Palaks Diaries from Kalahandi

A month into Selco, I’d written about Palak, a girl who chose to live in the villages of Orissa to do her research for Tribal Labs of Selco Foundation. Now, two months into Selco, I continue her story:

Courtesy Google, as I couldn't download the pic she sent and this fits description of people she gave

Kalahandi……….. a name that brings to mind famine, starvation, arid, poverty and death. Apparently all this is recognized and there are a lot of schemes and funds for improvement, yet the place remains poor, a black land……. kale paani ki sazaa as it’s locally called.

Having gotten familiar with Odia, she learnt that it wasn’t ‘kala-handi’ ( black pot) as generally believed but ‘kolo–hondi’…… pot of arts, and she began to see the art, culture, and beauty of the place, and how the place struggles to come out of the kala-handi syndrome. A true case of beauty in the eyes of the beholder……. as she has also been witness to some horrific and extreme experiences.

I’ve in fact started worrying for Palak as you can see from her reaction to what she’s being exposed to.

Here’s one incident where she’s in conversation with a local woman and the impact. Read it in Palak’s own words:

”The woman told me ‘Immediate after delivery, I had to cut my umbical cord, I turned to find a blade and I struggled for few seconds as the kerosene light was not enough…….. a dog came…. smelled the flesh of the baby, grabbed it and took it away.’

When the mother narrated the incident to me, I simply stared at her face, as there was not a single expression of grief on her face.  What scared me was not the child being taken away by the dog, but how normal it was for her to live with death.  Her cold face, I will never forget. It hurt me like nothing has ever before. The one hour that I walked from this village, Pokresh to Korang, where our vehicle was parked, I felt nothing……………. Nothing at all. The next feeling I remember is of hating to be called human in any sense and being part of an independent country.  The only memory that exists today is the cold face of the mother, I cannot describe her features neither I think I can recognize her, but the expressionless face of a mother narrating the story of her own child who is no more, is what I carry today and forever.

This is just one incident, I’m sure there are thousands of them. With time, I have learned one thing, when I interact with a mother, the correct question to ask her is ‘How many ‘alive’ children you have?’ instead of ‘How many children you have?’ More than this I have nothing to say about the backwardness of this place. 

Palak, thanks for sharing your experiences. And once again, Kudos and God Bless !