Parth M.N.

large_01-IMG_20210715_114405-PMN.jpg

medium_01-IMG_20210715_114405-PMN.jpg

small_01-IMG_20210715_114405-PMN.jpg

thumbnail_01-IMG_20210715_114405-PMN.jpg

01-IMG_20210715_114405-PMN.jpg

Balaji Hattagale was chopping sugarcane one day. The next day he wasn&#39;t. His parents wish they knew more. “The uncertainty is killing us,” says his father, Babasaheb Hattagale. On an overcast afternoon in July, a dark cloud hangs over his one-room brick home, almost reflecting the despair in Babasaheb&#39;s voice when he says: “We just want
to know if he is dead or alive.”

It was in November 2020 that Bababsaheb and Sangita, his wife, last saw their 22-year-old son. Balaji had left their home in Kadiwadgaon village, in Maharashtra&#39;s Beed district, to work in the sugarcane fields of Belagavi district (or Belgaum) in Karnataka.


He was among lakhs of seasonal workers from Marathwada region migrating for six months of a year to cut cane in western Maharashtra and Karnataka. Every year, the workers leave their villages in November, after the festival of Diwali, and come
back in March or April. But Balaji did not return this year. 

It was Balaji’s first time leaving home to do the work that his parents had been
doing for nearly two decades. “My wife and I have been migrating for 20 years or
so to cut cane. [Together] we earn Rs. 60,000-70,000 in a season,” says Babasaheb. “It is
our only assured source of income. Daily wage work in Beed is uncertain
even in normal times, and it has become worse after Covid.” Finding wage work during the pandemic – on farms and construction sites – has been difficult for the family. “We hardly made any money from March to November 2020,” says Babasaheb. Before the outbreak of Covid-19, in the months that they were back in their village in Beed&#39;s Wadwani taluka, Babasaheb usually worked 2-3 days a week, earning about Rs. 300 per day . 

When it was time to migrate
again, in November last year, Babasaheb and Sagita decided to stay back because Babasaheb&#39;s elderly mother was ill and in need of fulltime care. “But we had to
do something to stay afloat,” Babasaheb says. “So my son went instead.”

In March 2020, the sudden lockdown announced by Prime
Minister Narendra Modi to contain the spread of Covid-19 in the country, jeopardised livelihoods
of lakhs of migrant workers like Babasaheb and Sangita. Many lost their jobs, and many could not find daily wage work. They continued to struggle for an income for months even after
the lockdown was lifted in June. 

The Hattagale family&#39;s situation was no different. Desperation from the lack of work in 2020 forced Balaji to migrate from Beed when the sugarcane-cutting season arrived. Until then, he had only worked in and around the village. 

Newly
married, he went with his wife and her parents to Belagavi’s Basapur village – about 550 kilometres from home –  to cut cane. “He called us regularly from there so we wouldn’t worry,” says Sangita, breaking
into tears. 

On an evening in December when Sangita called her son, his father-in-law
answered the phone instead. He told her that Balaji had gone out. “His phone was off
when we called later,” she says.

When Balaji’s phone remained switched off for the next 2-3 days, Babasaheb and Sangita became worried. They decided to go to Belagavi to check if he
was alright. But they didn’t have enough money for the journey. They were just about managing two meals a day for the family, which includes daughter Alka, 15, and
another son, Tanaji, 13. The family belongs to the Matang caste, a marginalised
Dalit community in Maharashtra.

Babasaheb borrowed Rs. 30,000 in
cash from a private moneylender – undeterred by the interest rate of  36 per cent. He just had to see his son.

Babasaheb and Sangita set off for Belagavi in a hired vehicle. “When we
reached there, his in-laws were disrespectful to us. They had no answers when
we asked them about Balaji,” says Babasaheb. Suspecting foul play, they filed a missing person complaint at the local police station. “They are still
investigating the case.” 

Had he not agreed to send Balaji away, says Babasaheb, his son would still be with him. “What to do? We are migrant workers. And work in nearby
villages and towns was at a standstill after the lockdown.” Sugarcane cutting
was the only option, he adds. &quot;If I were confident of finding work nearby, I would have told him to stay.” 

A lack of livelihood opportunities exacerbated by the long agrarian
crisis and now climate change, have forced people from Beed to migrate for work.
Apart from going to the sugarcane fields, many have been migrating to cities
like Mumbai, Pune and Aurangabad and working there as labourers, drivers,
security guards and domestic workers. 

Their journey back to the villages after the nationwide lockdown last year – an exodus not seen in the country before – unfolded
over two months. Starving, dehydrated and exhausted, the workers walked long
distances to return home. On the way, some of them died of hunger, exhaustion and trauma. And though their travel back home was widely reported in the media, very little is recorded of how they have coped in the last year and a half. 

It was around May last year when Sanjeevani Salve, 50, returned with
her family to their village, Rajuri Ghodka, in Beed – 250
kilometres from Pune. “We somehow managed for a month. But we realised that
it would take a while for things to settle down, so we hired a tempo and came
back,” says Sanjeevani. She was earning Rs. 5,000 a month as a domestic
worker in Pune. Her two sons, Ashok, 30, and Amar, 26, and daughter
Bhagyashree, 33, used to work for daily wages in the city. They came back with Sanjeevani. Since then, the family, who belong to the Nav Bauddha (formerly Dalit) community, have been struggling to find work.Bhagyashree returned to Pune recently, but her brothers chose to stay back in Beed. “We don’t want to go back to the city. Bhagyashree
went back because of certain compulsions [her son’s schooling]. But she is not finding
work easily. It is not the same in the cities anymore,” says Ashok.

Ashok is haunted by the memories of their difficulties in Pune during the lockdown. “What if a third Covid wave came and we had to go through it all over
again?” he asks. “We had to take care of ourselves. Nobody asked if we had food
or water. We could have died and nobody would have bothered.”

The community in the village provides Ashok with a sense of reassurance. “There are
people here I can count on. And there are open spaces here. Being locked up in
a small room in the city is suffocating.”

Ashok and Amar have been trying to establish themselves as carpenters in
Beed. “The work is not consistent. But expenses are not many in
the village. We are getting by,&quot; says Ashok. However, we would be in trouble if there were an
emergency.”

While many have returned to the cities in recent months, those
who stayed back have had to settle for less work and less income. A steep rise in the job cards issued under the Mahatma
Gandhi National Rural Employment Scheme (MGNREGS) shows that many more people looking for work.

In 2020-21, the job cards of 8.57 lakh households in Maharashtra were <a href="http://mnregaweb4.nic.in/netnrega/citizen_html/demregister.aspx?page=S&amp;lflag=eng&amp;state_name=MAHARASHTRA&amp;state_code=18&amp;fin_year=2019-2020&amp;source=national&amp;Digest=HqCvaQAB/5Ky/aFrWndN5Q">included under MGNREGS</a> – more than three times the cards issued for households – 2.49 lakhs – in the
previous financial year. 

However, the scheme has failed in providing the promised 100 days of employment in a year, even after the lockdown. In Maharashtra, of the 18.84 lakh households that demanded employment in 2020-21, only about 7 per cent
– 1.36 lakh households – completed 100 days of work. The rate is similar in Beed.

05-IMG_20210714_200940-PMN.jpg

Caught between the lack of livelihood options at home and the risk of being stranded in a city, migrant workers – most of
whom belong to marginalised communities – are in a double bind in the pandemic. “We returned
home a month after the lockdown,” says 40-year-old Archana Mandwe, sitting under the leaking tin roof
of her hut in Beed taluka&#39;s Mhasewadi
village. Her family’s travelled nearly 200 kilometres at night. “Five of us on a motorcycle was dangerous. But we had to do it,&quot; she says. &quot;With
no income, we were running out of money after the lockdown.”

Archana and Chintamani, her husband, were in Aurangabad city with
their three children – Akshay, 18, Vishal, 15, and Mahesh, 12. Chintamani drove
a truck and Archana did embroidery work. Between them, they earned about Rs. 12.000
a month. “We lived in Aurangabad for five years and in Pune for 10 years
before that,&quot; says Archana. &quot;He [Chintamani] always worked as a truck
driver.”

In Mhasewadi, Chintamani began to feel out of place. “He
had not worked on farms before. He tried, but could not manage
it that well. I was looking for agricultural work too. But not much was available,” says Archana.

At home and unemployed, Chintamani’s worries increased by the day. He wondered about his kids and
their education, “He felt
worthless,” says Archana. “Our financial situation was getting worse and he
couldn’t do anything about it. His self-respect was weakening. He slipped into depression.”

One day in July last year, Archana found her husband hanging by a rope from the tin roof when she returned home in the evening. A year on, she is
struggling to earn a living by herself. “I hardly make Rs. 800 a week as a farm
worker. But I can’t think of going back to Aurangabad,” she says. “I can’t
manage alone in the city. It was okay when he was around. In the village, I
have people to rely on [for help].”

Archana and her children want to move out of their hut. “It reminds me of
him every time I walk in,” she says. “I keep thinking of what I saw when I came
home that day.”

But she can’t think of finding a new house yet. She wonders if her children, who attend the local government school, will be able to continue their education. “I don’t know how
to pay their fees,” she says. 

Archana’s brother bought a smartphone phone for the three boys to attend their online classes. “It is difficult to follow an online
lecture,” says Akshay, a student of Class 12 aspiring to become an engineer.
“The [mobile] network is bad in our village most of the time. I go to my
friend&#39;s house and study with his books.”

While Akshay is courageously focusing on his studies after his father’s
death by suicide, Tanaji Hattagale is trying to come to terms with Balaji’s disappearance. “I miss my brother,” he says, refusing to speak further.

Babasaheb and Sangita are doing their best to find Balaji, but the process hasn’t been easy on them. “We met the [district] collector
of Beed and requested him to step in,&quot; says Babasaheb. “We have very little
money so we can’t keep going to Belgaum [Belagavi].&quot;Even under normal circumstances, following up on a police complaint would be difficult for a poor family from an oppressed community. But the pandemic has made the task more difficult, with restrictions on inter-state travel, and the lack of resources and cash at hand. 

After their first trip to in December, Babasaheb and Sangita went back again looking for Balaji. That time, they sold 10 of their sheep for Rs. 60,000
to make the trip. “We travelled 1,300 kilometres in total,” says Babasaheb, who
had noted it from the vehicle’s odometer. “Some of that money is still left,
but it won’t last long.”

The new sugarcane-cutting season will begin in November. And though Babasaheb’s
mother is still ill, he and Sangita want to go for cane cutting. They have to
consider the survival of the family, says Babasaheb. “We have to look after our
remaining children.”

This story is part of a series supported by the <a href="https://pulitzercenter.org/">Pulitzer Center</a> through an independent journalism grant to the reporter.

'We don't want to go back to the city'

’ہم واپس شہر نہیں جانا چاہتے‘

ʼನಾವು ಮತ್ತೆ ನಗರಕ್ಕೆ ಹಿಂದಿರುಗುವುದಿಲ್ಲʼ

‘আমি চহৰলৈ উভতি যাব নিবিচাৰো’

‘আর আমরা শহরে ফিরতে চাই না’

നഗരത്തിലേക്ക് തിരിച്ചുപോകാൻ ഞങ്ങളില്ല

'ଆମେ ଆଉ ସହରକୁ ଫେରିବୁ ନାହିଁ '

நாங்கள் மீண்டும் நகரத்திற்கு செல்ல விரும்பவில்லை

‘बीड के प्रवासी मज़दूर: हम वापस शहर नहीं जाना चाहते’

'ਅਸੀਂ ਸ਼ਹਿਰ ਵਾਪਸ ਮੁੜਨਾ ਨਹੀਂ ਚਾਹੁੰਦੇ'

Beed

At present, we can only accept donations in Indian rupees by Indian citizens. All donations made to the CounterMedia Trust are eligible for exemption under Section 80G of the Income Tax Act, 1961. Here is a copy of our exemption certificate.


India is bigger than New Delhi. And people need to know more about the rest of this vast nation.


Younger, media-saturated generations are growing up knowing little about their country, but a lot about the elites of a few metros and towns. For a narrowly-owned, commercially-driven media, the dumbing down of a nation is part of standard operating procedure. The last available data of the Centre for Media Studies (CMS, Delhi) show us that reports from New Delhi account for 66 per cent of news on the front pages of major dailies. The CMS data also found that just about 0.24 per cent of front page news came out of rural India. The TV channels are not much better.PARI exists to change that.We are a non-profit organisation. We publish under creative commons, and do not charge readers a subscription fee or put-up advertisements. Nothing is behind a paywall and we are completely free-to-access by anyone. We guard our independence and receive no direct grants from governments and corporations, nor any funding that could dictate our content. So, we are dependent on volunteer labour, donations from individuals, foundations and institutions that see value in independent and free media.PARI is changing the way Indian journalism reports and documents the rural.India is more than the elite of a few metros and towns. We report on rural lives and livelihoods, languages, communities, migrants and more. We need your help to pull off this most ambitious of Indian journalistic endeavours. The scale of this effort costs money. Donate generously - and spread the word about PARI.&nbsp;

Donate FAQs


Let’s get you acquainted

Welcome to PARI

All our content is, and will forever be free to consume. If you enjoy our work, you can support us by becoming a volunteer or by donating to help fund our work.

Want to republish this article? Please write to <a href="mailto:zahra@ruralindiaonline.org" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">zahra@ruralindiaonline.org</a> with a cc to <a href="mailto:namita@ruralindiaonline.org" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer">namita@ruralindiaonline.org</a>

'We don't want to go back to the city'

Pushed to return home after the sudden lockdown last year, migrant workers in Beed district are still grappling with loss and trauma. Many are settling for less work and lesser pay

Related stories

A rain-scented walk in Sivagangai

Living on ravaged land

Biswas and the bamboos on his bike

Recycling energy, Godda style

Bhadels of Goa

Pookadai: still throbbing with morning life

Koli Kadlas

Malnourishment high among children of migrants: study

Wheels of the rural Indian West

Living Under a Red Cloud in Bellary

Vedla – earrings of the Maher community

Dreaming of water, drowning in debt

Kali: the dancer and his dreams

Farmer's diet worse than a convict's

In Yavatmal, life goes on

Suicides are about the living, not the dead

Death of a carpenter

Hoisa Shigmo!

Women farmers: weaving a life in Anantapur

Defiant in Dhinkia

Spice and all that's nice

Kerala's Green Army

The ‘jugaad’ not-a-mobile

Health as someone else's wealth

Calibrating in a Kudumbashree assembly unit