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By Aparna Pallavi The widows of farmers who have committed suicide in Vidarbha struggle to keep their farms running. For them too, it could be a losing battle
 Chandrakala Meshram has spent most of her 33 or so years of life as a farm labourer in the little village of Sai Kheda in Yavatmal district of Maharashtra, content to collect her wages from farmers and go home. Never, even in her wildest dreams, had she imagined that one day she would find herself in the employer's shoes. For the last few months she is trying to grasp the idea that she is now a farmer, and the responsibility of running the family's five-acre farm is hers. On October 2, 2006, her husband Gangaram hanged himself from a beam on the roof of their house.
"Of course I will have to farm my land," she replies coolly, "How will I manage otherwise, with two daughters?" And what does she know about farming? Not much. "I will have to ask someone to help me with getting loans and buying seeds," she mumbles. "The seeds these days are strange. I don't know what type they are, but they take up too many favarnis (pesticide sprays). I will have to get a gadi (farm manager) to run the farm." Unknown to herself, Chandrakala is voicing the momentous question that is eating at a growing number of farm widows in the Vidarbha region of Maharashtra, as the wave of suicides that has been sweeping the region for three long years shows no sign of waning. The question is how to keep the farm running now that there is no man at the helm of affairs. These women know that their husbands committed suicide because of the burden of debt. Most of them have worked as farm labourers and know about basic farm work, but their knowledge is no longer relevant. Says elderly Bhagiratha Shende, who has been farming her own three acres of land in the Bhar Umdi village in Yavatmal district of Vidarbha, since her husband committed suicide six years ago, "For the first two years I had to give the farm away on contract. I did not know where to get loans, where to buy seeds, nothing." It is only now, years of struggle later, that Bhagiratha has learnt the art of applying for government loans, and has also developed some rapport with seed and pesticide dealers. "They don't talk to women at all," she says, "Even after dealing with them for four years, they are still reluctant to advance me inputs like they do to male farmers. They insist on cash." The biggest hurdle say widows is the lack of knowledge and contacts. "It is nearly impossible to farm at all if there is no man," says Vandana, Shende, 28-year-old farm widow from village Bhar Umdi. "Men know where to get bank loans. Men have all the contacts with seed and fertiliser dealers who advance them stuff. It is difficult for women to go out and find these things. No one listens to us." Another near-insurmountable problem is time. Twenty-six-year-old Shobha Bodkhe of village Nimgaon in Buldhana district is struggling with housework, care of her son and farming. "Last year, my neighbours helped me sell my crop. Otherwise I have had no help with my farming at all," she says, "I can't visit the farm every day because of other work, and weeding, pesticide spraying and other work is always getting delayed. If you can't go to the farm and supervise, the labourers cheat you. I work 18-hour days and still I cannot give sufficient time to farm work," says the frail, girlish-looking widow. Quite a lot of farm widows, especially those with small holdings who cannot afford to employ labour contractors or farm managers, are finding themselves increasingly dependent on their male
relatives to keep their farms going. Saraswati Ambarwar of Tailangtakdi village, who has the dubious distinction of being the first suicide widow in Vidarbha, says, "I do not know where to buy seeds, and I am too scared to take loans. My brother-in-law advances me seeds and other inputs at the beginning of the season, and he sells my crop too. I cannot question him, as there is no one else who can help me." Often this dependence can mean exploitation or cheating. Sumanbai Atram of Dubhati village, who has two small children, has had to give her four-acre farm into the keeping of her brother-in-law, and will now be getting only half the produce despite the fact that she is paying for all the inputs. "I bought two bags of cotton seed from the market for Rs 3,200," she says, tears streaming down her cheeks, "My brother brought insecticide and sprayed the crop once. I will have to pay him too." Sumanbai keeps the pot boiling for herself and her two small children by working as a farm labourer for a measly wage of Rs 30 per day. This work is not regular either, as the brother-in-law insists on her working on her own farm as well when there is work, for which she is not paid.  Shobha Karluke of Tailang Takdi has also been forced to give her land to a nephew. "My family has nothing to eat. If I farm my land I cannot work, and my youngest daughter will have to give up school," she says. Her two elder children, a son and a daughter, are already out of school.
Vandana's land is also being farmed by a brother-in-law, though the terms of this share-cropping-like arrangement are not clear. "He will have to be paid for the inputs, of course, and he will also want a share for his labour," she says. "I will give him what he asks for when the crop comes. How can I manage if he doesn't help me?" Chanda Risolkar of Barsi Takli village in Akola district had share-cropped her four acres with her brother-in-law last year, but says it is not worth it. "I was told we will share the expenses and the produce equally, but my brother-in-law was handling everything. He never gave me any proper account. So this time I have decided to farm on my own." This, of course, is a far from easy proposition. "I am working on other people's farms now. But when the crop season comes in June, I will have to give up that work. What will we eat till the crop comes?" she asks.
"I tell you there will be more crop failures," exclaims a despondent Shobha, who is educated and has been interacting with other farm widows in her area. "A widow has to manage everything that a man and a woman manage together all by herself. Most of the women can't visit their farms more than once a week. Male relatives either want them to give their land up or cheat them in the guise of helping. Those who want to help are themselves in very bad condition. So where does a widow turn for help?" The odds against them are high, but the farm widows of Vidarbha are not giving up just yet. According to an estimate of the Vidarbha Jan Andolan Samiti, a Yavatmal-based organisation which has collected a lot of data on suicides, some 40% of farm widows are farming their lands on their own, apart from others who are share-cropping or giving their land on contract. Given the agricultural crisis that is looming over the region, they are not faring any better than their male counterparts. Still the good news is that they are determined to stick to their land. As Chandrakala Meshram puts it, "I worked as a labourer when my husband was alive, but still I was known as a farmer's wife. Now, if I don't farm my land I will become a labourer, nothing else. I must stick to my land. It is my only chance." (Aparna Pallavi is an independent journalist based in Nagpur) InfoChange News & Features, April 2007
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