Deepika’s eyes wandered as she listed out the concerns of her tribal community in Kottur. The furtive glances give way to a loud call: “Sabari, kittiyo?” (‘Sabari, did you get them?’) It was her teenage son Sabari, who appeared almost camouflaged in the thick foliage, while plucking fruit from the rambutan tree on their compound. Their house is next to the bus stop, where the only motorised means of public transportation to the settlement stops five times a day. It is among the few signs of modern life here.
Traversing Thiruvananthapuram district from east to west, through its rural belts, tales of neglect abound. Be it the coastal or tribal areas, most of the talk is about politicians who make an appearance every election time, with their silver-bullet promises... only to turn into a mirage until the next cycle of the democratic process. In an election where political parties are dwelling on development, my journey lays bare the lives of large sections of people, who live in the hope of a better tomorrow.
Even on following the directions provided by Deepika, my ‘motorcycle-diary’ trip was smooth only in parts, with the tyres repeatedly getting lodged between stones that dotted the bumpy paths to many settlements.
Passing through Kaithode, the curious eyes of four children – the children of Ashokan and his brother-in-law Ayyappan -- appeared in the veranda of a house. “Every crop we grow is destroyed either by wild boar or bison. We are forced to make do tapping rubber, a task that must be carried out early morning. Only god knows the dangers that lurk in the dark,” says Ashokan, pouring the rubber milk onto a tray.
In the Chonambala settlement, Rajeshwari recounts how she came to use two LPG cylinders in her lifetime – and that too by chance. At a time when all the talk in more ‘developed’ swathes is about LPG crisis, this seemed a travesty. “We cultivate kasturi turmeric, which is dried and sold. But even that can come to nothing, if it rains,” she points out. However, Rajeshwari is happy that ration supplies have been regular in recent years. “My daughter Chaithanya uses the community hall to prepare for her exams, but then it is closed by sunset over animal attack fears. No lights, no proper roads, no connectivity,” she adds.
However, none of them points fingers at their legislators; it is the systemic neglect that pains them more than anything. Most understand the challenges of living in settlements, but all they want is politicians who are there with them, beyond the campaign days – to work on redressing their concerns.
I also chanced upon more critical voices. In Kottur, several youth talked about how they detest voting. “It is not that I don’t have any government documents. But what is the use of voting when nothing changes around you?” asks one, tying the sling of his new catapult. He has a stone at the ready, and demonstrates how he drives away wild boars that destroy precious crops. Although forest watchers had warned of the potential sighting of jumbos, as luck would have it, giant squirrels were the only animals that crossed my path.
Out of the woods, another world opens up. And I find myself cruising under the scorching sun on better roads, past walls painted with election graffiti. In no time, I am welcomed by the majestic sounds and salty winds of the coast. “I will think twice before voting this time. I can’t choose someone who will ditch us during our difficult days,” says Pozhiyoor resident Cleetus, while resting in a makeshift shed, which doubles up as a vegetable shop in the daytime.
“It gets difficult between June and August, when the sea turns furious. Located near the shoreline where the currents mark their boundary for most of the year, our homes are battered by waves. But where will we go?” he ponders.
Vijaya Mary, who runs a shop nearby, chimes in. “The compensation that the government provides is not enough to purchase even a small patch of land. “We want an MLA who is approachable, not someone who surrounds themselves with layers of workers and acolytes,” she stresses.
A short walk along the beach opens the vista to temporary shacks, where fishermen rest after a day of arduous work. “Our lives are getting difficult by the day. Fuel is getting dearer, even as our fish attract lower prices. Cooking gas is a rare sight, and everything else is becoming costlier. Who should we raise our concerns with?” asks Raju, who is playing cards with his friends.
“We are literally trapped. On one side, Vizhinjam port is being developed, while on the other is the new Pozhiyoor harbour. Where will the displaced sand end up? How will the waves and tides affect us?” says Jose Raj, trying to juxtapose development with its potential aftereffects.
Even on the return journey, one image remained firmly etched: Ashokan’s smile while chewing betel leaves. Here was a man hoping that his kids will have the chance to achieve their dreams, and a citizen seeking responsive leaders and a supportive system to lift them up from the loop of being reduced to mere media headlines.