E-Paper
From the city back to the farm
This article is authored by Milind Murugkar & Satish Karande, researchers in agriculture.
The migration of people from agricultural to non-agricultural sectors is generally regarded as a natural and welcome phenomenon. It is often argued—and rightly so—that agriculture cannot generate sufficient income for the present population in agriculture. However, the tragedy lies in the fact that for the majority who leave farming for the unorganised industrial sector, this migration brings only little tangible improvement to their lives. The earnings of labourers in both the unorganised industrial sector and the agricultural sector remain strikingly similar.
What is even more unfortunate is that while revolutionary changes in the lives of farmers and farm laborers are possible through minimal public investment, this potential rarely finds a central place in our agrarian policy discussions. The story of Linga Hubale ends on a happy and promising note, yet it is underscored by a great deal of unnecessary struggle and suffering.
Linga Hubale is a young man of 35. He used to work as a construction labourer in the Vasai-Virar region but has now returned to his village to farm. When asked about his reverse migration, he replied, “In the city where we lived while eating, we couldn't even swallow a bite without creating smoke in the metal basin because the mosquito infestation was so severe. You could not have lasted two hours in the place where we spent 20 years. We lived in makeshift tents; it was essentially life on a refuse heap. The wages were decent, but to earn them, we had to live like insects. We had no choice. We owned land back home, but it was entirely dependent on rainfall. If it rained, we would sow crops like moog, matki, or bajra. If the rains favoured us, we got a harvest; otherwise, all our hard work went to waste. This situation was guaranteed to occur at least two or three times every decade. That is why I left the village. Today, I have returned because I can practice irrigated farming. The chillies from my farm earn me far better money than the wages of Vasai-Virar.”
Then Birudev Hande began to recount their history. After Diwali, there would be no fodder for the livestock. Since there were irrigated farms along the canal five to seven kilometres away, they would go there to fetch grass. Women and children would reach those fields at the crack of dawn. They received grass as payment for their labour, and sometimes the farm owner would even demand a share of that.
Laxman Hubale is a disabled farmer; with both legs paralysed, farm labour was impossible for him. For sustenance, he opened a grocery store in the village, but credit-based sales led to heavy losses. The question of survival loomed large. When asked how he was doing, he replied, "Absolutely fine!" The reason? Bell peppers. His friend Pramod joined the conversation, quipping, "Laxman's roop (looks) has changed because of 'swaroop'!"—swaroop being the name of a variety of bell pepper.
After Diwali, the village used to become desolate. Maruti Pujari, a retired health worker residing in the village, explained the background. There is a British-era tank called Rajewadi. In years of good rainfall, it would fill, and water would be released into the stream. Over time, rainfall decreased, and the Andhali Dam was constructed upstream. Consequently, the tank rarely filled on the runoff from the village's catchment area—perhaps once or twice in five or ten years. The village has a vast shivar (agricultural expanse) with small hills and sloping grasslands. Over a thousand acres belong to the forest department. Several percolation tanks were built during past drought relief works, but they were now dilapidated and in disrepair. For fifteen to twenty years, no work had been done to store water. Coincidentally, this period also saw five to ten years of scant rainfall. The last two decades were extremely difficult. Eighty percent of the villagers were forced to migrate as sugarcane cutters, construction laborers, or shepherds. Even the elderly had to seek manual labour in neighbouring villages.
How did this situation change? Datta Kharat, who took the initiative, explained in detail. With no water conservation works, an upstream dam, and low rainfall, irrigated farming was negligible. They deliberated and decided to build weirs on the village's large stream, known as the Kasalganga River. It was decided to construct nearly six weirs through public contributions. The cost seemed daunting, but various organisations stepped forward to help, and work began. Once started, public contributions flowed in generously. Removing encroachments by neighbouring farmers on the long-dry riverbed seemed a major challenge, but once the work commenced, even those farmers cooperated. The deepening and widening of the stream produced silt that rendered nearly 300 to 400 acres of land fertile. This became possible through community participation, financial contribution, collective passion, and the support of welfare organisations.
When asked how this idea occurred to him, Datta mentioned that while serving in the police force, he had seen many villages prosper through small weirs, stream widening, and watershed development. He realised that the water in their own shivar needed to be impounded. This vision became reality with the people's support and institutional aid. "Much more work can still be done!" he added.
Finally, we asked about the estimated cost of this entire project. He replied, "The cost was quite substantial!" When pressed for a figure, he answered, "Around 1.5 crore rupees." To them, 1.5 crores seemed like a massive sum because the villagers had raised it themselves. However, from the government's perspective, this figure is trivial. It is trivial because the return on this investment was far greater and materialised much faster. In a poor country like India, public funds must be directed where they yield high returns in a short period—and that return must be distributed among the maximum number of people. Had the government provided this ₹1.5 crore fund, what would the rate of return have been? A rough estimate can certainly be made.
Before water came to the village of Katphal, the main kharif crop was bajra (pearl millet). Productivity was 7 to 10 quintals per acre. Even assuming an average rate of ₹3,000, the income ranged from ₹21,000 to 30,000. The main rabi crop was jowar (sorghum); its productivity and income matched bajra, though it provided extra fodder. In years of good rain, wheat was grown in the rabi season. For one acre of bajra, 40 to 45 labour days were sufficient from sowing to threshing.
With the arrival of water, farmers chose to grow bell peppers. The area under bell pepper cultivation is estimated to be 250 to 300 acres. The net profit from one acre is between ₹4-5 lakhs; in years with good prices, some farmers make up to ₹10 lakhs. Compare the meagre ₹30,000 from jowar to these massive figures of ₹4-10 lakhs. Moreover, this wealth is distributed among many more people (as bell pepper farming requires over 150 labour days per acre for nurseries, planting, and harvesting). All of this occurred within just six or seven years of the investment.
The prosperity of Katphal is founded on the principle of highly efficient resource utilisation. Water was the most critical component, which the people of Katphal used for a crop in high demand. A major problem in our country's agriculture is that most farming and farmers are still trapped in food grain production. Trapped is the operative word because the demand for food grains has slowed, while the demand for vegetables and fruits is rising. Vegetables are a crop that yields returns in a short period, offering a massive opportunity for small farmers. Tragically, due to the lack of this very minor investment, countless farmers and labourers remain deprived of such prosperity. Young men like Linga Hubale are wasting the prime years of their lives enduring an agonising and largely unfulfilling existence in the cities.
This article is authored by Milind Murugkar & Satish Karande, researchers in agriculture.
