Not quite a cash cow

This story first appeared on PARI on 1 June 2017.

Appasaheb Kothule, 45, wants to sell two of his bulls. He can’t do that. Qaleem Qureshi, 28, wishes he could buy bulls. But he, too, cannot.

Kothule has been travelling to various bazaars for over a month. He has attended all the weekly markets held around Devgaon, his village, roughly 40 kilometres from Aurangabad city, in the Marathwada region of Maharashtra. Today, he has arrived in Adul, where villagers fill the marketplace every Tuesday. “My son is getting married and I need some money,” he says, a white handkerchief wrapped around his forehead. “Nobody is willing to pay more than 10,000 rupees for the pair. I should get at least Rs.15,000 for them.”

Meanwhile, Qaleem Qureshi sits idle at his beef shop in Aurangabad’s Sillakhana area, wondering how to resurrect his dwindling trade. “I used to do business of 20,000 rupees a day [with earnings ranging from Rs.70-80,000 a month],” he says. “Over the past two years, it has declined to a fourth of that.”

‘I have spent a few thousand rupees in transporting the bulls to various bazaars,’ says Appasaheb Kothule of Devgaon; other farmers too are spending sums they cannot afford

The beef ban in the state is a little over two years old. By the time Devendra Fadnavis of the Bharatiya Janata Party became the chief minister of Maharashtra in 2014, the agrarian crisis had deepened under the previous Congress and Nationalist Congress Party regimes.  A lethal combination of rising input costs, fluctuating rates for crops, water mismanagement and other factors had set in motion widespread distress and tens of thousands of farm suicides in the state. Fadnavis managed to intensify the crisis by extending the prohibition of cow slaughter to bulls and bullocks in March 2015.

The bovine is central to the rural economy and the ban has had a direct impact on businesses that depend on cattle. It has equally impacted farmers who, for decades, used the animals as insurance – they traded their livestock to raise instant capital for marriages, medicines, or an upcoming cropping season.

Kothule, who has five acres of farmland where he cultivates cotton and wheat, says his financial calculations have been hit by the ban. “These two bulls are only four years old,” he says, pointing to his tethered animals. “Any farmer would have swiftly bought them for 25,000 rupees a few years ago. Bulls can be used on farmlands until they are 10.”

But now farmers are reluctant to buy cattle even though the prices have plummeted, knowing it will be difficult to get rid of them later. “I have spent a few thousand rupees in transporting the bulls from my home to various bazaars,” says Kothule. “Adul is four kilometres away, so I walked with my bovines today. Other weekly bazaars are in a 25-kilometres radius, so I have to hire a bullock cart. I already have a debt burden. I need to sell these bulls.”

As we talk, Kothule keeps a desperate eye out for buyers. He has reached the market at 9 a.m., it is now 1 p.m., and extremely hot. “I have not even had water since I reached,” he says. “I cannot leave the bulls alone even for five minutes for fear of missing out on a customer.”

Around him in the bustling maidan, with temperatures touching 45 degrees Celsius, various farmers are trying everything possible to crack a deal. Janardan Geete, 65, from Wakulni, 15 kilometres from Adul, is getting the horns of his robust bullocks sharpened to make them look more attractive. Bhandas Jadhav, with his sharpening instrument, will charge Rs. 200 per animal. “I had bought them for 65,000 rupees,” Geete says. “I will be happy to settle for 40,000.”

Kothule says the growing water shortage in Marathwada and rising fodder costs have made it more difficult to maintain livestock. Added to this is a lack of cow shelters. When Fadnavis imposed the beef ban, he promised to start shelters where farmers could donate their cattle instead of being forced to bear the costs of maintaining animals that could no longer work on their farms. But the shelter have not materialised, dealing the farmers a double blow – they cannot raise money by selling their livestock and are stuck with the animals even after they become unproductive.

“How can we maintain our old livestock when we cannot even properly provide for our children?” asks Kothule. “We spend 1,000 rupees per week on each animal’s water and fodder.”

Many others across the rural economic spectrum have been hit by this one amendment in the law – the beef ban. Dalit leather workers, transporters, meat traders, those who make medicines from bones, have all been hit hard.

Around 300,000 bulls were slaughtered each year in Maharashtra prior to the ban. Now, the slaughterhouses are idle and entire communities in economic distress. At Sillakhana, which hosts close to 10,000 Qureshis – a community that traditionally works as butchers and cattle traders – the impact is palpable. Qaleem has had to sack a few of his staff. “I too have a family to feed,” he says. “What else could I do?”

Anees Qureshi, 41, a loader in Sillakhana, says, “I used to make at least 500 rupees a day. Now I do odd jobs. The income is not guaranteed. There are days when I have no work.”

Business before the beef ban was already hit by the growing agrarian crisis – people from the villages have been migrating in greater numbers looking for work. This has meant a substantial drop in the local consumption of beef, says Qaleem. But his shop, owned by the family since Qaleem’s great grandfather’s time, is all he has. “Our community is not very well-educated [and cannot easily shift to other work],” he says. “We sell buffalo meat now. But people do not like it as much and the competition with other meat products is stiff.”

Beef has formed a major part of the diet of the Qureshis, as well as various other communities, including the Dalits – it is a relatively cheap source of protein. “Replacing beef with chicken or mutton means spending thrice the amount,” says Qaleem.

Dyandeo Gore (right) hopes to sell the last of his seven bulls before returning home to Daygavan village

At the bazaar in Adul, Geete, who was sharpening the horns of his cattle, is one of few to go home smiling after a farmer agrees to buy his animals. Dyandeo Gore looks at him with envy.

Gore has walked seven kilometres to Adul with his bull: the last of seven, which he sold over the years. His debt of around Rs.6 lakhs has magnified in five years. By selling his last bull, he hopes to raise money ahead of the cropping season. “Nature does not support us. The government does not support us,” he says. “Wealthy businessmen do not commit suicide. Debt-ridden farmers like me do. It is a daily misery. I do not know of a single farmer who wants his son to be a farmer.”

At the age of 60, Gore is wandering in the heat from market to market on foot with his bovine, because he cannot afford any transportation. “If I fail to sell him today, I will go to another bazaar on Thursday,” he says. “How far is that?” I ask him. “Thirty kilometres,” he says.

Photos: People’s Archive of Rural India

Farmers threatening to quit the business completely. Is Vidarbha the tip of the iceberg?

This story first appeared on Catch News on 7 April 2016.

Once a prosperous village, today no more – that’s the difference all of 15-years makes in the village of Sukali in Vidarbha’s Yavatmal district.



The farmers led a relatively comfortable life with the water flowing in the nearby lake being a major source of irrigation.

Today, the village finds itself drowned in debt. More than 100 young girls are waiting to get married. Farmers cannot even afford to fix their dented tin roofs. The lake has dried up and Irrigation facilities are in doldrums.

Vivek Dahifale, farmer from Kavatha Bajar, a nearby village to Sukali, said the authorities have neglected the maintenance of the lake, which is the reason behind its current unproductive state.

On Monday, 4 April, the village of Sukali gathered in front of the Tehsildar office and presented its decision to participate in the Perni Band Andolan, an end to sowing and planting, thus becoming the seventh village to partake in the protest.

Suicides and protests

In 2015, Maharashtra’s Vidarbha region witnessed 1,280 suicides. 2016 has not started on a promising note either. Yet, the state government has not declared drought in the region, so far. To draw attention of the state officials, villages in Vidarbha took the extreme step and decided to abandon farming. “If the state had declared drought, farmers would have at least received Rs 6,800 per hectare,” said Santosh Arsod, a leader of the farming community in Yavatmal district. “Since it did not happen, farmers had to sell off their pigeon peas at a throwaway cost.”

An end to farming?

The movement was kicked off in mid-February by Jamdara village in Manora taluka in Washim district. After a thorough discussion, the gram panchayat arrived at this conclusion and other villages in neighbouring Yavatmal district followed its footsteps. Around 120 villages in Arni taluka, comprising of 3 lakh people, are contemplating an end to farming. With the apathy of the government, observers note, the movement can only grow more infectious.

In the run up to the 2014 general elections, Narendra Modi held a chai pe charcha in Yavatmal, in which he promised to enforce the recommendations made by the Swaminathan Commission. However, the failure to meet the promise so far, has left the farmers dejected.

“The government has enough agriculture produce stacked up,” said Arsod, who used to be a journalist with Lokmat in Yavatmal, and two years back took up farming to intricately understand the crisis. “The moment people and authorities start feeling the pinch of the paucity of agriculture produce, they will increase the market cost.”

Production dwindling

Vidarbha is a region where namely cotton, soya bean and lentils are predominantly cultivated but the production has dwindled to less than a quarter of what it used to be due to successive droughts, said Dahifale. “Persisting with farming in any case gives a lot of psychological stress,” he said. “It is better to die without that stress instead of dying with it.”

Former Maharashtra Attorney General, Shreehari Aney, who recently triggered a controversy by asking for a separate Marathwada, expressed solidarity with farmers from Vidarbha. “Currently Vidarbha is Maharashtra’s lowest priority. Eighty per cent of its population, farmers and tribals, are not getting attention and justice. The need for budget expenditure for farmers can only be met when the small state of Vidarbha is created,” he told Mumbai Mirror.

Around 120 villages in Arni taluka, comprising of 3 lakh people, are contemplating an end to farming

Activist Amar Habib called the Perni Band Andolan a ‘Satyagraha’. “It is a desperate cry for help,” he said. “When all means fail, this seems to be the last throw of the dice. But one needs a sensitive government for the protest to succeed.”

Arsod said behind every acre, farmers incur around 10,000 rupees, but they have not been able to recover even half of that for the last three years. “The only way to stop suicides is to stop farming. Farmers have had to sideline critical medical expenses,” he said. “It is high time we look at other alternatives to earn our bread. It is no longer economically viable. We are explaining this technically to farmers about how the cost fluctuates as per the international market and how the government’s promises are hollow.”

He further explained how the crop loan has been ineffective in providing solace to farmers. “The money is required in June when the sowing starts,” he said. “But the money is released in August and we do not get the money when it is needed the most.”

Alternatives to farming

The search for alternatives has already begun in Vidarbha. Vilas Tathod, founder of Yuva Rashtra Sanghatana, and a sales manager for an MNC, is helping farmers explore new skills and set up small businesses as a substitute for farming. In Akola, he is working with a cluster of 15 villages, as a catalyst in order to develop marketing skills in both men and women.

“Branding and sales of products like incense sticks, wafers, peanut chutney, spices, pani puri, washing powder, and so on is conducted as a major activity,” he said, adding that he and his colleagues are helping farmers’ kids to prepare for educational exams at his coaching centre so they do not carry the baton of farming forward. “For the business to expand, initial capital is the biggest hurdle. We help farmers with it.”

Gajanan Amdabadkar, senior activist, said the option to explore alternatives could not hurt. “If it works, it would only save lives. When the farmer is not willing to sow, it clearly means the economy around farming has collapsed,” he said. “Poverty is not the reason why farmers commit suicide. Losses and depression that follows after the expectations are devoured is the main cause. A crop yield for a farmer is as dear as a newborn.”

Arsod said the response to Tathod’s initiative is encouraging. “Our plan is to get one member away from farming, then a family and then the whole village,” he said. “The progress is so far satisfactory.”

However, farmers are considered the backbone of India, where more than half its population depends on its activities. Arsod said it is an “unnecessary glorification” of farmers. “How can a farmer, who cannot even tend to his own family these days, be called the backbone of the country?” he asked. On being asked if, as predicted by most, the expansion of this protest would make farming extinct in India in the long run, Chandrakant Wankhede, senior journalist from Vidarbha, said, “How would farming survive if farmers do not?”

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Drought, death & destroyed crops: just how much more can Marathwada take

This story first appeared on Catch News on 11 September 2015.

After a spate of dry spells, Nivrutti Sathe took a calculated risk in April as he geared up for another cropping season. He decided to transfer silted soil from a dried-up riverbed to his three-acre-farmland in a remote village of Hasegaon in Latur district of Maharashtra’s Marathwada region.


The process was expensive, but Nivrutti was sure of a good return on his investment as the silt would enhance his yield. He borrowed Rs 2 lakh from a local moneylender, zeroed in on a riverbed around 10 kilometers from his tin-roofed house and carted soil from there to his farm for nearly two months.

By the end of May the farm, extending up to the Sathe’s backyard, was covered with river silt. In early June, Marathwada was blessed by pre-monsoon showers – a rarity, considering the weather patterns in the last decade.

The rainfall encouraged Nivrutti to sow his fields with vigour. “The sowing was promising,” says Prakash Sathe, Nivrutti’s father. “It was just a matter of reasonable rainfall in the next two months.”

But the rain gods turned deceptive: The pre-monsoon downpour was followed by a 45-day dry spell. The region, which normally receives around 780 millimeters of rainfall during monsoons, has got only 259 mm this season. Figures from the Indian Meterological Department indicate an ominous 51% deficit.

Nivrutti could not reap what he sowed: by mid-July, his soyabean crop dried up, bringing to nought his efforts and the investment. He had to pay back the loan without the crop on which he was banking, and also take look after his family. Nivrutti’s daughter had turned six and his son was just four.

In the last week of July, Nivrutti gave up. One morning he left home to answer the call of nature. An hour later his mother Bharatbai went to the backyard to dispose waste and found her son hanging from a tree.

“I ran and hugged him,” she says, a lump forming in her throat, as Nivrutti’s son fiddles around on her lap. “The previous night, we told him to calm down. He was distressed, but nobody imagined he would take such a drastic step.”

Prakash defends his son: “The idea to bring in the silted soil was correct. The weather failed him.”

A bitter crop

This is the third drought in Marathwada in recent years – each more acute than the previous. Officials estimate that at least 70% of this year’s Kharif crop has failed.

More than 600 farmers have committed suicide so far this year, according to Umakant Dangat, divisional commissioner of Aurangabad and the officer in charge of the eight Marathwada districts.

Travelling through the region, one comes across one parched riverbed after another and miles of desolate cotton and soyabean farms, crops barely reaching one’s ankle. Normally, the stems would grow waist-high, at times even chest-high.

The story is the same with sugarcane, another major crop in Marathwada for which farmers started preparing since as far back as last October. While the water requirement of soyabean is moderate, sugarcane is a water guzzler.

“From October to March, we drew out water from borewells and wells,” says Baderam Bade, who owns a five-acre holding in Devdahifal, Beed. “After that we used drip irrigation until June.” By then the monsoon was supposed to take over.

But the 45-day dry spell damaged the sugarcane crop. “It did rain a little in July. But by then the crop had dried,” says Bade, who had invested around Rs 75,000. “With what I have at the moment, I cannot make a penny.”

“The quantity of sugarcane deemed fit to be bought has halved,” says Vilas Sonawane, managing director of Majalgaon Sugarcane Factory in Beed.

The truncated sugarcane is now being used as fodder for livestock, says Bade standing in his farm amid a crop that looks like a toad under the harrow. Normally, a field ready for harvest can conceal a human being.

“I should have made around Rs 3 lakh. This drought has affected my income for two years,” he regrets.

Bade has a loan of almost a lakh and has to shell out another Rs 80,000 a year for his son’s education in Nagpur. In such distress, even non-issues lead to serious altercations within family and between neighbors, says he.

“We, as the bread winners of the household, feel ashamed to look at our family members and livestock.”

Ripple effect

The slump in sugarcane production has derailed the economy revolving around it. Factories, which generally book labourers in July, have not yet approached the contractors.

“Factories say they cannot afford it,” says a contractor who arranges for labourers for various sugar mills in Beed. “Many said they might even remain shut this season.”

Sugarcane mills were due to start production in a month-and-a-half, but they are not in a position to do so.

“Factories which needed six months for the crushing process will take just two months this time,” says Sonawane. “The income of labourers – generally about a lakh in that period – would be reduced to a third of that.”

Moreover, international demand for sugar has decreased with the ascent of Brazil in the market, reducing selling prices to Rs 22 a kilo from Rs 34.

That has forced sugarcane factories into severe debt. “We lost Rs 600 per ton,” says Sonawane. “At 6 lakh tons a year that we produce that comes to Rs 36 crore. Out of that Rs 7 crores has to be paid to farmers.”

Every such factory, and there are 50 in Marathwada, has incurred losses – some even more than the Majalgaon mill – and owe significant amounts to farmers.

Parched throats

The crisis has extended to drinking water as well, with 11 major reservoirs of Marathwada containing less than 10% of the water they can hold. Manjra and Terna, two important dams on which Latur survives, have dried up.

The city now receives water once in 15 days, which may reduce to once a month. The villages in the area are even worse off.

According to the district collector, the existing stock of water would last merely a month-and-a-half. There is a plan to use the railways to fetch water from Ujjani, officials say.

This has led to the proliferation of a number of unauthorised water suppliers, claims Pramod Mundada, the owner of Sunrich Aqua, the largest bottled water plant in the area and among the few authorised units.

“They do not adhere to rules nor conduct any test,” he says. “Helpless villagers end up buying adulterated water.” Padlocked water tanks have become a common sight after a few instances of water theft were reported in Latur.

Impending disaster

Marathwada may be headed towards desertification, believe experts. “Considering the standards of water management and governance, it appears that an environmental disaster is in the making,” says Pradeep Purandare, a former expert member of the Marathwada Statutory Development Board.

The region has 438 cubic meters of surface water per capita. Ideally it should be 1,700 cubic metres, according to hydrologists.

According to Purandare, this drought is man-made and there would be no water left for farming if urbanisation continues. “Urbanisation leads to the use of concrete, which kills tiny water bodies and affect the ground water recharge,” he says.

The signs are glaring – 61 of Marathwada’s 76 talukas have reported a critical drop in ground water levels. The trend alarmingly coincides with a spree of digging of wells and borewells in farms.

With a water tale that is depleting at an alarming rate, Marathwada is moving towards desertification

“Panic-stricken farmers dig deep,” says Sanjeev Unhale, senior journalist from Aurangabad. “But they do not realise that deep aquifer takes a thousand years to fill and should not be disturbed. Digging 20-25 meters is understandable, but farmers go on up to 1,000 feet (300 metres).”

The paucity of water has added a new dimension to production costs for farmers. “Water and fodder were never a major factor. But now we have to save up,” says Prakash Sathe.

Sathe, who has three cows and makes a bit of money selling milk products, says the two additional dimensions have made his livestock a great burden. “I make Rs 300 a day from milk products. But the maintenance cost has now gone up to Rs 10,000 a month,” he says.

Dangat says relief is underway, especially in the three worst-hit areas of Beed, Latur and Osmanabad. “Water tankers are being sent to parched areas and the number of cattle camps are being increased. This will take a lot of load off farmers,” he adds.

Missing governance

Chief Minister Devendra Fadnavis toured Marathwada last week to address farmers. Freshly painted zebra crossings look ludicrous, ending abruptly in the middle of divider-less roads: Apparently only that side of the road was painted on which the CM’s motorcade rolled.

In Osmanabad, information kiosks were installed for farmers before the visit, but taken off immediately after he left.

Pankaja Munde, the minister for rural development and water conservation, dropped by in the village of Gangamasra in Beed, where farmers had sought permission for collective suicide. She implored them not to indulge in any such act. When a farmer asked her about the enforcement of the Swaminathan Commission, she said, “At the moment, we must address the issues at hand.”

Atul Deulgaonkar, joint secretary of the Latur-based Forum of Environmental Journalists of India, says the lack of proactive measures magnify the drought. “Farmers are often at the receiving end of administrative lethargy.”

The state’s refusal to waive off farm loans during an intense drought has attracted a lot of flak. “When the farmer has a loan with the bank, he has no option but to approach unregistered moneylenders who impose inhuman interest rates,” says Deulgaonkar. “If bank loans are waived off, farmers can walk into the bank with a clean slate.”

The process of obtaining bank loans needs to be simplified, he says. “If the racket of unregistered moneylenders is to be cracked, the banks need to be more accommodative.”

Trickle down

The impact of the drought has percolated to the bottom of the pyramid and is palpable at Latur’s reputed grain market. Shopkeepers and vendors sit their idle, reading books or watching television.

Lalit Shah, head of the local Agriculture Produce Market Committee, believes the situation is worse than what it was during the infamous drought of 1972. “I have on 500 bags each of moong and black gram,” he says. “It should have be in excess of 5,000 bags each.”

If the situation persists, Marathwada could witness mass migration as people would deluge big cities in search of work, fears Shah. People’s buying capacity has been curtailed, which has affected the sales of business of garment, footwear and groceries. Some have even cut down spending on health and education.

Doctor Ajit Jagtap, a pediatrician, shares a disquieting experience. “A farmer came to my hospital eight days ago,” he says. “His year-old kid had bilateral hernia. It would have cost around Rs 15,000 so I offered to treat the kid at minimal cost and told him to pay in installments. He nodded and promised to be back in some time, but I never saw him again.”

Doctor Gajanan Gondhali, a physician, says 80% of the patients in his intensive care unit have mortgaged their land for a health emergency, that too at outrageous rates.

“One patient told me he has mortgaged the papers of his 2-acre farmland for Rs 2 lakh,” he says. “Another farmer from Beed had to get his father discharged prematurely.”

At a clinic, a farmer from Nanded said he had borrowed Rs 10,000 at an interest of 4% per month for his three-month-old son’s treatment.

In many areas, farmers have reportedly withdrawn their kids from schools.

What now

Deulgaonkar believes the micro-level administrative drawbacks in acquiring bank loans or the failure to seize local moneylenders should not overshadow macro-level policies, which demoralize farmers.

“With our imports increasing by the day, farmers do not get fair returns for their food crops,” he says. “We have done nothing to protect our farmers during globalization.

He points out the dichotomy of giving sops to corporates but raising a stink at farm subsidies and the non-enforcement of the Swaminathan Commission recommendation. “What kind of a message are we sending out?” asks Deulgaonkar.

As an immediate measure, he says community farming should be promoted. “It decreases production costs as farmers would deal in bulk orders. Moreover, the middleman would not have bragging rights if he is dealing with a vast group, instead of an individual.”

In the meantime, farmers across Marathwada have made a last gamble. When it rained in mid-August, many opted for a second round of sowing, including Nivrutti’s father Prakash. “What else can we do?” he asks. “That is our only hope of raising some money for the Rabi season.”

Marathwada’s sky has seen dark clouds occasionally in the last 15 days, but only to wither away. At best, there has been a light drizzle. Prakash, though, needs much more.

“The clouds accumulate, there is thunder, lightening even,” he says. “It is all very tantalising.” No wonder then, more than half his day is past gazing at the sky. The silted soil still spreads out in his farmland.

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Warning notes from Marathwada: how water wars can consume India

This story first appeared on Catch News on 13 July 2015

The intense water crisis in parts of Maharashtra is not someone else’s problem. It is a warning note for India. The apocalyptic idea of water wars is barely one turn away.

As the monsoon beats down on the country, it seems hard to heed warnings about water crises, droughts, desertification and emergency water trains being despatched to despairing citizens.


But water management in many parts of India is so poor, the monsoon is only an illusion: it is not effectively recharging groundwater.

Vidharbha has become a short code for despair in India. This story from Marathwada is a reminder why this is not an isolated story.

One man’s story: parable for the country

Farmer Ejaz Khan’s borewell dried up eight months ago. In mid-June, when pre-monsoon rain showered his Nagzari village in Jalna district, he hastened out of his tin-roofed house to bail out the collected water from his 400-foot-deep borewell before it was soaked up. He managed just a bucketful.

It wasn’t much for his family of five, but it brought hope: the monsoon was on its way to fill up his well. It would be in use for the next four months, if only for half an hour a day, and Khan would be able to irrigate his 3-acre farmland, the sole means of subsistence.

“This is the way it has been for the last few years,” says Khan, “useful for half an hour a day during the monsoon and absolutely useless for the remaining eight months.”

Khan has dug four borewells in the past few years, each costing around Rs 35,000. “I did not know how else to overcome the paucity of water,” he explains.

The investment hasn’t yielded much.

Khan has dug four borewells in the past few years, each costing around Rs 35,000. He still does not have access to water

Even the little water the borewells have isn’t fit for consumption, Khan says, as he flings a pail into the well that he shares with fellow villagers. He lifts out a bucketful of brownish water with an odd worm squirming in it.

“This is what we have been consuming,” he says, emptying the bucket into a 250-litre drum. It takes him nearly two hours to fill one drum up. He has two.

“This is my family’s quota for the next week,” says Khan, who has a wife and three sons. “Whether we are bathing, cleaning or cooking, we have have one eye on the backyard where the drums are.”

To tide over the crisis, the state has deployed over over 1,400 tankers to supply drinking water to the region, which comprises the four districts of Aurangabad, Jalna, Beed and Parabhani.

This is only a short-term bandaid though, and it solves only the problem of drinking water. Not irrigation.

Even the monsoons only bring a brief respite, not a solution. The land will go back to being parched.

Disaster in the making

So much so, in fact, that experts warn the region could be headed towards desertification. “Marathwada’s water management and governance is so poor, it appears an environmental disaster is in the making,” says Pradeep Purandare, a former expert member of the Marathwada Statutory Development Board.

The per capita availability of surface water in Marathwada is 438 cubic metres, as against 1,700 cubic metres deemed ideal by hydrologists, and, with the population increasing, it’s only going down.

Most of Marathwada’s rivers originate in the drought-prone region itself, so the riverbeds are dried up almost all the time. Its only lifeline, thus, is the Godavari, which fills up the Jayakwadi dam, on which are dependent most of region’s 305 villages, industries and irrigation projects.

But even this lifeline has been choked with dams coming up in Jayakwadi’s catchment area in Nasik and Nagar.

As a result, almost all the water in Jayakwadi in the past few years has been consumed by industries and for drinking, leaving virtually nothing for irrigation. Jalna alone houses over 30 steel industries on its periphery, each guzzling one lakh litres of water every day.

Given its poor water management and governance, experts say Marathwada could be headed towards desertification

Aurangabad, the beer capital of India, devours six crore litres of water daily to keep the beer flowing. The district had long ago caught the eye of the global brewer Fosters, which realised the region’s silted water was conducive for making beer and erected a factory; others soon followed.

Ill-conceived rescue plan

In the past few years, the state has come up with several projects to mitigate Marathwada’s crisis, but they are either languishing or, like Jayakwadi, being choking by upstream dams.

Governments across the board are loath to mandate comprehensive assessment impacts for development projects. The situation in Marathwada is a textbook example of what happens when this is not done.

The Krishna Bhima Stabilisation Project was envisioned to divert excess water from Kolhapur to Ujjani and Marathwada. But it has been derailed, to the harm of Osmanabad and Beed.

The Pentakali project, similarly, has diminished the Upper Painganga Project, severely affecting Nanded and Parbhani.

Apart from worsening the water crisis, these ill-conceived plans have triggered regional feuds as well.

In February this year, 11 villages from Jalna’s Mantha taluka went on a hunger strike to protest Vidarbha’s appropriation of water from the Purna river. And Marathwada has long been at loggerheads with western Maharashtra over Godavari.

Marathwada has struggled to win these battles because its politicians “do not have the same clout” as those from Western Maharashtra, says Purandare. “Politics in Maharashtra flows through the canals.”

Purandare insists the drought is “man-made”, brought on by urbanisation and a mushrooming of sugarcane factories, which require substantial amount of water.

“Urbanisation ensures the use of concrete,” he explains. “It kills tiny water bodies, adversely affecting the ground water recharge.”

If this continues, Purandare warns, there will be “no water left for farming”.

Nowhere to go, but down

The signs are already visible, and glaringly. Of Marathwada’s 76 talukas, 61 have seen a critical drop in ground water levels, the trend coinciding with a spree of digging wells and borewells in the farmland.

“In a state of unawareness and panic, farmers go on digging deep,” says Sanjeev Unhale, a senior journalist from Aurangabad. “But they do not realise that the deep aquifer takes a thousand years to be refilled. It can’t be disturbed. To dig up to 20-25 meters is understandable, but farmers are going a thousand feet down.”

Yet, in non-monsoon months, even the deepest wells come up dry, forcing Marathwada’s residents to forage elsewhere. It’s a torturous quest.

Jalna alone houses over 30 steel industries on its periphery: each guzzles one lakh litres of water every day

“We dig up the parched riverbed or the bottom of a well until a muddy puddle of water comes to the fore,” says Pralhad Magar, 65, from Jalna’s Kharpudi village. “We scoop it up into our pots and then physically strain the mire and stones out.”

It obviously takes hours to collect enough water this way, so everone in the family, men, women, young and old, pitch in. “I can’t carry on doing it for hours. My body doesn’t allow me now,” says Magar.

It’s only when monsoon arrives that they get some relief. Afterwards, it’s back to square one, until the next monsoon and the next.

It’s a cruel cycle Marathwada’s farmers are stuck in. To free them, the state needs to come up with a long-term solution.

Purandare has one. There was a dispute in the past between Maharashtra and Andhra Pradesh over water from Babhali Bandhara, he explains, “and it was resolved after the Supreme Court intervened and said Maharashtra can’t use more than 2.74 TMC of water from the Bandhara.”

“It’s necessary to arrive at a similar solution for the release of water for Jayakwadi from dams upstream,” says Purandare, adding the upper Godavari basin should be “spared of any new construction”.

Until that happens, thousands of Marathwada’s farmers are at nature’s mercy. “The only time we spend less time storing water is during the monsoons,” says Khan, and abruptly ends the conversation.

He has noticed dark clouds gathering over Nagzari. He hysterically collects his empty pots and utensils and arranges them outside his dimly-lit room to catch the flow from the roof.

Soon, it’s pouring down. And as his pots start filing up, a grin appears on Khan’s face. When the solution is missing, dangerously, the respite seems enough.

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