A plug for my friend Aparna Karthikeyan’s book: NINE RUPEES AN HOUR, in her words (from the book). I thought it would be of interest to many readers of this blog.
Introduction
When a livelihood dies
a way of live vanishes;
and the language too
is diminished.
- Cho Dharman
Let me tell you a story. Make that ten. Stories of everyday people who do extraordinary things to earn a living – like Soundaram, probably the only woman to own over half a dozen of the fiercest and finest stud bulls; Kali, perhaps the only male dancer who is accomplished in both Bharatanatyam and folk dance; and Tamilarasi, only the second girl to perform in an all-male, all-night folk theatre. Then there is Rayappan, who climbs hundreds of palm trees every week; Selvaraj, the nadaswaram maker, who makes wood sing, Krishnamoorthy, who has createdten thousand sari designs by hand, and Zeenath, who weaves exquisite silk mats on a floor loom. There is Kamachi, who has spent most of her life dancing on stilts, with a dummy horse strapped around her waist; Chandrasekaran, the sickle maker, who gets iron to yield to him; and Podhumani, who coaxes the parched earth to bear a crop, rushes back home to cook another meal for her sons and her husband, and is back again on the field, to put food on your plate and mine.
Though 68.8 per cent of India’s population live outside its cities,[i] the rural has been steadily forced out of the nation building process and our imagination. The rich get richer with land, water and resources snatched away from the rural poor. This savage inequality means that a minimum wage worker in rural India has to work 941 years to earn what a top paid executive at a leading Indian garment company earns in a year.’[ii]Privileging and pandering exclusively to the urban elites, will not just diminish and destroy the rural economy. What future does a country have if farmers who subsidise the country’s milk and meal continue to befinancial martyrs; artisans who stitch the rural economy together are systematically marginalised; and artists who perform about a glorious past are sent home to an uncertain future?
But why would we care when we do not know the people who put food on our table and culture in our lives? When their stories and struggles are brushed aside in the race to build dysfunctional smart cities and missions to the moon? When we blithely furnish our homes with beautiful Pathamadai mats, whose makers earn just nine rupees an hour? These highly skilled women make an average of just ahundred rupees a day. Farmers fare better, but only just. The backbreaking work they plough into an acre of paddy nets them about two hundred a day. Palm tree climbers? Roughly two hundred and fifty, but only during a limited, unpredictable season.
The rural economy is delicately and tightly intertwined. A good year—when the rainclouds behave and the earth obediently produces a bumper crop—benefits everybody. Why must rainfall have any bearing on the livelihood of, say, a nadaswaram maker? The logic is bafflingly simple: when there are good rains, the agrarian classes organise bigger weddings and more of them, and invite musicians. This drives up the demand for nadaswarams, favouring local makers. A bad year, is a bad year for all.
I began this journey—as a storyteller and witness—discovering my home state, its culture and people in July 2013. It started with a fan mail to journalist P. Sainath, who was then setting up a mammoth archive to document the lives of 833 million people in rural India. He invited me to be a part of the now four-year-old People’s Archive of Rural India. Without a formal degree in journalism and armed with only curiosity and a camera, I travelled across my home state of Tamil Nadu, to Madurai, Sivagangai, Kancheepuram, Tiruppur, Ramanathapuram, Tirunelveli and Thanjavur districts, to document traditional livelihoods.
These men and women, shared their dreams and defeats, triumphs and tears with me. They spoke as they worked under the scorching sun, or rested briefly in the shadows of tall palms. They told me stories of pride and despair, love and laughter, in rooms lit only by oil lamps. And hope.
They yearned for their children to receive a good education and a well-paying job. ‘Let this end with me,’ they said about the occupation their ancestors had survived on for centuries. They did not have much of a choice, not when they were growing up. Their children do.
[i]https://www.business-standard.com/article/economy-policy/70-indians-live-in-rural-areas-census-111071500171_1.html
[ii]https://www.oxfam.org/en/even-it/india-extreme-inequality-numbers)
Eswar
November 23, 2019
Thank you BR 🙂.
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meera
November 24, 2019
I’ve read Aparna’s articles in the Hindu… I rem one poignant one of the mylapore Kapaleeshwarar temple in the wee dawn hours.. is this the same author?
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brangan
November 24, 2019
meera: Yes, the same.
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tonks
November 24, 2019
Farmers fare better, but only just. The backbreaking work they plough into an acre of paddy nets them about two hundred a day. Palm tree climbers? Roughly two hundred and fifty, but only during a limited, unpredictable season
Not in Kerala, though. Field workers charge Rs 800-1000 per day, work days are 8 30 to 5 pm with a one hour lunch break and a tea break. Specialized skills labourers (masons and carpenters and painters all charge higher per day rates). Coconut climbers use machines and charge much more : Rs 50 per coconut tree, and they manage upto 25 trees in a half day (which works out to Rs 2500 per day).
But with all this, I think that maybe they would prefer their children get educated (as they all are) and into less strenuous jobs. Probably why most of the manual labour these days in Kerala is done by migrant Tamilians and N Indians (all of the latter clubbed together irrespective of the state they come from, as “Bengalis” : sweet revenge for them calling all of us in the Southern states as “Madraasis”).
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Anu Warrier
November 24, 2019
Thanks for this, BR. That introductory passage hooked me; what powerful writing! I must buy this book.
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Krishnan Viswanathan (@matungawalla)
November 24, 2019
Thanks for the pointer BR. And thankfully Amazon US has it in stock. Looking forward to reading it.
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Anu Warrier
November 25, 2019
@tonks, ha! 🙂 I wondered whether I should point it out – the man who comes to clear the grass off our grounds charges 850 per day with – as you say, an hour’s break for lunch, and a tea break.
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Anu Warrier
November 25, 2019
Done! 🙂 Book ordered, and now the wait…
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krishikari
November 25, 2019
This book was already on my list! I’ve been wondering if there was anywhere other than Amazon to buy it? Do I have to wait till I’m in india next month and able to visit an actual bookshop?
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Aparna Karthikeyan
November 25, 2019
Hi! It is up on Amazon UK and US (print-on-demand) and also on Kindle. I’m really not sure about bookshops – I know sellers in India are stocking it . Many thanks for the interest!
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Aparna Karthikeyan
November 25, 2019
Thanks a ton, Baddy, for sharing this on the blog!
I’d love to hear from anybody who reads the book – will really appreciate your thoughts/ feedback/ comments!
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meera
November 26, 2019
@Aparna Karthikeyan: have hopped into your site and I can tell this book was a labour of love as is with all books and authors 🥰 your posts on the blog are the ones in the book? Have ordered your book so don’t want to read on if they are the same ☺️
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meera
November 26, 2019
Sorry for the very many typos… sometime auto correct is not so correct 😂
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Aparna Karthikeyan
November 26, 2019
Hi Meera, thanks much, that is more of a companion blog, hoping to post what did not make it to the book – edits! ,- and also photographs/ videos. Excerpts from the book are not up there. There’s one here, on Baddy’s blog from the intro, and then Scroll, Huff Post and News Minute carried some bits. Thanks much for your interest, appreciate it!
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Anantha Padmanaban R
November 29, 2019
Certainly a relevant book in today’s times. Another great book covering a similar theme is “Everybody loves a good drought” by P Sainath, the master in rural reporting
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