Aparna Karthikeyan

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"How
is it possible to be a full-time farmer and make enough money?" asks C. Jeyabal. "See those men?" he points to a group under a
banyan tree as we walk through his paddy fields in Tamil Nadu. "None of them can
live off agriculture alone. One drives tractors, the other ferries construction
materials on lorries, the third runs a bakery. And I work as a swimming instructor
at a hotel in Madurai city, 25 kilometres from here."
 
 Jeyabal’s
farm in Nadumudalaikulam village of Madurai district is modest. He owns 1.5 acres,
inherited from his father Chinnathevar, 75, and leases in two more. He harvests
paddy thrice a year – a crop that’s always demanding and occasionally
rewarding. He ploughs in Rs. 20,000 per acre but reaps little by way of profit.
And for that, Jeyabal and his wife together toil at least 12 hours daily. Their
takings work out to a paltry Rs. 9.25 per person, per hour, per acre. “Why
should my sons want to do this work?” he asks.

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Farming
is no longer a popular career in Tamil Nadu. The 2011 Census records a
fall of 8.7 lakh full-time cultivators
between 2001 and 2011. Many have migrated or lost their
land due to debt. Where have they gone? The Census gives us one answer: the number of agricultural labourers in the
state shows a rise of 9.7 lakh in the same decade.
 Jeyabal,
however, loves farming. The earth. His fields. The 36-year-old is very proud of
his village and the 5,000 acres of cultivated land around it. He walks quickly,
his bare feet landing lightly on the
 
 varappu
 
 (raised bund
or border) between the paddy fields. I struggle to keep up, slip on wet bunds
and nearly fall. The women look up and laugh. It’s only 11.00 a.m., but they
have been slogging for six hours – the first three at home and the rest here plucking
out weeds.

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The
landscape is the stuff of Tamil film songs. Unseasonal December rains have
greened the hills and filled the ponds. Egrets perch on trees like white
flowers. The women stand in a row –
their noses by their knees, ankles deep in slush – and press short green shoots
into the giving earth. They move swiftly and gracefully through the squelching
soil, not stopping even once to stretch their backs.

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Hard work isn’t enough. “You need to try new varieties, take some risks. Four
years ago, I gambled, planting the small-grained ‘Akshaya’ rice. I harvested 35
bags per acre, which sold at Rs.1,500 each. But,” he laughs, “once I began
growing it in my village, so did everybody else. Of course, the rates fell.”
Jeyabal is hopeful of a good price again this year. An unusually heavy monsoon
has seen crop loss across the state, pushing up paddy prices.
 On
the way back to his house, Jeyabal talks about rain, water, sun, soil, cows and
the
 
 kamma
 
 (pond).
His food and fortunes are ruled by the elements, his crop varieties mostly
decided by the shop in Chekkanurani town, nine kilometres away, from where he
buys seed and fertilisers. His daily routine in the village – weeding,
irrigating, spraying, grazing – takes up much of his day. When he’s not on swimming pool duty, that is.
 
 For
nine hours daily, six days a week, Jeyabal inhabits a different world inside a
chic Madurai hotel. “Every morning, I farm for an hour or two. If I’m on the
early shift at the hotel (8 a.m. to 5 p.m.), I get on my bike and go straight
from the field into town. Where’s the time for breakfast?” Once there, Jeyabal
changes into his work trousers and shirt, stands beside the elegant swimming
pool, and assists guests. He chats about Madurai with foreigners in the English
he’s picked up on the job. He likes this work, and the Rs. 10,000 a month it
brings in, helps. It is also his only connect with sports now. A decade ago, that
was everything.

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The
Madurai region is famous for its
 
 jallikattu
 
 (bull-taming sport). Jeyabal was a champ. He
also won at
 
 kabaddi
 
 matches,
discus and shotput competitions. At their home, his wife Podhumani fetches a
pile of his certificates from a bureau. The front room of the house is large
and rectangular, divvied up into cooking and living spaces by a short,
whitewashed mud wall. Clothes, bags and fodder line the attic. On the walls are
their wedding photographs from 2002.

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Jeyabal
lists his sports prizes. “Gold coin,
 
 kuthuvilakku
 
 (traditional lamp), TV, cycle, even that grinder you are leaning on, I
won everything.” But monsoon failure between 2003 and 2007 meant “there was no
food, no money. I had a wife and two young sons. I turned to coolie work. Then
in 2008 I went back to doing what my family always did: farming.” The same
year, he started working at the hotel. Both, he points out, are full-time jobs.
“It is just not possible to make do with one income.” 
 As
a man, Jeyabal gets hard cash for his labour. Podhumani earns less from longer working
hours. Like most women in the village – including Jeyabal’s 70-year-old mother Kannammal
– she works many shifts every day. The first at home from 5 a.m. The second,
from 8 a.m. to 3 p.m. in the field. Next, after a late lunch, she collects
grass for the livestock, firewood for the stoves. She mucks out the cowshed,
milks the cattle and puts the goats out to graze. Then it’s back to work in the
kitchen. “If not for her,” says Jeyabal fondly, “I can’t keep up with two jobs.
And we cannot run our house.”

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There
are few paid work opportunities for women in Nadumudalaikulam. Adults among the
village’s 1,500 residents are mainly in agriculture. But the kids have other
ideas. They want to study and work. They are put off by their parents’ hard
lives and poor incomes. Agricultural labour fetches just Rs.100 a day. You can
earn Rs. 140 working on the Mahatma Gandhi National Rural Employment scheme.
But the latter is hard to come by and often badly timed. “They allocate work
during planting and harvesting seasons. There aren’t enough workers then. We
have to lure labourers with higher rates, or by throwing in a meal of tea and
 
 vadai
 
 (savoury snack),” grumbles Jeyabal.
 "It
is very easy to get into debt," Jeyabal tells me on a two-wheeler ride around
his village. One failed harvest, and the money sunk in is lost. There’s the
rent on the leased land, besides daily and unforeseen expenses. “In my father’s
time, the men were stronger and more skilled. They even built bunds themselves.
But my generation is losing vital knowledge. Now, we only know how to break
them to regulate water levels. We pay others to ready our fields.” He predicts
it will only get worse in coming decades.
 
 "I
became a farmer as I’m not educated; I did not complete 12th standard. My
options were limited. But my sons Hamsavardan, 13, and Akash, 11, want an
education and office jobs. They tell me: if you want money, we’ll earn it from
Madurai. They don’t want this life,” he says, waving his hand at the acres and
acres of green paddy fields of Nadumudalaikulam.
 
 
 
 This article is part of a series titled 'Vanishing Livelihoods of Rural 
Tamil Nadu’. It was supported by the author's National Foundation for India Media Award, 2015.

Where farming means two full-time jobs

ਜੇ ਖੇਤੀ ਕਰਨੀ ਹੈ ਤਾਂ ਨਾਲ਼ ਕੋਈ ਹੋਰ ਕੰਮ ਵੀ ਕਰਨਾ ਪਊ

ଯେଉଁଠି ଚାଷର ଅର୍ଥ ଦୁଇଟି ପୂର୍ଣ୍ଣ ସମୟ କାମ

விவசாயம் மட்டும் பார்ப்பது இனியும் சாத்தியமில்லை

इथे शेती म्हणजे दोन, पूर्ण वेळ नोकरी करणे

सिर्फ़ खेती से गुज़ारा मुमकिन नहीं

جہاں کھیتی کا مطلب ہے دو کل وقتی نوکریاں

Nadumudalaikulam

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Where farming means two full-time jobs

Jeyabal, of Madurai district in Tamil Nadu, is a cultivator and a swimming instructor

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