In Part 5 of the series on urban poverty in Priya Manna Basti, Kolkata, Amina Khatoon recounts the absence of the most basic civic amenities: around 20 families share one toilet; excreta and waste flow into open drains; 38% of women get no healthcare during pregnancy.

It was only after the formation of the Howrah Municipal Corporation in 1984, and the initiation of slum development work thereafter, that septic tank latrines were built in Priya Manna Basti, a shantytown in the heart of Howrah, Kolkata, where 40,000 poor Muslims live. But today, virtually all of them are defunct. Not surprisingly, gastrointestinal and waterborne diseases are rampant.

In a study conducted in a section of Priya Manna Basti during 2005-06 for the government of West Bengal’s Kolkata Urban Services for the Poor (KUSP) project, the New Delhi-based organisation TARU investigated civic infrastructure. It found that there was an extremely high load on water sources in the area. Most households reported that despite water sources being close to their homes, people had to spend a considerable amount of time collecting water. The high load resulted in long queues and frequent quarrels between residents. There was also a serious water pressure problem, resulting in a weak flow of water through standposts. Often, the water sources were situated close to drains, making them prone to contamination. Water pipelines were damaged and had a number of leaks, affecting the quality of water. This was reflected in the foul smell, and insects and other objects found in the water.

TARU found that approximately 86% of households in the surveyed area shared a toilet with their neighbours. Over time, most of the septic tanks had filled up, forcing people to link them to open drains. A typical hutment in the area had 15-20 families (approximately 70-80 people) living together and sharing a common toilet. Children defecated out in the open, by the side of drains and internal pathways. As a result, all the excreta and faecal matter found its way to the open drains which are frequented by stray dogs. The entire area stinks, with drains often clogged and overflowing.

Residents reported that the drains were cleaned every 8-10 days. Internal roads and pavements too became clogged with drain water. Residents added to the problem by throwing garbage and solid waste into the drains. Promoters and builders who build multi-storied apartments do not provide facilities for the disposal of waste water. Some apartments in the study settlement had no proper arrangements for the disposal of household waste water. In such apartments, waste water is discharged directly into open drains.

The open drains, the congestion, and the resulting waterlogging become unbearable in the monsoons when two to three hours of incessant rain cause the roads to flood. Rain water, waste water and faecal matter from open drains spread out over the surroundings. It takes a while (five to six hours) for the water to drain away, leaving garbage and waste on the streets of the settlement. The TARU study area had three garbage disposal bins that provided solid waste disposal space to 258 households. Less than 55% of households reported disposing of their solid waste in the municipal bins; the rest got rid of solid waste along roadsides, in open spaces, or in drains.

Residents were aware of the potential health impact of garbage and solid waste strewn all around the settlement. They reported that garbage removal by the Corporation was done very infrequently, sometimes at intervals of over 10 days. Besides the stray dogs, heaps of garbage breed mosquitoes and other insects, becoming breeding grounds for a number of diseases. This is how hundreds of thousands of people live in the heart of the metropolis. It is not at all surprising therefore that the Howrah Municipal Corporation’s statistics on infant mortality show a disproportionately high death rate among Muslim infants.

In a recent paper titled ‘The Politics of Urban Service Provision in Kolkata’, geographer Sohel Firdos writes that civic services such as water supply, sanitation and lighting are extremely inadequate in municipal wards where slums predominate. He cites the example of Ward 58 in Kolkata where only a third of households have piped water supply inside their houses. As far as light sources are concerned, about a tenth of households in this ward have no access to electricity; they use kerosene lamps to light their homes. Firdos concludes that even though the electoral outcomes in slum-dominated wards are entirely dependent on the votes of the poor, because of their electoral strength, elected municipal representatives seem to consistently ignore the requirements of slum-dwellers for civic services. He reflects on the nature of democratic functioning of the urban local body where, although the political participation of the poor in elections is ensured, the provision of municipal services to this constituency remains systematically neglected.

Given this civic apathy and decay, it is not surprising that women are worst-affected.In 2003, social scientist Rajashi Mukherjee conducted a survey of 80 women living in 15 pockets of Priya Manna Basti. The table below shows the averages of some key indicators:

Age 32.1 Marriage age 16.2 Years married 15.9 1st birth at: 17.8 Pregnancies 6.1 Miscarriages 1.0 Live births 5.1 Children alive 4.4 Dead children 0.7

The averages do not reveal the worst-case scenarios: one woman had 11 pregnancies, including two miscarriages, with two of the nine children subsequently dying. Or that four more women had nine pregnancies and again multiple miscarriages as well as child deaths.

The findings regarding medical care during pregnancy are given below:

Type of care % No care 38 Local doctor/ Local quack 30 Hospital 19 Dai 6 Homoeopath 3 Charitable dispensary 1 Nursing home 1 Local doctor and dai 1 Local doctor and traditional medicines 1

The women reported various problems during pregnancy. The responses are summarised below:

Problems faced % Hands and feet swell up 21 Feel dizzy/weakness/head reels 21 Anaemia 21 White discharge 10 Bleeding 4 Feet and legs ache 3 Backache 1 Recurrent fever 3 Worms 4 Vomiting 36 Food does not digest/ weak stomach 7 Lack of appetite 3 No problems 16

The table below summarises the findings regarding the nature of delivery:

Delivery done by % Dai (at home) 53 Dai and local doctor 3 Dai and nursing home 3 Dai and hospital 13 Hospital 24 Nursing home 4

How are miscarriages handled when they occur? The table below summarises findings from the survey:

Miscarriage handled by % No one/at home 26 Dai 0 Nursing home 20 Hospital 23 Marie Stopes 17 Local doctor/quack 11 Local doctor and homoeopath

Findings regarding the age of infants at death are summarised in the table below:

Age at death % of infant deaths 0-3 months 18 0- 6 months 33 7-12 months 16 13-18 months 10 19-24 months 6 26-30 months 4 31-36 months 2 37-48 months 6 49-60 months 4

Finally, the causes of infant death are summarised below:

Cause of infant death % Diarrhoea 14 Rickets¬¬¬¬¬ 30 Tetanus 20 Pneumonia 16 Unknown illness 12 Fever 4 Accident 4

Rahul Banerji, an activist in Madhya Pradesh, wrote in his recently published book Recovering the Lost Tongue: “The primary cause of ill health in women is their low status in society, wherein they are relegated to a position of subordination from the moment of their birth. Girls eat last and least, are overworked and under-educated, and have to bear children from an early age. They receive inadequate medical treatment when ill and are often passed over for immunisation. Despite the biologically proven fact that women have a longer lifespan than men, in India the reverse is true in rural areas where more girls are likely to die than boys, leading to a sex ratio skewed against women in the population. Lack of property rights contributes to the general preference for a male offspring as insurance in old age. Women often go through the rigours of repeated pregnancies and childbirths to produce sufficient male children who can survive through to adulthood. Malnutrition, lack of sexual hygiene, repeated pregnancies and overwork lead to most rural women being anaemic and therefore prone to other diseases in general.”

This describes the situation in Priya Manna Basti well.

The Howrah Pilot Project (HPP) has been working with poor women and children in Priya Manna Basti since 1997. Birth control and family planning has been an important part of the efforts of HPP’s team of volunteers. Although there was a lot of resistance from people in the beginning, slowly, and through sheer persistence, there has been an acceptance. HPP also works with adolescent girls, promoting social, health, hygiene and personal awareness. Through linkages with other social organisations, visits by lady doctors and gynaecologists are organised. Changing people’s outlook on the future of girls, and promoting family planning in a community of poor Muslims are huge challenges. But they are challenges that have to be faced squarely.

 

In Part 1 of a series on urban poverty in a single settlement in Howrah, Amina Khatoon recounts the history of Priya Manna Basti, where she herself lives. Set up as a shantytown in the early-1900s to house migrant mill workers, little has changed a century later for the 40,000 poor Muslims who inhabit the basti.

There are flames dancing in the farthest corners,
throwing their shadows on a group of mourners.
Or are they lighting up a feast of poetry and wine?
From here you cannot tell, as you cannot tell
whether the colour clinging to those distant doors and walls
is that of roses or of blood. --From The City from Here by Faiz Ahmed Faiz, translated by Agha Shahid Ali

Imran Ali is a retired primary school headmaster who lives in Priya Manna Basti in Howrah. He is one of the very few educated elders in this locality. That makes him a valuable keeper of memories, a custodian of the history of this community. He tells us that before the First World War, Priya Manna Basti, situated on the Grand Trunk Road in the Shibpur locality of Howrah, across the river from Kolkata in West Bengal, was a large vacant plot. Englishmen John and James Chew owned this 48-bigha plot. There were ponds and gardens and one or two rooms where the gardeners used to live. It was known as Chew’s Garden. In the evenings, the Chew brothers, with their family members, would ride in the garden in a horse carriage. The brothers were killed in an accident when their horse went berserk and the carriage fell into a pond and they drowned. Their heirs sold the land to Jitendranath Manna. Municipal engineers surveyed the land around the time of the First World War and, at the request of the owners, the name Priya Manna Basti was bestowed upon it. By then, the Howrah Mills, Bengal Jute Mill (earlier Ganges), Fort William Jute Mill, and Burn Standard Company had come up. Given the great demand for labour, dalals were sent out to the villages to recruit young men. Poor, landless farm workers arrived from Uttar Pradesh and Bihar, from the districts of Chhapra, Siwan, Balia, Gorakhpur and Muzaffarpur. Some also came from districts in West Bengal; there were also some Tamilians. The mill workers were allowed to put up huts on plots of land. The rent was 1 paisa per month per kattha.

Thus Priya Manna Basti came into existence almost a century ago; today it has around 40,000 inhabitants, mainly Urdu-speaking Muslim labourers. Other bastis in Howrah, like Chowrah Basti, Tikiapara, Kawaipukur and Kazipara came up in similar fashion when mill workers put up huts on plots rented near where they worked.

This was the time when tram lines were being laid along the Grand Trunk Road, connecting Shibpur to Howrah station. Earlier, there were horse-drawn tram carriages.

Howrah Jute Mills functioned from 5 am to 8 pm. The mill was closed at night. People began settling in Priya Manna Basti, and the population began to grow.

The mill authorities soon began to observe that many of their workers were dying by the age of 40-50, while in their country workers lived till they were much older. The cause was evident. As the plot had been an open garden, the settlement came up in an unplanned fashion. Huts were scattered everywhere. There were no drains or sanitation. Drinking water was scarce. The mill had installed a water tap that provided water for only a few hours a day. People would go to a distant municipal tank in Kawaipukur. They filled water in buckets and carried them home. To bathe and wash clothes, people went to the river which was near the basti.

The huts were built just three feet apart. There were no chimneys on them to let out smoke, and often the whole settlement was enveloped in smoke. Given the lack of drainage and accumulation of water everywhere, mosquitoes thrived and malarial was rife.

Survey and planning:-

In 1930, after several tenants of Priya Manna Basti defaulted on rent, Manna leased out the land to Howrah Mills. The lease was till 1938. This included Priya Manna Basti as well as a portion fronting GT Road. In order to improve living conditions, mill engineers surveyed the settlement. Priya Manna Basti was divided into a number of sections, along four lanes: Nos 1-21, 1st Lane, Nos 1-34, 2nd Lane, Nos 1-71, 3rd Lane, Nos 1-20, 4th Lane, and 139-160, GT Road. A playground adjoined the basti. In 1939, part of the land was taken over by Howrah Mills. Then another part was taken over in 1951. The two plots together added up to about 38.5 bighas.

Mohammad Mainuddin is an elderly man living in Priya Manna Basti. He was born in 1938, in 35, Priya Manna Basti, 3rd Lane. His grandfather, who was from Arrah district in Bihar, came to the city to work in the jute mill. After getting the job he got his wife to join him. Mainuddin’s father too worked for the British mill managers at wages of Rs 15 a week.

During the Second World War, Howrah Mills made tent material. This was sent to Russia, where apparently the tents created quite an impression. When Khrushchev came to Kolkata in the mid-1950s, he visited Howrah Mills. Two people met Khrushchev, the then manager of the mill and the head sardar, Sheikh Mohammad Ismail. He was from Balia, in eastern Uttar Pradesh.

Ismail Sardar’s influence in bringing people to the city from Balia is evident. There were many people from Bihar. There was also a small community of Chinese jute factory workers living in the neighbourhood. They were mostly skilled workers -- carpenters, electricians and tool makers.

Partition, communal riots and the growth of Priya Manna Basti

During the pre-Independence period, people in Priya Manna Basti were supporters of both the Congress and the Muslim League. The Congress leader then was Noor Mohammad Ansari. In 1946, Ansari invited M A Jinnah to address a public meeting in Howrah. For the meeting, sackcloth to seat people in Howrah Maidan was obtained from Howrah Mills and provided by workers from the basti. Shortly after that, Mahatma Gandhi addressed a meeting here.

About a fourth of the households in Priya Manna Basti left for Pakistan in 1947, mainly West Pakistan. Gufran Ali was among them. He eventually became a superintendent in the Pakistan railways. Mohammad Usman and Mohammad Umar, who also left Priya Manna Basti for West Pakistan, rose to become bank managers there.

Around the time of Partition, communal riots were frequent and people were afraid to step out of their homes. When they did, they worried about whether they would return alive. During the 1950 riots in Howrah, Muslims living in localities adjoining Priya Manna Basti, like Kawaipukur, Olasthan, Maila Depot and Bania Para, moved into Priya Manna Basti and the nearby Chowrah Basti. This increased the population in the basti. The newcomers were Urdu speakers from Uttar Pradesh and Bihar.

People went out to work together, and they returned together. Then one day in 1948, while a group of around 30 people were on their way to work and passing through a Hindu locality, they were surrounded and beaten up. Six people died on the spot; others were injured and taken to Howrah General Hospital.

Qurban Ali was one of those who came to the basti at that time. He has lived in Priya Manna Basti since 1949, when he was around 12. His father was from Balia, in Uttar Pradesh. He recalls that people went to work at Howrah Jute Mills at 6 am. The shifts ran from 6-11 am, and then from 1.30-5 pm. Saturday was a half-day and Sunday a holiday. After the men went to work, the women did not move out. There were long lines at the handpump from 4 am. When it rained, water stood around for a week.

Qurban Ali used to study at Howrah Mills’ Muslim Free Primary School, where he completed Class 4. In 1951, he joined Howrah Mills as a helper. He would get Rs 7 for seven days of work. In 1952, he joined Fort William Jute Mill where he got Rs 11.25 for seven days work. He got married in 1953. Qurban Ali remembers that Kazi Habibullah was the person who used to look after matters in Priya Manna Basti on behalf of Howrah Jute Mills. Daya

Miya represented the basti-dwellers. There were no lights inside the basti except at four points where the municipality had provided kerosene lamps. Before 1960, Bari Masjid, Ismail Sardar’s house and Abdul Manager’s house had electricity, courtesy the mill. Choti Masjid had electricity courtesy the Bengal Jute Mill. Mohammad Mainuddin enjoyed electricity for the first time in 1962, when, as a tenant, he got an electric connection from his landlord. His house rent was Rs 1.50 per month and for electricity he paid Rs 0.50 per month, for one light point.

During the India-Pakistan war of 1965, when some Muslims in India were rounded up under a special ordinance, people from Priya Manna Basti were also taken into custody. This created a strong sense of insecurity. But being a jute workers’ basti, jute mill union affairs dominated the consciousness of the inhabitants. CITU was a major force here.

The first proper building to come up was at 25, Priya Manna Basti, 3rd Lane. It belonged to Samsuddin and was completed in 1972. Samsuddin ran the ration shop in the area.

For 40,000 people, this is home:-

Twenty people to 100 square feet, 100 people to a single toilet, open drains, illegally “hooked” electricity, young men wrapped in plastic sheets sleeping out in the rain….Part 2 in our series on urban poverty in Priya Manna Basti, Howrah.

Priya Manna Basti in Howrah grew around the jute mills that provided employment to the migrants who flocked into Calcutta in the first half of the 20th century. A hundred years on, little has changed. It continues to be backward and it continues to be populated by permanent or temporary workers at the jute mills, owners of small shops, fruit and vegetable-sellers, rickshaw-drivers or workers in shops in Kolkata’s Barrabazaar. Very few have white-collar jobs.

Ainul Haq is 58. He works in the jute mill. His father and grandfather both grew up in Priya Manna Basti. Ainul was born into a very poor family. His father drank excessively and squandered his money. His mother worked as a domestic help. At an early age, all three brothers worked in other people’s homes. Ainul fetched water, held umbrellas over street vendors and worked in a barber’s saloon, first as a masseur and then as a barber. He started working at the jute mill when he was about 18. He has never been inside a school.

Ainul recalls the days when there were intimate and harmonious relations between people. He realises today that their parents never thought about their children’s future. He has three daughters and two sons; the eldest daughter is married. When asked what he wants for his children, he says he has no dreams of turning his children into doctors or engineers. He wants them to be good citizens and decent human beings. He has sent his eldest son overseas, to the Gulf, to work. “I did not want my children to face the hardship and hard work I did. I want them to have a better life.”

Besides being a place of dwelling, the basti is also a place where a lot of household manufacturing takes place. Among the products made here are knives, footwear, hair clips, bangles, bindis, polished vessels, zari embroidery, and toys. There are also a few nihariyas who extract precious metals from the floor sweepings of goldsmith shops.

Most of the people of Priya Manna Basti are uneducated. Indeed, this settlement of around 40,000 people has only one higher secondary school (Urdu-medium) which came up around two years ago. Earlier, girls could study here only till Class 8; then, about five years ago, a separate girls section was started, going up to Class 10. The school was extended to Class 10 (for boys) in 1986. It received recognition as a junior high school in 1978. There are also two smaller Urdu-medium primary schools that are recognised and aided by the government. In addition, there are two unrecognised junior high schools (till Class 8) -- one for girls only and one for boys and girls. And there is one non-formal school, Talimi Haq School.

There are two mosques and one madrasa in Priya Manna Basti. There is no government healthcare centre although, at least on paper, there is supposed to be one. If there is, no one knows about it and no one goes there. Apparently, it has been turned into a political party office. There are a number of youth clubs and associations inside Priya Manna Basti. In fact, every lane has several. But only a few are registered organisations. There’s Bharat Gymnastic where one can exercise, watch TV and play carom. This is also the venue for the government’s anganwadi programme. Then there’s Seven Star Club for TV and football; Tiger Club has carom and also boasts a football team. Riyaz Ali (name changed) is an unemployed youth who lives in Priya Manna Basti. He is a graduate. He visits the clubs frequently. Or he goes to his former college, Shibpur Dinabandhu Institution. He says he plays carom to freshen his mind, and for entertainment. Everyone is allowed to play in the club; those who lose pay Rs 4 each. That’s an income for the club. Riyaz confesses that he often entices girls and gets his way with them by putting drugs into their tea. One girl tried to kill herself when he refused to marry her. After suffering for several months, she died. Riyaz Ali used to live near Mallik Phatak in Howrah. He says he received “training” at an early age from local youths, delivering letters and buying medicines or condoms. He has mastered the art of “assessing” girls, spotting who is fair game. When he was young he would lay wagers on accosting and “squeezing” girls.

There are a number of social organisations in Priya Manna Basti. Anjuman Tamiri Millat distributes clothes among poor women on Id, gives out blankets in winter, and assists in the marriage of poor girls. Tanzeem Aslah-e-Millat has a dispensary run by someone who calls himself a doctor. It provides nursing training to girls who have passed Class 10, and first-aid training to young people. The organisation attempts to place the girls in nursing homes, but charges Rs 200-250 every month, besides a hefty admission fee. It also lends old schoolbooks to children. Sir Syed Library used to distribute books among poor students, but has now stopped. It runs a school elsewhere, in Fazir Bazaar. All these social organisations get funds from the basti community, through the sale of animal skins after Bakri Id and from zakaat contributions. The NGO SEED runs a dispensary and a so-called “English-medium” school that charges the same kind of fees as other local “English-medium” schools. SEED also maintains a short-stay home for girls, but the girls here are not from Priya Manna Basti. South Point is a dispensary run by the German Doctors’ Committee. It provides free medicines.

Howrah Pilot Project is a voluntary association that runs a pre-primary and primary school, a sewing and stitch-craft school, and a school for working boys. It also organises free cataract operations and undertakes family planning counselling. Because of problems between the mill authorities and the people of the basti, and following a court order, the playground adjoining and serving the community at Priya Manna Basti has been closed for some years.

Twenty to a room

The people of Priya Manna Basti live under the ‘thika tenancy’ arrangement. The land belongs to one person (the mill), the hut to someone else (the thika tenant), and a third party lives in the hut (the worker). Most people are long-time residents, having lived here for generations. The average dimensions of a room in Priya Manna Basti are 10x10 sq ft. Each room has a small verandah out front where the women cook, bathe and wash clothes.

Earlier, the single huts were made out of mud and had semi-cylindrical tile roofs. Some of these are still visible today. Later, the huts were integrated around the four sides of an open courtyard, or aangan. During weddings, the guests ate in the courtyard. Clothes were washed and hung to dry in the courtyard; indeed there were so many quarrels over the drying of clothes that an arrangement was worked out whereby time was allotted to each family for this purpose. The women did not stir out of their homes. When the men left for work, they emerged in the courtyard and sat in the sun. When someone died, the body was washed in the courtyard before being taken for burial. Thus, the courtyard was the focal point for most families.

When hutments around a courtyard are demolished to construct a building, there is a discussion between the tenants and the hut owners. The tenants are told that they will get a proper room within six months. But during those six months they face enormous difficulties. They have to find a place to stay and often end up paying ten times higher rent for temporary accommodation. Sometimes, the building could take up to two years to be completed.

Sogra Khatoon, a middle-aged woman, recalls that while sunlight and fresh air were abundant earlier, in the new buildings people pine for a bit of light and air. Rooms given to people in the new buildings measure a maximum of 100 sq ft; they could be as small as 60 sq ft. As many as 20 people often live in these tiny quarters (the minimum number would be six). In several houses, chickens and goats too are raised in this small space.

The women sleep indoors, men outside. When shops in the basti close for the night, people sleep outside them, or on handcarts. Quarrels over sleeping space are common, especially when darkness envelops the basti during a power cut or when the electricity inspectors arrive. Most of the electricity in Priya Manna Basti is come by illegally. Not just here, but in bastis across the city, electricity is mostly obtained illegally, by “hooking”.

The most trying time for the inhabitants is during the monsoon. People who do not have a roof over their heads stand through the night waiting for the rain to stop so they can lie down somewhere. Young boys who drive cycle-rickshaws all day wrap themselves in a plastic sheet and get comfortable on a handcart. Rain or no rain, it makes little difference to them. They have to go out to work the next day, so they have to find a way to sleep at night.

Mohammad Raja, 15, is a cycle-rickshaw puller. During the monsoon, he sleeps out in the rain under a plastic sheet. Raja has four sisters. Three of them are married but they continue to stay with him and his mother. Their elder brother is mentally ill. Their father is dead, so the responsibility of the family has fallen on Raja’s young shoulders. He had to discontinue his studies and start driving a rickshaw. He has been doing this for the last three years. The vehicle is not his; he drives a hired rickshaw for which he pays Rs 30 every day as rent. “If I stay away from work for even a day, how will my family survive? And I have to pay a rental on the vehicle too. So I have to get some sleep at night in order to be able to go to work the next morning. Ours is a small room. There is no space for me. So I have to look for place outside.”

The women are forced to sleep indoors whether there is electricity or not. When the men are at home, the women cannot bathe. Sometimes it is a week before they can have a bath. There is no separate kitchen. Food is cooked inside the room. Some women put wooden planks over the drains and cook on them. The buildings discharge excreta into these narrow drains that run along the lanes. And all of them are open. No one ever complains to the owner of the building. Nor does the corporation do anything. When people cook their food next to these drains, how can they stay healthy? In a plot with hutments around a courtyard there is usually just one toilet which is used by at least 10 families. That could mean as many as 100 people. Each one has to wait his turn. Women bathe with their clothes on and so are unable to wash themselves properly. When girls and women menstruate, they use old cloth which is re-used after washing.

Illegal construction

Over the last 15 years or so, large tracts of basti land in the city have become targets for illegal construction. Even in the largest bastis, the characteristic red tile roofs are fast disappearing, to be replaced by ugly, unsafe and poorly constructed buildings of up to five floors. This has put additional strain on the already overstretched civic amenities in the bastis.

Buildings are constructed without any formal sanction and in total violation of the corporation’s building byelaws. Corporation functionaries, political party leaders and workers and local businessmen and criminals-turned-promoters have all enhanced their mutual interests and earnings through such illegal construction. In 1997, the Howrah Municipal Corporation started taking action against illegal construction after the situation deteriorated. One structure in Priya Manna Basti was partially demolished and a few building owners and promoters taken into custody. Notices were subsequently served on the owners of these buildings. For a long time, the structures remained incomplete. Then the beneficiaries of the illegal construction grew restive and soon enough, the illegal construction resumed.

The land on which Priya Manna Basti stands belongs to Howrah Mills. But the law protects the hut-owning thika tenants’ rights. And they have limited rights to develop the existing structures. External promoters approach the thika tenants -- who presently receive nominal rents and also lack the capital to undertake any development -- and obtain the right to construct four-to-five-storey buildings. The structures violate the building bye-laws. They are poorly constructed and unsafe. As they lack any proper sanitation facilities, the flats discharge excreta directly into the drains in the basti lanes.

The tenants move out temporarily, to return to ill-lit, poorly ventilated, single-room units in the new structures for which they have to pay a greater rent. They are allotted units in the illegal floors, which are usually smaller than their earlier rooms. They also lose access to open and communal spaces like inner courtyards. New flats in the illegal building are given to outsiders who are in need of residential or commercial space. They are given out by the promoter for a one-time lumpsum payment (salaami) -- a hefty amount, but still much less than the market value of built-up space in the locality -- besides a relatively modest monthly rent. In Priya Manna Basti today, the salaami would be around Rs 400-500 per square foot, and the monthly rent Re 1 per square foot. The salaami gives the new household ‘secure’ occupation rights over the unit. The promoter pockets the salaami and collects rent for five to seven years, after which the right to collect rent is given over to the thika tenant. For the original tenants’ units, the rent is retained by the thika tenant. Though everything in these transactions is illegal, it flourishes. The police, local political leaders and activists from the major political parties, hoodlums, municipal councillors and officials -– all plan and execute the deals.

Given the already severely degraded conditions in the bastis, such illegal construction makes the possibility of wholesome improvements or planned redevelopment more remote.

The alternative

After having lived for generations and decades in the basti, in the city, the inhabitants have a right to be granted legal title to shelter. The basti must be physically redeveloped in their favour, with their active participation. The manufacturing activities of small entrepreneurs in the basti are presently severely crippled because of lack of working space, obsolete production techniques, difficulty in procuring raw materials and lack of access to credit and markets. With institutional attention and assistance, these trades and self-employment avenues could be upgraded. The Jawaharlal Nehru National Urban Renewal Mission could provide a major boost to the process of basti redevelopment.

With the present economic downturn, real estate developers have become a little passive, offering the opportunity to pursue another vision -- that of community-led basti redevelopment which could be a powerful means to renew the community spirit and empower the labouring poor. It is a challenge that the youth of Priya Manna Basti must take up.

At the root of the growing poverty in Priya Manna Basti is the absence of quality education. Only 10% of the residents have finished secondary education, and only 5% are graduates. Around 50% of children of school-going age are out of school. Amina Khatoon points out the reasons for these shocking statistics in the third part of her series on urban poverty.

When you look at the city from here,
among the populace you see no one
with any dignity or pride. No one is aware… From The City From Here by Faiz Ahmed Faiz, translated by Agha Shahid Ali.

At the root of the continuing and growing poverty in Priya Manna Basti is education. Or the absence of any meaningful education. Being out of school is a vital indicator of chronic poverty. About 10% of the population of Priya Manna Basti falls in this poorest category. Around 40,000 people live in Priya Manna Basti. There are two Urdu-medium primary schools and a government-aided higher secondary school in the basti. There are also two non-government junior high schools and one non-formal school.

At the government Urdu-medium primary schools there are at least 50-70 students in each class. The school opens at 6.45 am but the teachers only arrive at 7.30 am. When they do arrive, they sit around and chat in the staff room. Until the teachers enter the class, the children are a riotous, noisy bunch. It takes at least an hour to quieten them, take the daily attendance and check their notebooks. Thus the first lesson is often missed. So is the last. That’s because the children are supposed to get a midday meal comprising rice and vegetables, and sometimes an egg or some khir. As the school is also a day-time high school, children from the primary section are fed early, ie during the last class.

Are the remaining three periods enough to teach them the entire syllabus properly? Strangely, the students manage to pass their exams with good marks. And yet a Class 4 student cannot write a single sentence correctly.

Parents make no effort to find out whether schoolwork is corrected, whether the syllabus has been completed. It doesn’t make a difference to them. But yes, they are upset if they think their children have received less food, or maybe did not receive an egg that day. In such cases, they visit the school and complain to the teachers. For the parents of a poor family with several children, the purpose of sending the child to school is simply to avail of the free midday meal. With so many children, there’s no place for everyone in the tiny room they call home. Under such circumstances, parents prefer sending their children to school rather than have them wander the lanes and bylanes of the basti.

If the primary education of these children is so inadequate, how can they pursue higher education? Most children who get 70-80% in the Class 4 exam are unable to get admission into Class 5; only a few names appear on the admissions list. Although hundreds of thousands of Urdu-speaking people live in Howrah, there are only three Urdu-medium schools for boys and four for girls in the area. Can the needs of the Urdu-speaking community be met with so few schools?

Howrah Higher Secondary School, which is in Priya Manna Basti, has 175 seats in Class 5. At least 1,300 admission forms are distributed among the hopefuls, for a fee of Rs 30 each. But just over 100 children’s names appear on the list. The remaining seats are reserved for children of the teachers’ relatives or people associated with the ruling party.

So, where do all the remaining children go? Some rejoin Class 4 and others join private schools. But several are unable to pay the admission fee in private schools. They are forced to begin working, starting a different chapter in their lives. It’s as though they have moved directly from childhood to adulthood. They begin working when they are 10-12 years old.

The education of the few children who are admitted to Class 5 begins anew. Teachers who teach at the school give tuitions after school hours where they explain what they have taught at school properly, and see that the child does her homework. In return, they charge a hefty fee. Parents are compelled to send their children for tuitions because if they do not their children would fail, and no one wants that.

Only about a quarter of the children who are admitted to Class 5 stay on at school to take the secondary school examination. About 50-60% of them pass. Some of those who pass join the higher secondary class, while others take up a vocational course. About 30-40% of those who take the higher secondary examination clear it. Only a few then join college for undergraduate studies.

When the children get to college after having spent 12 years of their life in an Urdu-medium school, they become aware just how handicapped and helpless they are. In college, lecturers take classes in English or Bengali. All the books are in English. And they barely know those languages. Somehow a few students manage to graduate, but they are really very far from receiving a good education. Yes, the children are exposed to computers at government schools but I conducted a survey at an Urdu-medium government school and found that the school had computers and the teachers had received training in computer applications. They teachers had trained for exactly seven days, based on which they were expected to teach the children!

Little wonder then that the teachers who teach at government Urdu-medium schools send their own children to English- or Bengali-medium schools. An inside view Mohammad Jamaluddin is the headmaster of Howrah Upper Primary School. He became headmaster in November 2008; earlier he worked as assistant teacher at another Urdu-medium primary school, Bazme Shorfa Primary School, in nearby Chowrah Basti, in Shibpur. According to Jamaluddin the total number of students from Class 1 to Class 4 in his school is 493. There are two sections in each class, totalling eight classes in all. But there are only seven teachers. That means at least one class is permanently ‘teacher-less’. The number of students in each class is as follows:

Class Number of students 106 /109 /130/ 148.

He explains that there is a government dictum on not holding back any student, all must be promoted to the next class. The students’ acquisition of knowledge does not matter. And so when they go to senior school, to join Class 5, they encounter huge problems. Jamaluddin believes that in order to cover up their own failure in teaching students properly, teachers give students high marks in the exams.

The school sends a monthly report to the government; the actual number of students and teachers is regularly reported. Yet, the government takes no action. Instead, it asks the school authorities to form committees, hold regular meetings with mothers and with the ward committee. Jamaluddin says: “As it is we have a shortage of teachers. If we now have to organise these meetings and committees then when will we do our main work of teaching?”

But he remains hopeful. At the beginning of March, notices were posted at various public points about his school’s requirement for five teachers. They have asked for eight more teachers. Sarva Shiksha Abhiyan: A view from the ground.

In July 2005 an ad in The Statesman invited proposals from NGOs under the Sarva Shiksha Abhiyan for Howrah. A meeting was organised at the district magistrate’s office, where a presentation was made by programme officials on how the application form was to be filled in. The form asked for details of the children’s register that is supposed to be maintained at each municipal ward. On behalf of the Howrah Pilot Project, I was applying for support for the Talimi Haq School. We found that no register existed in our ward, so we did a fresh survey of children of school-going age who did not attend school. After considerable difficulty, the application was submitted by the due date in August 2005. There was no response -- for almost four years! Then we received a letter in February 2009 telling us to collect a form within three days, and submit it within a week. The letter mentioned -- incorrectly -- that an earlier effort had been made in 2007, and that it could not be completed due to unavoidable circumstances. When the Sarva Shiksha Abhiyan coordinator was contacted, she shooed us away saying that the application date had passed. Urdu-medium education

In recent years, social scientists have undertaken a number of important studies on Urdu-medium education and slum-dwellers. A socio-economic survey in Priya Manna Basti by TARU, New Delhi, shows that about a third of children of school-going age, that is 6-14 years (both male and female), are either engaged in full-time employment or work to help their parents meet household expenses. This stems from a variety of factors -- pressure to earn arising out of a large family, death, retirement or illness of the primary breadwinner, etc. Ragpicking, assisting in small enterprises like tea stalls, hotels, grocery shops, helping parents or family members do bead- or zari-work and embroidery are some of the tasks undertaken by boys. Girls work as domestic help, or assist their mothers in bead-work, toy-making, embroidery, zari-work, etc. Occupations like ragpicking, though economically lucrative, involve loss of human dignity and identity. Many children face this at an early age.

Dr Sohel Firdos conducted a socio-economy survey of households in Priya Manna Basti, Howrah, in 2005. His survey covered only 100 households, but as it was undertaken in the basti itself, the findings merit a closer look. Though the literacy rate in Priya Manna Basti -- nearly 70% -- was appreciable, the actual educational attainments of the literate were poor. About one-third of them were only educated up to primary level; another 45% were educated up to the middle level. Those who were able to finish their secondary education constituted around one-tenth of the total literates. A mere 5% had completed graduation.

Studying the educational deprivation of children in Priya Manna Basti, Firdos found that about 15% of children in the 5-19 years age-group had never entered a school, and about one-third dropped out after starting. Thus, only about half the children in this age-group continued their schooling; the other half were out of the school system.

The percentage of girls who had never been to school, at about 13%, was lower than that of boys, at about 17%. Similarly, the percentage of girls who continued in school, about 57%, was higher than that for boys, at about 51%. Firdos says that this gender differential may be explained by the fact that boys bear the greater responsibility of working at an earlier age, and that educating girls is only seen as improving their marriage prospects.

Analysing data on children who had dropped out at various stages of schooling, Firdos found that the highest percentage of children staying away from school was at the middle level (Classes 5-8), followed by the primary level (Classes 1-4). The proportion of drop-outs at the middle level was double that at the primary level, at 53.85% and 27.88% respectively. It therefore emerges that most drop-outs occur either at the middle or primary levels. A little below one-fifth of drop-outs take place at the high school level. An investigation of drop-outs according to gender showed that the percentage of girls who dropped out at the primary stage was about half that of boys. But the percentage of girls who dropped out at the high school level was double that of boys.

Looking at age-specific enrolment ratios, Firdos found that although both boys and girls had a similar enrolment ratio of about 81% in the early age-group of 5-9 years, in the next age-group of 10-14, the enrolment ratio fell sharply to 67.11% for boys while it actually improved to 86.36% among girls. The enrolment ratio for both boys and girls took a huge plunge in the next age-group, 15-19 years. It was a mere 14.29% for boys while in the case of girls it was 19.70%. The age-group 10-14 thus appears to be a watershed in terms of continuation of education. It would appear that most school-going children are unable to continue their education beyond the age of 14. Firdos also looked at expenditure on education. An overwhelming majority of parents in the basti bore the cost of educating their children, incurring between Rs 11.67 per child per month and Rs 1,666 per child per month. Most parents were concentrated at the lower end of this expenditure spectrum. About half the parents spent less than Rs 100 per child every month, and one-third spent between Rs 101 and Rs 500. There were only a few who could afford to spend a substantial amount on their children’s education. Thus, even those in the low-income bracket had to spend out of their meagre income to support the education of their children.

In an article published in The Statesman in 2005 on the educational scenario among Kolkata’s Urdu-speaking community, anthropologist Dr M K A Siddiqui wrote that the total number of boys and girls of school-going age in this population was estimated to be 140,000. The total enrolment figure for boys and girls in this linguistic group, in all 27 recognised schools that catered to their educational needs, did not exceed 14,663. The 27 recognised schools, with the exception of one or two, were extremely substandard and incredibly overcrowded. Only 11% of Urdu-speaking boys and girls went to school.

Siddiqui points out, on the basis of a survey in a basti in Kolkata conducted in 1997, that the percentage of illiteracy was higher than what it was on the eve of independence in 1947. According to him, this is an index of the downward mobility of the community in terms of literacy; it is even greater in overall education.

Siddiqui says that in spite of their socio-economic situation, there is a burning passion among the vast majority of Urdu-speaking people to get an education and educate their children. They see this as the only way to change their lot. But when they try to give their children the benefit of education they experience only frustration. Siddiqui makes the chilling assessment that the very survival of the community as a self-respecting segment of society is at stake because of this. Looking ahead.

In an article on primary education among Muslim slumdwellers in Kolkata published in the Economic & Political Weekly in 2005, economist Dr Zakir Husain concluded that education was considered important for both boys and girls. But since Muslims perceived a bias against themselves in the labour market, boys become disinterested in further education. They seek work in the informal job market instead. Husain therefore advocates the replacement of formal education at the secondary level by vocational training courses. He believes that this would enable self-employment and also counteract economic disincentives to seeking education. Also, it could lead the low-income Muslim slum-dweller to allocate more towards his children’s education.

Husain points out that a different process is at work as far as girls are concerned. He emphasises the role played by mothers in supervising the education of their children. Educated mothers are what is needed; an education also helps women in the event of desertion. Parents educate their girl-children with all these factors in mind.

Once she reaches adolescence, however, a girl’s movements are restricted. Husain believes this can in fact prove positive for her education. As girls are restricted to their immediate neighbourhood and to the nearby school, this could serve to increase their focus and lead to higher educational aspirations. But he does identify the conflict between providing education and preparing girls for their future domestic role. This conflict manifests itself not at the primary level but at the secondary level, eventually leading to the withdrawal of the girl from school, either to get married or to prepare for her marital duties. Husain believes that a change in social attitudes is important. Increasing the age of marriage for Muslim girls, through legislation, is crucial. He highlights the challenge for social movements in this regard, which could also lead to Muslim women moving out of the household and into the external world.

Siddiqui concludes his assessment of the Urdu-medium educational system in Kolkata by saying that if the Urdu-speaking minority in this great metropolis is to be saved from total disaster, an educational action programme would have to be worked out by the community and society. Keeping hope alive Talimi Haq School is a non-formal learning centre in Priya Manna Basti. Established in 1998, it has taught over 700 poor children. The school is run by trained volunteers from within the community. It provides pre-primary and primary education, besides vocational training (stitching) to adolescent girls and literacy and numeracy to older working children. Children studying at Talimi Haq School are almost entirely first-generation school-goers.

Education is provided to the children through ‘joyful means’. After years of apathy on the part of parents, the school has been successful in awakening them to efforts being made on behalf of their children. While teachers earlier had to go house-to-house to motivate parents to send their children to school, today it is the parents who are bringing their children to school.

Talimi Haq School attempts to function as an island of love, decency and learning in the existing degraded social environment. The school’s objective is to educate children to become good citizens, good human beings, and good parents whose children can dream and hope to realise their dreams. Talimi Haq School too has a dream -- of becoming a full-fledged high school that can transform the lives of poor children by providing them a world class education befitting the 21st century, right here in Priya Manna Basti.

The sad part is that the people of Priya Manna Basti have tried to provide their children with a good education. The first school in the basti was set up in 1931 – as we shall see in Part 4 of this series -- and later initiatives were kept going by community efforts and contributions. The state has played only a peripheral role in bringing education to the citizens of Priya Manna Basti.

This is the story of Priya Manna Basti’s struggle since 1931 to keep education alive by setting up community schools and libraries funded by 1-anna donations from households. It is a chronicle of state neglect.

There was a time when Priya Manna Basti was a poor community struggling to get ahead in life, encouraged by community leaders. There were no schools in the basti, but people sent their children to schools in Kolkata. Now, it seems as if the community has given up the struggle, accepting that their children will be little more than labourers and petty traders like themselves (see Part 3 of this series).

Imran Ali retired in the early-1990s as headmaster of the Howrah Upper Primary School. His father, Nabi Bux, was a humble worker from Priya Manna Basti. But Imran grew up in his maternal home, in Kolkata, and did his schooling in the city. He returned to live and work in Priya Manna Basti after his matriculation.

According to Imran Ali, the Muslim Free School was set up in 1931 at 5 and 6 Priya Manna Basti, 3rd Lane. The founder of this school was a certain Abdullah, or ‘Abdul Manager’. The school consisted of three rooms with corrugated tin sheet walls and a tiled roof. A courtyard on the northwest side of the school had flowering plants in neatly laid out rows. There were electric lights, fans, furniture and water. The teachers’ salaries were paid by Howrah Mills Co Ltd.

Head teacher Mohammad Bakshi and two assistant teachers taught around 50 students, under Haji Mohammad’s supervision. There was Abdullah alias ‘Abdul Manager’, Ismail Sardar, Khuda Baksh alias ‘Kaloot’, and several others. After attending Muslim Free School, the students would go to Kolkata for higher studies, mainly to Presidency School.

The Muslim Free School closed down around 1940, with the advent of the Second World War. The students had scattered all over the city in the general panic brought on by the Japanese air strikes.

In 1951, 11 people from the basti held a meeting to discuss the possibility of re-starting the school. Its headmaster was Jalil Ahmed Rizvi. Maulvi Fida Hussain also taught at the school. They were paid Rs 40 per month each, out of a public collection. Efforts were made during 1951-53 to have the school recognised. But because the name of the school was Muslim Free School, it did not get the sought aid -- the authorities were opposed to the name.

Imran Ali recalls that a dispute arose between the group of one Abdul Ghaffar and the group of Mohammad Azizullah, alias Aziz Ghauwasi, with respect to the school’s development. Finally, in June 1953, Abdul Ghaffar gave over all responsibility of the school to Aziz Ghauwasi who consulted Imran Ali on ways of making the school self-sustaining. Imran Ali suggested changing the school’s name. He proposed that the school be named Howrah Upper Primary School and that qualified teachers be appointed in accordance with government regulations so that the school could be recognised and receive funding.

Thus, the Howrah Upper Primary School came into existence on July 1, 1953. The school’s managing committee engaged Jalil Ahmed Rizwi and Maulvi Fida Husain to teach around 50 students from Classes 1 to 5. Their monthly salaries were reduced and fixed at Rs 40 and Rs 30 respectively, in the hope that they would soon receive benefits in the shape of dearness allowance (DA) etc from the government. In March 1954, Mohammad Shamsul Ola was appointed assistant teacher in place of Maulvi Fida Husain who had left the school the previous month.

Howrah Upper Primary School was recognised on March 1, 1954. Jalil Ahmed Rizwi, head teacher, and Mohammad Shamsul Ola, assistant teacher, were approved by the district inspector of schools, Howrah, under the government of West Bengal, with state aid of Rs 41 per teacher per month in the form of DA and DG payable every six months by postal money order. In those days, the two teachers were teaching more than 100 pupils in Classes 1 to 5.

Imran Ali, who was attached to the school, would attend classes to teach students -- without remuneration -- whenever a teacher was absent or on leave so that the education of the students was not interrupted. On March 1, 1957, Imran Ali was approved as assistant teacher by the district inspector of schools, in place of Mohammad Shamsul Ola who had left the school.

There’s another version of this story which says that the school was entirely supported by the mill. But apparently the person in charge of the school inflated the number of teachers on the rolls and thus took more money than he was allowed. A few people unearthed the scam and complained to the mill authorities. The mill appointed some of its officers to look into the matter. Indeed, they found that things were not in order. So funding was stopped and the school closed.

As it was the only school in the area, its closure caused a lot of hardship to local residents. Ghulam Rasool and his associates tried to revive the school on their own with a donation from Haji Abdul Rahim. The school committee was formed. A donation of 1 anna per month was collected from each basti household; school committee members donated 50 paise per month. Animal skins (from the Qurbani Eid) were also donated to the school.

Other efforts:-

In 1945-1946, Mohammad Yaqub Hussaini, a railway employee, started Adil Library, at 31 Priya Manna Basti Lane 2, from where a number of social initiatives, like literacy campaigns, were taken up. The property was acquired for Rs 60 before the First World War.

Janta Library too opened its doors, with night classes for children. Social functions used to be organised here. But the library soon closed down.

In 1963 a group of children started Kohinoor Library, subscribing as members and collecting old books. Later, in 1965, when Sir Syed Library came up, the two libraries merged. Another library, Awami Library, was opened in 1968; it was started by a breakaway faction of the pro-Congress Sir Syed Library. Awami was pro-CPI(M). During the United Front government of 1967, Jyoti Basu, as home minister, visited Priya Manna Basti for a meeting at the Awami Library. This library too closed down.

The demand for education in Priya Manna Basti is very strong. In 1978, the local Urdu-medium school, started and run by the people of the basti, received recognition as a junior high school. This was extended to high school status in 1986.

Twenty people to 100 square feet, 100 people to a single toilet, open drains, illegally “hooked” electricity, young men wrapped in plastic sheets sleeping out in the rain….Part 2 in our series on urban poverty in Priya Manna Basti, Howrah.

Priya Manna Basti in Howrah grew around the jute mills that provided employment to the migrants who flocked into Calcutta in the first half of the 20th century. A hundred years on, little has changed. It continues to be backward and it continues to be populated by permanent or temporary workers at the jute mills, owners of small shops, fruit and vegetable-sellers, rickshaw-drivers or workers in shops in Kolkata’s Barrabazaar. Very few have white-collar jobs.

Ainul Haq is 58. He works in the jute mill. His father and grandfather both grew up in Priya Manna Basti. Ainul was born into a very poor family. His father drank excessively and squandered his money. His mother worked as a domestic help. At an early age, all three brothers worked in other people’s homes. Ainul fetched water, held umbrellas over street vendors and worked in a barber’s saloon, first as a masseur and then as a barber. He started working at the jute mill when he was about 18. He has never been inside a school.

Ainul recalls the days when there were intimate and harmonious relations between people. He realises today that their parents never thought about their children’s future. He has three daughters and two sons; the eldest daughter is married. When asked what he wants for his children, he says he has no dreams of turning his children into doctors or engineers. He wants them to be good citizens and decent human beings. He has sent his eldest son overseas, to the Gulf, to work. “I did not want my children to face the hardship and hard work I did. I want them to have a better life.”

Besides being a place of dwelling, the basti is also a place where a lot of household manufacturing takes place. Among the products made here are knives, footwear, hair clips, bangles, bindis, polished vessels, zari embroidery, and toys. There are also a few nihariyas who extract precious metals from the floor sweepings of goldsmith shops.

Most of the people of Priya Manna Basti are uneducated. Indeed, this settlement of around 40,000 people has only one higher secondary school (Urdu-medium) which came up around two years ago. Earlier, girls could study here only till Class 8; then, about five years ago, a separate girls section was started, going up to Class 10. The school was extended to Class 10 (for boys) in 1986. It received recognition as a junior high school in 1978. There are also two smaller Urdu-medium primary schools that are recognised and aided by the government. In addition, there are two unrecognised junior high schools (till Class 8) -- one for girls only and one for boys and girls. And there is one non-formal school, Talimi Haq School.

There are two mosques and one madrasa in Priya Manna Basti. There is no government healthcare centre although, at least on paper, there is supposed to be one. If there is, no one knows about it and no one goes there. Apparently, it has been turned into a political party office. There are a number of youth clubs and associations inside Priya Manna Basti. In fact, every lane has several. But only a few are registered organisations. There’s Bharat Gymnastic where one can exercise, watch TV and play carom. This is also the venue for the government’s anganwadi programme. Then there’s Seven Star Club for TV and football; Tiger Club has carom and also boasts a football team.

Riyaz Ali (name changed) is an unemployed youth who lives in Priya Manna Basti. He is a graduate. He visits the clubs frequently. Or he goes to his former college, Shibpur Dinabandhu Institution. He says he plays carom to freshen his mind, and for entertainment. Everyone is allowed to play in the club; those who lose pay Rs 4 each. That’s an income for the club. Riyaz confesses that he often entices girls and gets his way with them by putting drugs into their tea. One girl tried to kill herself when he refused to marry her. After suffering for several months, she died. Riyaz Ali used to live near Mallik Phatak in Howrah. He says he received “training” at an early age from local youths, delivering letters and buying medicines or condoms. He has mastered the art of “assessing” girls, spotting who is fair game. When he was young he would lay wagers on accosting and “squeezing” girls.

There are a number of social organisations in Priya Manna Basti. Anjuman Tamiri Millat distributes clothes among poor women on Id, gives out blankets in winter, and assists in the marriage of poor girls. Tanzeem Aslah-e-Millat has a dispensary run by someone who calls himself a doctor. It provides nursing training to girls who have passed Class 10, and first-aid training to young people. The organisation attempts to place the girls in nursing homes, but charges Rs 200-250 every month, besides a hefty admission fee. It also lends old schoolbooks to children. Sir Syed Library used to distribute books among poor students, but has now stopped. It runs a school elsewhere, in Fazir Bazaar. All these social organisations get funds from the basti community, through the sale of animal skins after Bakri Id and from zakaat contributions. The NGO SEED runs a dispensary and a so-called “English-medium” school that charges the same kind of fees as other local “English-medium” schools. SEED also maintains a short-stay home for girls, but the girls here are not from Priya Manna Basti. South Point is a dispensary run by the German Doctors’ Committee. It provides free medicines.

Howrah Pilot Project is a voluntary association that runs a pre-primary and primary school, a sewing and stitch-craft school, and a school for working boys. It also organises free cataract operations and undertakes family planning counselling. Because of problems between the mill authorities and the people of the basti, and following a court order, the playground adjoining and serving the community at Priya Manna Basti has been closed for some years.

Twenty to a room

The people of Priya Manna Basti live under the ‘thika tenancy’ arrangement. The land belongs to one person (the mill), the hut to someone else (the thika tenant), and a third party lives in the hut (the worker). Most people are long-time residents, having lived here for generations. The average dimensions of a room in Priya Manna Basti are 10x10 sq ft. Each room has a small verandah out front where the women cook, bathe and wash clothes.

Earlier, the single huts were made out of mud and had semi-cylindrical tile roofs. Some of these are still visible today. Later, the huts were integrated around the four sides of an open courtyard, or aangan. During weddings, the guests ate in the courtyard. Clothes were washed and hung to dry in the courtyard; indeed there were so many quarrels over the drying of clothes that an arrangement was worked out whereby time was allotted to each family for this purpose. The women did not stir out of their homes. When the men left for work, they emerged in the courtyard and sat in the sun. When someone died, the body was washed in the courtyard before being taken for burial. Thus, the courtyard was the focal point for most families.


 

When hutments around a courtyard are demolished to construct a building, there is a discussion between the tenants and the hut owners. The tenants are told that they will get a proper room within six months. But during those six months they face enormous difficulties. They have to find a place to stay and often end up paying ten times higher rent for temporary accommodation. Sometimes, the building could take up to two years to be completed.

Sogra Khatoon, a middle-aged woman, recalls that while sunlight and fresh air were abundant earlier, in the new buildings people pine for a bit of light and air. Rooms given to people in the new buildings measure a maximum of 100 sq ft; they could be as small as 60 sq ft. As many as 20 people often live in these tiny quarters (the minimum number would be six). In several houses, chickens and goats too are raised in this small space.

The women sleep indoors, men outside. When shops in the basti close for the night, people sleep outside them, or on handcarts. Quarrels over sleeping space are common, especially when darkness envelops the basti during a power cut or when the electricity inspectors arrive. Most of the electricity in Priya Manna Basti is come by illegally. Not just here, but in bastis across the city, electricity is mostly obtained illegally, by “hooking”.

The most trying time for the inhabitants is during the monsoon. People who do not have a roof over their heads stand through the night waiting for the rain to stop so they can lie down somewhere. Young boys who drive cycle-rickshaws all day wrap themselves in a plastic sheet and get comfortable on a handcart. Rain or no rain, it makes little difference to them. They have to go out to work the next day, so they have to find a way to sleep at night.

Mohammad Raja, 15, is a cycle-rickshaw puller. During the monsoon, he sleeps out in the rain under a plastic sheet. Raja has four sisters. Three of them are married but they continue to stay with him and his mother. Their elder brother is mentally ill. Their father is dead, so the responsibility of the family has fallen on Raja’s young shoulders. He had to discontinue his studies and start driving a rickshaw. He has been doing this for the last three years. The vehicle is not his; he drives a hired rickshaw for which he pays Rs 30 every day as rent. “If I stay away from work for even a day, how will my family survive? And I have to pay a rental on the vehicle too. So I have to get some sleep at night in order to be able to go to work the next morning. Ours is a small room. There is no space for me. So I have to look for place outside.”

The women are forced to sleep indoors whether there is electricity or not. When the men are at home, the women cannot bathe. Sometimes it is a week before they can have a bath. There is no separate kitchen. Food is cooked inside the room. Some women put wooden planks over the drains and cook on them. The buildings discharge excreta into these narrow drains that run along the lanes. And all of them are open. No one ever complains to the owner of the building. Nor does the corporation do anything. When people cook their food next to these drains, how can they stay healthy? In a plot with hutments around a courtyard there is usually just one toilet which is used by at least 10 families. That could mean as many as 100 people. Each one has to wait his turn. Women bathe with their clothes on and so are unable to wash themselves properly. When girls and women menstruate, they use old cloth which is re-used after washing.

Illegal construction Over the last 15 years or so, large tracts of basti land in the city have become targets for illegal construction. Even in the largest bastis, the characteristic red tile roofs are fast disappearing, to be replaced by ugly, unsafe and poorly constructed buildings of up to five floors. This has put additional strain on the already overstretched civic amenities in the bastis.

Buildings are constructed without any formal sanction and in total violation of the corporation’s building byelaws. Corporation functionaries, political party leaders and workers and local businessmen and criminals-turned-promoters have all enhanced their mutual interests and earnings through such illegal construction. In 1997, the Howrah Municipal Corporation started taking action against illegal construction after the situation deteriorated. One structure in Priya Manna Basti was partially demolished and a few building owners and promoters taken into custody. Notices were subsequently served on the owners of these buildings. For a long time, the structures remained incomplete. Then the beneficiaries of the illegal construction grew restive and soon enough, the illegal construction resumed.

The land on which Priya Manna Basti stands belongs to Howrah Mills. But the law protects the hut-owning thika tenants’ rights. And they have limited rights to develop the existing structures. External promoters approach the thika tenants -- who presently receive nominal rents and also lack the capital to undertake any development -- and obtain the right to construct four-to-five-storey buildings. The structures violate the building bye-laws. They are poorly constructed and unsafe. As they lack any proper sanitation facilities, the flats discharge excreta directly into the drains in the basti lanes.

The tenants move out temporarily, to return to ill-lit, poorly ventilated, single-room units in the new structures for which they have to pay a greater rent. They are allotted units in the illegal floors, which are usually smaller than their earlier rooms. They also lose access to open and communal spaces like inner courtyards. New flats in the illegal building are given to outsiders who are in need of residential or commercial space. They are given out by the promoter for a one-time lumpsum payment (salaami) -- a hefty amount, but still much less than the market value of built-up space in the locality -- besides a relatively modest monthly rent. In Priya Manna Basti today, the salaami would be around Rs 400-500 per square foot, and the monthly rent Re 1 per square foot. The salaami gives the new household ‘secure’ occupation rights over the unit. The promoter pockets the salaami and collects rent for five to seven years, after which the right to collect rent is given over to the thika tenant. For the original tenants’ units, the rent is retained by the thika tenant. Though everything in these transactions is illegal, it flourishes. The police, local political leaders and activists from the major political parties, hoodlums, municipal councillors and officials -– all plan and execute the deals.

Given the already severely degraded conditions in the bastis, such illegal construction makes the possibility of wholesome improvements or planned redevelopment more remote.

The alternative After having lived for generations and decades in the basti, in the city, the inhabitants have a right to be granted legal title to shelter. The basti must be physically redeveloped in their favour, with their active participation. The manufacturing activities of small entrepreneurs in the basti are presently severely crippled because of lack of working space, obsolete production techniques, difficulty in procuring raw materials and lack of access to credit and markets. With institutional attention and assistance, these trades and self-employment avenues could be upgraded. The Jawaharlal Nehru National Urban Renewal Mission could provide a major boost to the process of basti redevelopment.

With the present economic downturn, real estate developers have become a little passive, offering the opportunity to pursue another vision -- that of community-led basti redevelopment which could be a powerful means to renew the community spirit and empower the labouring poor. It is a challenge that the youth of Priya Manna Basti must take up.

Girls in densely-populated Priya Manna Basti, Howrah, are married off at 14 to 18 years of age. They begin childbearing immediately. There is no sexuality/health awareness conducted by the state in this Muslim settlement, with disastrous consequences.

…When you look at the city from here,
among the populace you see no one
with any dignity or pride. No one is aware… From The City From Here by Faiz Ahmed Faiz, translated by Agha Shahid Ali.In densely populated areas like Priya Manna Basti and Chowrah Basti in Howrah, there is only one health centre. Run by the Howrah Municipal Corporation, the centre provides immunisation shots to children and oral rehydration sachets to people suffering from diarrhoea. It is unfortunate but true that even in this day and age some people in Priya Manna Basti believe that immunisation shots and pulse polio drops make children impotent.

Little attention is paid to girls’ health, contraception, nutrition and HIV-related issues. If a survey were to be conducted here, it would reveal that about 90% of women suffer some kind of gynaecological problem. There is no lady doctor at the health centre. And there are no health-awareness sessions at government schools. Elders in the family do not talk about sexuality issues; often they too are ignorant. So girls and young women have no way to learn about the problems they could face. Even dais (midwives) are not trained, though they perform most of the deliveries in the basti.

Dr Subhasis Sarkar, acting health officer in charge at the Howrah Municipal Corporation (HMC), maintains that there is an adequate public health network for Priya Manna Basti: “Forty thousand people live in Priya Manna Basti. About 10,000 people are below the poverty line. There is one health worker for every 1,000 BPL families. Thus, there are 10 health workers visiting the BPL families. The health worker visits each family once in 15 days. They find out if mothers and children are well, whether there are any pregnant women, and whether they are receiving proper nutrition. We give them tetanus shots on time, make out cards for them for admission at the government hospital for delivery, and so on. If there is a small child in the family, we ensure that it receives pulse polio shots. If anyone is suffering from diarrhoea, we provide oral rehydration sachets. We provide a range of training to our health workers, for example what to do in case of diarrhoea, how to protect oneself from mosquito-borne diseases. We have a health centre in Ward 31. There is one OPD doctor who attends once a week. People go there and get treated. If they are seriously ill they are taken to South Howrah Hospital or to Howrah General Hospital.”

Dr Sarkar admits however that “We don’t have any arrangements for a lady doctor. The position of health officer at the Corporation has been vacant for the last five years. The HMC is in need of five doctors. There are five other slum-based centres in Howrah, for which there are no doctors. For family planning, condoms and pills are supplied from our health centre. But we do not go to the basti and advocate family planning or promote AIDS awareness because this is a Muslim locality where there is a very negative reaction to family planning or discussion on young women’s health problems.”

Girls in Priya Manna Basti get married early, between 14 and 18. They start having children at an early age, and many get pregnant every year. This regular childbearing, combined with malnutrition, makes the young mothers extremely weak. Repeated childbearing, lack of proper treatment and malnutrition causes higher rates of maternal mortality. If a girl dies during childbirth, arrangements begin for a second marriage almost immediately on the pretext that the children must have someone to look after them. Thus in many households there may be four or five children by the first wife, and another two to four by the second wife. And one breadwinner to support them all. When a man cannot even feed his family adequately, how can he provide them a proper education and healthcare?

There are two ‘doctors’ in Priya Manna Basti. One used to be an arts student and taught at night school. One morning he simply decided to become a ‘doctor’! The second ‘doctor’ used to be a homoeopath’s compounder. He too suddenly became a ‘doctor’ one day. To date, no one has ever tried to find out whether these so-called doctors have a medical degree. Nevertheless, people flock to them because they are Muslims and speak their language. Besides, if someone does not have money for consultation or treatment, they provide credit. The money is repaid later. There is a private hospital close to the basti -- the Shri Jain Hospital and Research Centre -- which has a number of qualified doctors. But although the doctors’ fees are not very high, people do not consult them because they prescribe very few medicines and ask for several tests. People from the basti cannot afford to get tests done.

The bogus doctors in the basti also supervise deliveries; when problems arise they immediately call the dai!

In one case a few years ago, the daughter-in-law of a family in my neighbourhood was delivered of a baby by a dai. Complications arose and the dai advised that a doctor be called in. One of the so-called ‘doctors’ was called. The woman’s condition worsened. When things appeared to be going out of control, the ‘doctor’ ordered that the woman be taken to his nursing home, around 3 km away. The woman was put into a cycle-rickshaw and taken to the nursing home. But as there was no doctor present there, members of her family took her to another nursing home. Her bleeding worsened. She died on the way to the second nursing home. She already had two small children and now there was one more. Her husband soon re-married and life went on as usual.

Priya Manna Basti also has a charitable dispensary called Howrah South Point, which is run by a German organisation, German Doctors’ Committee. The dispensary is visited by people from Howrah, Kolkata and nearby districts as it charges a registration fee of only Rs 2. Check-ups, diagnostic tests, medicines, hospitalisation, even surgery, are all meant to be free. Although intended for the extremely poor, it is mostly the middle class who benefit, since middlemen are busy making money at the expense of the poor. The doctors here are from Germany. They do not know the local language and are ill equipped to alter the status quo. So, despite the existence of a good facility intended for the poor, the poor get no benefit.

Is there no government hospital in the basti?

Shakila Begum lives in Priya Manna Basti. “When I was ill I used to go to the South Point charitable dispensary. But nowadays there is such a queue there that even after waiting all day one is unable to get any medicines. So I go to Gloria charitable dispensary in the nearby Chowrah Basti. There I pay Rs 30, which covers doctor’s fees and medicines. If there is a serious case, we go to Howrah General Hospital.”

Technically, Priya Manna Basti does have a government hospital, the Howrah General Hospital. One assumes that everything is free at a government hospital. In reality, however, nothing is free at this hospital other than the doctor’s fee. Bed charges, patient’s food, medicines -- everything has to be paid for. If a patient wants free food she must carry a recommendation from the local councillor, proof of income, etc. An application has to be made to the superintendent of the hospital. If he approves, the patient is allowed free food. Medicines prescribed by the doctor have to be purchased by members of the patient’s family. Only the nurses know whether the medicines are actually given to the patient. The hospital staff is far from helpful to the poor. There are no medical shops near the hospital. Often patients die because vital medicines are not provided in time. No wonder ordinary people do not go to government hospitals; instead, they go to private hospitals or nursing homes. Where too they are often victims of medical negligence.

I have observed the case of Sazda Parween, a 16-year-old girl admitted to a private nursing home for her first delivery. In the course of the surgery a vein in the girl’s abdomen was severed. She was taken to PG Hospital in Kolkata, a government hospital, where she remained for 15-20 days. As soon as her bleeding stopped, her husband took her home. Within a week of returning home she started bleeding again. Her husband took her to a private hospital nearby, the Shri Jain Hospital and Research Centre. Her condition worsened. As the family could not afford to keep her at the private hospital, she was taken back to PG Hospital where the true extent of the damage became clear. Meanwhile, she had lost a huge amount of blood. After buying some blood for her, her relatives broke their Ramzan fast and donated their own blood. But serious complications had set in. Within three months of childbirth, Sazda died. Less than two years after her marriage, her life came to an end.