very different reasons.

I was going to Ramdampuzha, a tiny village of about 20 families, to see how Covid-19 has affected the livelihoods of people, most of whom here are daily wage workers.

There was Radha, with her two boys – 17 and 11. Her sister, who has mental health challenges, also lives with her. Radha’s husband left her 10 years ago. He was an alcoholic and abusive. Radha is the only one who works, earns about ₹300 a day, doing any work she can get – tapping rubber trees; carrying wood from the plantations in the hills down to the estate; harvesting pineapples when it’s season. There’s been no work for months. The nearest town is 20 kilometres away and there are no buses. They’ve been eating kanji or rice gruel and now it’s running out.

There’s Jomol. When I knock at her door, I hear the sound of water. I walk around to see a furious puzha or river running along the house. The water is clear and pure. Jomol lives there with her elderly grandparents, younger brother and mother. Her father left them when she was three. She’s never heard from him. Her mum, also a daily wage worker, supports this family of five with Rs 6,000 a month if she works 10 hours a day, every single day of the month. The puzha roars. I get a fright. Nights are scary, she tells me. When it rains, the river often floods. There have been countless nights when Jomol, all of 17 years, has had to run out of the house at night to seek shelter with a neighbour. But there’s nowhere else to go. I think of monsoon nights when we order in hot cozy dinners at home; when Jomol is running away from her home for survival.

I could go on about so many others I met. I’ll tell you about one more. Sijo grows rubber. He tells me about the time he planted a thousand rubber trees. Elephants and deer love the sweetness of the latex. Year after year, the animals would come down to his plantation and destroy the trees – 900 of them. Sijo considered suicide. Now, he’s a carpenter. He chose to change his profession rather than harm the animals.

You know, it’s one thing to see reports on your telly of how people have no money to put food on the table and feel sorry for their plight for a minute or two. It’s quite another to actually witness the struggle yourself, not knowing whether you’re just luckier. And wonder whether to be grateful for all that you have or whether you can ever do enough to help.

The drive back to Kochi was as profound as the journey to Palakkad. But for very different reasons.