In Kolhapur’s cane fields: a bitter harvest

Someshwar Eknath Salgar has bathed and is now seated outside his tent, combing his damp hair in the mild November sun. It’s a brief moment of leisure – his day will start at 4 a.m. and end 12-13 hours later.

Someshwar is a phadkari (sugarcane cutter) and is among the hundreds of labourers and their families who have arrived in Kolhapur looking for work in the many sugar factories here. At the Warna sugar factory in Pargaon Bhadole of Kolhapur district, entire families have set up tents where they will stay for the next four to five months, cutting cane.

Most of them have travelled from the drought-prone areas such as Beed in Marathwada. Someshwar bhau has come with his family from Mungi in Beed district. It took them three days to cover the 650 kilometres to reach Kolhapur district – an area with maximum concentration of cane crop.

“My wife, Parimala and our three sons are with us. Pramod, Vinod and Dasrath,” he says. A tractor-trolley brought them along with their belongings and essentials. Inside the tent are stacked sacks of grain and a gas cylinder.

“We came with the mukadam [labour contractor] who gave one and half lakh [rupees] advance for every koyta [couple],” Someshwar bhau tells PARI. He has already spent Rs. 25,000 on diesel and maintenance of the tractor trolley.

“We will cut the sugarcane and pay back the advance [with our wages]. If not this year, then the next,” he says. “We work for more than 12-13 hours per day. Men and women, both cut sugarcane, take out the leaves and put it in the trollies, “adds Someshwar bhau. The sugarcane cutters will be paid Rs. 273 for a tonne.

“Lai bekar kaam ahe he [it’s horrible work]. [But] the money comes only with sheer hard labour.”

Parimala has a double burden and her day is even longer as she must both work in the fields, and also manage the household with no power supply, scarce water and no toilets. “My day starts at 3 in the morning and ends at 10 in the night,” she says, heating water outside the tent. Parimala tai has had a nagging backache all day, but cannot afford to take a break from work. “We eat when we work,” she says.

The Salgar family from Beed are forced to come as there is not enough rainfall to subsist on agriculture.

Over 79 lakh people (Census 2011) migrate in Maharashtra – the highest number for any state in the country. Every year around 8-10 lakh migrants work in sugarcane fields surviving bitter cold, lack of water and sanitation facilities.

They live in tents made of tarpaulin sheets, bamboo and plastic, for which they pay a rent of Rs. 1,000 a month. The space is a tight fit for the family of five.

In the neighbouring tent, the family of Maruti Kendre and his wife Sindhu have arrived here from Waka in Parali block of Beed district. Their four children all under the age of six – Payal, Prem, Rani and Balaji – have come with them.

“We have four acres of land in our village. We get bajra and cotton. Enough for the household,” Sindhu says. Like Someshwar’s family, Maruti and Sindhu are also Vanjari, listed as Nomadic Tribe in the state. “We are here with a mukadam [contractor] from who we have taken four lakh [rupees] as advance,” she says. Sindhu is very clear that they will not be able to pay it back this year. “Amchyane phedana hot nahi [We are trapped in this cycle of debt],” she adds, bitter at the wealthy contractor to whom they are indebted.

Six-year-old Payal is sweeping the ground in front of the tent. She is wearing the uniform of her school – the Yashraj Public School in Sirsala. “Majhi shala sutali [I am out of school],” she says. With no one to look after her in the village, she has come here with her parents. Her father, Maruti, says that two of his children are enrolled in a private school as there is no government school near their village. “We paid 40,000 rupees as fees for both,” says the father.

“In our school, they teach us poems and give us chocolates and cake,” Payal shares her fond memories of the school. But migrating for upto six months a year every year makes completing even primary school (Class 1-4) an immense challenge.

Most of the families who come in search of this work are from drought-prone areas of Marathwada, and neighbouring regions. Their children have to drop out of school as they join their parents.

Falling yields and pressure on ancestral land leaves small farmers like Bandu Bangar from Tarnali in Kej block with no other option. Seated under a tree with his young daughter Bandu says, “we are a joint family and together own five acres of land. We get only one crop of bajra. It is not viable as even input costs are not recovered from the yield.”

Most of the family work on construction sites for daily wages of Rs. 500. “We have to work so that the hearth stays warm,” adds Bandu.

At the sugar factory here in Kolhapur, “we start early, at 4 in the wee hours. We eat the leftover bhakri and start work. There is no fixed timing,” he says. “Putting the bundles of cane in the trolley is a daunting task. The steps on the ramp are uneven. My mother has hurt herself badly while doing this,” he adds.

But there is no option as Bandu and his wife, alongwith two other couples, have to pay back a combined advance of Rs. seven lakhs. “If we are unable to pay back, the moneylender starts counting,” he says. If the family fail to repay the loan, the debt is pushed over to the next year, trapping them in another exploitative cycle. The interest charged by private moneylenders is an exorbitant 3 to 5 per cent every month, which works out to 36 to 60 per cent annually. But Bandu says they have no option, so people have to go to them when in need.

Evening has set in and there is a chill in the air, but children are hard at work, cutting the cane stalks that can be sold for fodder. Bandu’s children, Vijay and Ajay are helping tie the bundles of sugarcane, and the ends. One bundle has 10 ends and a stack of 25 bundles fetches 100 rupees. These end parts are used as fodder for cattle.

“I am in fifth and Vijay is in Class three,” Ajay tells me. Both of them are students of the Ahilyadevi Ahram School at Tarnali. “I didn’t go to school this year,” he says. “The teachers at the school will put me in the next class. I can read and count all tables till 10.” He feels Vijay won’t be lucky as he can only read table for 11. “He won’t go to class 4.”

“Our school is a big bungalow. They give us four meals a day. We also get books and notebooks,” Vijay says. Ajay’s sister Swati is in Class 7. But she no longer goes to school. “She has come with us to karkhana,” he says. Bandu, his father is listening to our conversation. “Shall we feed the family by cutting cane or spend on children’s school? Three generations in my family have worked as cane cutters. The government should look at our hardships.”

Adivasi labourers suffer the most – they have both low reading abilities and low financial literacy. Few have land in their village, and must rely on agricultural work like weeding in their fields of others.

After much hesitation, migrant worker Kamalesh Ramsing Raotade agrees to speak to this reporter. A 32-year old Pawra Adivasi, he says, “We are from Chopda taluka in Jalgaon. But I went Nashik in search of work. We get only some work in the nurseries grown by the Forest Department on some of the village land.” Women and men both are paid Rs. 130 for eight hours of this work, he adds.

So Kamalesh and family have come with a malak (contractor) and set up a tent. “There is one hand pump for water but no electricity,” he adds. Kamalesh, his wife and another couple have taken Rs. one lakh as advance for this work. It takes them more than 14-16 hours in a day to fill two to four trolleys with harvested cane.

Kamalesh and his group of people do not know how their wages are calculated and how their advance is adjusted to their earning. “If we ask our malak, he simply says, ‘you have borrowed money, you should just do your work’.” Kamalesh’s wife is pregnant. But she also has to work because of the advance taken.

“Ye porya, ikada ye,” Kamalesh calls out to his son, Pawan who is crying for some reason. He does not attend school. “All of us are wage workers. No one pays attention to school. So many in our community are unlettered.” Adivasi families here speak Ahirani, but schooling is in Marathi. “That too creates problems as no one understands it here,” says Kamalesh.

He is worried that his children are losing out on school due to this migration, but he pauses and says thoughtfully, “it is not different in our village either. Those who own land, only their children attend school.”

“In happiness or sorrow, we have to work and just work. We cannot go back before the sugar factory closes,” says Kamalesh.

“This is bondage.”