The war and Palamu: no fate worse than debt

“During the lockdown, we walked 12 days straight to get home from Visakhapatnam," says Kayil Bhuiyan, 45, recalling the horrific experience of COVID-19 in 2020. He was then a daily wage labourer at a Larsen & Toubro construction site in Aganampudi.

There were about 80 of them, including 10 women and four children, walking nearly 1,000 kilometres to Jharkhand. "We walked day and night. When tired out, we slept for an hour, then started again.” All the way home to Rabda village in Palamu district, Jharkhand.

Almost six years later, Kayil undertook a similar journey, this time by train, from the National Capital Region. Returning to another fearful reality.

He is neck deep in debt he cannot repay.

Migrant labourers are among the hardest hit by the acute shortage of liquified petroleum gas (LPG) cylinders spurred by the American-Israeli war on Iran.

Early in March, "Everyone started saying another lockdown is coming," he recalls. He was working as a mason at the L&T construction site in Noida for Rs. 500 a day.

Then LPG prices tripled, from 90 to 300 rupees a kilogram. “We burned shuttering material and plywood [to cook],” he says. “Somehow we managed.” For barely 10 days.

People started leaving. "I asked the thekedar (contractor) to settle my hisaab (accounts) – my daughter's wedding is there and I didn't want to get stuck like in the lockdown," says Kayil. The contractor didn’t pay, and Kayil left without Rs. 40,000 owed to him.

On April 10, he and ten others crammed into a general coach at New Delhi railway station. "There was no place to put your feet. Our legs swelled up. We stood for 14 hours till Dehri, then took a bus home.”

He has two daughters and one son – and a loan of Rs. 1 lakh. With his daughter's wedding approaching, "I took another 1.5 lakh from a moneylender at 5 rupees per 100 every month, and a further 50,000 as an advance from a thekedar." He must pay out in interest on his loans, nearly 10,000 rupees every month. "What to do, there is a wedding, we must save our honour."

Unlike during the last lockdown, Kayil will not wait 18 months to migrate again. Two days after the wedding on May 15, father and son will leave for Chennai seeking work there.

Working double shifts – 16 hours – he can make Rs 1,100 a day. Can he do that every day? "We have to. We must return the money we’ve taken.”

Kayil is not alone. “At least 20 people have returned in this tola [settlement] ,” he says.

Meena Devi is one of them.

Last June, the 38-year-old left for Chennai with her friends Sarita Devi, 34, and Munni Devi, 45, from the Bhuiyan Dalit community, to work as cleaners at the JK Tyre factory in Perumbudur. “We got Rs. 600 for eight hours,” says Meena. “It was good money.”

She first started migrating after her elder daughter's wedding in 2023, for which she took a loan of Rs 25,000 at das rupya saikada (10 per cent per month). In just two years it had grown to Rs. 80,000. To repay that, she borrowed Rs. 60,000 from one microfinance group, but failed to clear the loan, then took Rs. 75,000 from another. She now pays Rs. 7,200 in interest every month.

Her husband Jokhan Bhuiyan, 45, and their son Naresh, 17, also earn something as daily wagers. "Still it is not enough."

Women like Meena, Sarita and Munni cannot wait for LPG to be restored. Every morning, they travel 20 km to Daltonganj's mazdoor mandi (labour market). “By 8 a.m., 8–9 tempos leave packed with labourers," says Meena. "Sometimes half of them are women." If they get work, they earn 450 rupees for the day. If not, they return empty-handed."

The money Meena brings home is often lost to the alcoholism of her husband – who beats her when she resists. Meena also has another daughter to marry next year. "How will we ever repay the loans?" she asks, knowing another loan is inevitable.

“We may die, but these loans will not.”