This story first appeared in Vibes Of India

A young farmer couple in Gujarat killed themselves by beheading using a guillotine like device, probably for a black magic ritual.

When 38-year-old farmer Hemu Makwana and wife Hansa Makwana’s (35) children returned home on Sunday morning after a short stay at their maternal uncle’s house in a nearby village, they were aghast to find their parents’ decapitated bodies on their own farm. The boy (13) and girl (12) immediately raised an alarm and alerted nearby residents.

The police was called and found a handwritten note in Gujarati with a thumb impression of the duo, stating that they killed themselves willingly and no one was to be blamed. The bodies were sent to Rajkot civil hospital for forensic post-mortem.

“The couple used a make-shift guillotine to end their lives. It is believed that they pulled up the blades of the guillotine themselves and released it in such a manner that their heads fell into a havan kund,” shared Vinchiya police sub-inspector Indrajitsinh Jadeja.

According to preliminary findings, the couple had, over the past year, erected a temporary temple with gunny sacks used in packing food grains. It housed a picture of Lord Shiva and a Shivling made of mud, both of which were regularly worshipped by the couple, as narrated by the villagers.

“We are recording statements to ascertain the reason behind the extreme step,” stated Jadeja, adding that a day prior to the incident, the couple had sent off their children to their maternal uncle’s place.

According to the note found near the bodies along with their mobile phones, Hansa was not keeping well. The note also records that Hemu “trusted his brothers and his in-laws never reprimanded him for anything.”

Hansa’s cousin Jayanti Jatapara refuted suggestions of financial stringency stating that the couple was not struggling with any day to day expenses. “Nor were they having any marital or family disputes,” she is reported to have told the police.

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This story first appeared in The Daily Star

The first time I saw Dr Zafrullah Chowdhury was in 2007, for a story in our weekend magazine in The Daily Star, on his Nagar Hospital on Mirpur Road, where anyone, no matter how poor could get medical care at subisidised costs. I was not expecting to see a clean, organised, fully-equipped, seven-storey hospital where patients could see a doctor for a mere Tk 20. The place was busy but organised, not chaotic like our understaffed, overcrowded public hospitals. Strikingly apparent was the presence of mostly female staffers — the receptionist, paramedics, pathologists, nurses, on-duty doctors, and even the drivers of the hospital vehicles. Among the patients were labourers, domestic workers, teachers, civil servants and beggars. It was the first time I heard that patients could get an insurance card — for Tk 150. Insurance holders did not have to pay to see an on-duty doctor, and to see a specialist the fee was only Tk 200. The most innovative part of the insurance scheme was that it was designed to provide healthcare to people according to their ability to pay. So, for someone who was destitute, the treatment would be free, for a poor person, it would be highly subsidised, for an upper middle-class person the cost would be higher. It was hard not to be floored by the foresight of the individual behind what seemed to me, a fantasy world where poor people had access to affordable, efficient medical attention.

But that is what Zafrullah Chowdhury is — a larger than life figure who had the vision to realise that it was the lack of access to affordable healthcare that condemned the poor to a life of continuous ill health. His fierce determination to break this vicious cycle led to the creation of an institution like Gonoshasthaya that has made revolutionary changes not only in healthcare but in public perception of women as vital nation builders.

When my team and I went to interview him at the hospital, I was a little taken aback by his appearance; longish white hair and clad in a batik Hawaiian shirt and khaki trousers, sandals half worn, he looked more like an eccentric artist than the founder of a mammoth development organisation. It was hard to gauge his mood as he went on his inspection of the wards, blasting the nervous staff at the top of his voice for some inefficiency and then suddenly cracking a joke to make them laugh, his hawkish eyes twinkling. His staff called him Boro Bhai, no “sir” or “doctor” for this no-nonsense man. But the respect and love he evoked among patients, paramedics, doctors and the staff, was obvious.

And when he met patients, he was extremely gentle and kind.

At present, Nagar Hospital has among other facilities, a burn and plastic surgery unit, cardiac unit, dental unit, surgery, counselling, physiotherapy, Ayurveda, Yoga and of course 24 hour emergency services.

So how did a vascular surgeon looking towards an ascending medical career in the UK end up being the founder of a multidisciplinary organisation in his home country that would be committed to the welfare of the poor and marginalised? The Liberation War of 1971 changed the trajectory of his life. He and his friend Dr MA Mobin left their studies in London to join the resistance by treating wounded freedom fighters. It was pure patriotism that laid the foundation for Gonoshasthaya Kendra. Zafrullah and his fellow doctors set up a 480-bed field hospital near the border with India to treat the wounded and sick. The young surgeon realised that while there were doctors in this hospital, the facility didn’t have any nurses. So girls and young women in the refugee camps were invited to learn first aid and assist in operations.

“I realised that it was not the amount of training that was important in this context but the access to training,” he said during the interview. When the war was over, the Field Hospital was renamed Gonoshasthaya Kendra (GK) which relocated to Savar with sub centres in surrounding areas and other districts. From his experience at the Field Hospital, Zafrullah knew how he could build a team of paramedics. GK started training girls and women who had completed their SSC (Secondary School Certificate). Soon it was a common sight to see these young women in the villages, going on foot or bicycle to visit households, telling them about basic healthcare, sometimes giving vaccines, even assisting in deliveries. The presence of these female paramedics gave women a new status. Villagers began to realise their importance and appreciate their work. GK’s involvement with the community had a major role in the success of national family planning, immunisation and ORS campaigns.

Gonoshasthaya Kendra (GK), which is a multidimensional development programme, involves the community as a whole. It includes projects ranging from primary healthcare centres and hospitals, community schools, agricultural cooperatives, women’s vocational training centres, training women drivers, to economic enterprises to help finance GK Trust activities. But GK’s most obvious success is its primary healthcare programme (mainly in the villages) that benefits over a million people.

GK has proved that primary healthcare can be a successful, sustainable system. In 1982, GK’s pioneering effort in forming a National Drugs Policy allowed local companies to produce essential drugs at much lower prices than multinationals did. GK itself produces essential drugs at subsidised prices. GK’s Gono Bishwabidyalaya (People’s University) trains doctors, paramedics and physiotherapists who will provide primary and tertiary care to poor communities.

The accolades he has received are many. Among them are a ‘Certificate of Commendation’ for his contributions during the Liberation War in 1971, the Swedish Youth Peace Prize, Sweden for founding Gonoshashthaya Kendra and providing primary healthcare to rural communities, Maulana Bhashani Award, Ramon Magsaysay Award, The Right to Livelihood Award, Sweden, One World Action Award, UK, Public health Heroes Award, UK, Fr. Tong Memorial Award, India, Doctor of Humanitarian Sciences Award, Canada.

His undeterred commitment to the welfare of the disadvantaged was probably because of his unconventional upbringing. His mother, Hasina Begum, a courageous, self-educated woman, who believed in the equal rights of women and men, taught him the value of sharing with the less fortunate. His father, Humayan Murshed Chowdhury, was an honest police officer and instilled in him love for one’s motherland. Zafrullah found his perfect match in his life partner Shireen Huq, a passionate human rights activist and one of the founders of Naripokkho, a women’s rights organisation. Their children are Brishti and Bareesh.

The basic philosophy that Zafrullah modelled all his endeavours on was to come up with indigenous solutions for all problems. Thus Gonoshasthya’s mission was to ‘go to the village and build the village’. The GK Savar hospital serves the community and provides all the medical services as well as alternative medical treatment such as ayurveda and acupuncture.

In fact, he has been unequivocally, an advocate of local medical expertise. In 2019, GK inaugurated its second dialysis centre in the Savar hospital, the largest such centre in the country. During the pandemic, he tried to popularise a locally made antigen testing kit and was ready to help set up a 2,000-bed Covid hospital which did not receive the support it warranted during the most challenging moments of the crisis. For his own treatments which included regular dialysis he would come to his hospital even when he was on life support. There are few individuals who can display such conviction of their own principles.

Considered at times a controversial figure for his incendiary remarks in public, he remained unapologetic and brutally frank all throughout, a fighter till the end. Battling with formidable ailments, waging a war against crippling poverty and ill health of people, to bring some solace to the most vulnerable and neglected, his contributions to this country cannot be listed within the confines of this article.

[Some information has been taken from Star Weekend Magazine, published on November 30, 2007]

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This story first appeared in TheQuint

This India inspired collection could have opened floodgates for a genuinely high moment in fashion history

In 1947, six months before India got independence from British colonial rule, Christian Dior unleashed another kind of revolution with his first collection later christened the ‘New Look’. A long and full skirt, rounded shoulders, and a cinched waist. The newness of this look was an act of rebellion against the war-time necessities—economic and ergonomic—namely straight skirts with knee-length hems, night robes et al. For the next seven years, Christian decided to define and redefine this primary idea of his sartorial vision.

Now, vision is something that was conspicuous by absence in Dior’s latest show in Mumbai. This essay is not a critique of the spectacle that Dior conjured at the iconic Gateway of India but a lament for fashion and design. When a hyped moment fails to deliver, when it comes from a style revolutionary that brought us characteristic draped necklines and fitted waistlines, or the “Zig Zag”, or even the self-fabric-covered buttons, it hurts particularly bad.

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This story first appeared in Voicepk.net

Senior journalist and human rights activist Husain Naqi will never forget that day in 1971 when he was sitting among other journalist friends and one of them mentioned that the breakup of east and west Pakistan into two separate countries had become a reality. On March 25, that year, the military run ‘Operation Searchlight’ had already begun and the region which is now Bangladesh had become a conflict zone. But voicing this sent one of the friends into a rage.

“Ahmad Bashir, the editor of daily Masawaat, did not receive this comment well,” says Naqi. “He was so angry, that the argument concluded after a paper weight was hurled in his general direction.” Shaukat Tanveer, the one who had sinfully indulged in the opinion remained unhurt, but like many other Pakistanis, Ahmad Bashir’s sentiments were not.

Ostensibly, Mr Bashir did not yet recognize the grimness of the situation. There was news of a brigadier being taken in as a prisoner of war (POW). The reality however had still not filtered down. Media propaganda was extreme and so pervasive that most people in west Pakistan had no idea what was actually happening on the other side.

‘In general, the people were being told by the media including the single state TV channel selling the government narrative that everything was alright,” adds Naqi. “If you ever discussed the possibility of the country’s break down, people would in extreme cases be ready to fight with you – or in the least label you an ‘Indian agent’.”

There was complete censorship in those days, he recounts, and it had begun to affect how people were thinking. He remembers for instance how he got into an argument with his brother in law just for saying that the future of a united Pakistan was unforeseen. “He was very angry at me for saying this. But the country did crack, and when it did, he actually broke down and cried.”

MASS GENOCIDE

The conflict had begun right after the Awami League had won the 1970 parliamentary elections and were now waiting for the transfer of power – which was being delayed by Yahya Khan and the PPP.

As Yahya Khan postponed the convening of the National Assembly, ethnic massacres began in East Pakistan. Biharis being non-Bengali speakers – were supporting West Pakistan, were targeted by the Bengali majority. In her book, Gender and War Crimes in South Asia, Bina D’Costa recalls over 300 Biharis were killed by early March 1971, in rioting by Bengali mobs in Chittagong.

Following these series of incidents, the Government of Pakistan used these killings to justify the military intervention in East Pakistan on March 25. Overnight a genocide began.

But as the people were killed, the truth it seemed was buried with them.

“During Yahya Khan’s martial law, before the creation of Bangladesh, we witnessed a moment of openness during the 1970 election campaign when the state-owned electronic media gave full coverage to opposition rallies and invited leaders of various political parties to speak without any let or hindrance. However, soon after the election results, which were totally contrary to the expectations of the ruling junta, censorship was reimposed before the start of the military crackdown in then East Pakistan that culminated in the break-up of Pakistan and the birth of a new country, Bangladesh.”

Veteran journalist and author of several books, Zamir Niazi describes the situation of a censorship in those days in just a few lines in his article ‘And Now For the Good News…’

There had been great courage within the journalist community of the entire country which took risks during the non-cooperation movement as they gave prominent coverage in dailies including Ittefaq, Purbodesh, Sangbad, Azad, Morning News and Pakistan Observer.

The East Pakistan Journalists Union (EPUJ) reportedly held a meeting on March 23, 1971 and gave open support to the emergence of a new country – Bangladesh – by confronting the military threat and promised not to give press coverage to the activities of the military junta.

But as the operation began, many were not spared. “During the riots in East Pakistan many journalists were killed, including East Pakistan Union of Journalists’ (EPUJ) leader Shahidullah Kaiser, killed in cold blood,” says Naqi.

“There was another journalist in Azad, who actually lost his mind. Many others were arrested and tortured. The Pakistan Observer office was fired upon by a tank, and ended up being razed to the ground. Television was limited to PTV with its state narrative. For the west Pakistanis there was an information blackout.”

On the eastern side, daily ‘The People’ which was taken out from Dhaka and was vocal against the military rulers, carrying banner headlines on a daily basis criticizing them, was burnt as the night of March 25 unfolded, through indiscriminate mortar shells.

The very next day, Daily Ittefaq was attacked in the same way. Dr. Helal Uddin Ahmed a former Editor of Bangladesh Quarterly describes it as being ‘traditionally linked to the democratic struggles of the Bengalis since its very birth while adding that a couple of days after Operation Searchlight, the torch-bearer of the country’s culture, literature, progressive politics and, above all, mass movements—the daily Sangbad was burnt to ashes. The renowned journalist and progressive litterateur Shahid Saber was also killed during the incident.’

In 1971, journalists and newspapers were under strict observation and no journalist or newspaper was permitted to write about any situation or incidents that were happening in East Pakistan. When it came to objective or unbiased reporting, there was no freedom of the press or the people’s right to know. Worse, the international media was forced out of west Pakistan. But, Naqi says one could still hear what the radio channels especially the BBC service in English and even Hindi were airing.

Even after the Fall of Dhaka the media continued to try and push the nation’s morale; this was when the Draconian PPO was revived and used against the press by the new government. Weekly Outlook and Punjab Punch despite the fact that these were papers that had supported the PPP in the elections. The Press and Publications Ordinance (PPO) had been formed in 1961 and enforced to keep the newspapers under state control. While the black law had been fiercely boycotted by media organizations and journalists, it was still revived.

Academic, author, and former chairperson of the Mass Communication department of Karachi University, Professor Shahida Kazi had been working at the Asian TV Service at that time – part of the PTV. As a news producer her job entailed sorting out the news films that came her way and to write scripts and commentaries for them.

“In order to do my job in the state run TV, I had no choice but to follow directives not to write or show anything that went against the state narrative. All of us were affected who saw what was happening had to remain silent because in order to survive, we had to. Otherwise we all knew what could happen to journalists who spoke up.”

In the mainstream media, she says, everybody was being told a series of grand lies, on repeat, which translated to ‘everything is hunky dory; nothing is amiss.’

“I remember one of the films that came from Dhaka, the military had forced people at gunpoint to form lines outside a cinema. The image was being misused to show that life was normal and people were out to watch a movie, when in reality the situation was that bodies were being piled up on streets once Operation Searchlight began.”

In another image on film, says Professor Kazi, people could be seen walking with their bags and luggage to cross over to India. “Again this was misconstrued as people coming back from India. The sights they had been shown were so full of promise, that people could not digest anything other than that. It was hugely traumatic for them when the country did finally break.”

Prof Kazi says that there was a majority of ethnic Bengali East Pakistanis who worked in her department but in fear of being targeted, they remained silent too.

“We were silenced and traumatized because we could only absorb reality but not talk about it. We had to keep our heads down and go about our business. When it comes to press censorship, these two wars have been our worst times.”

“When I went to Dhaka I was shocked to see the level of devastation there,” narrates Husain Naqi. “There were bodies piled up on the streets. There were reports of countless rapes, there was a lot more that was happening that I cannot even recount right now. Entire families were wiped out mercilessly, leaving only one or two survivors.”

Dr Mokerrom Hossain, a Professor at the Department of Sociology and Criminal Justice, at the Virginia State University in his book ‘From Protest to Freedom: The Birth of Bangladesh’ describes the night of March 25:

“When the attack began, army tanks began went in different directions to demolish different targets. One contingent rolled through the main street from airport to the city and attacked a newspaper office in front of the Radio Pakistan Dhaka office, and the same contingent took over the control of the radio station. Another went towards Dhaka University and attacked students’ dorms. This attacked was actually video tapped by a professor of East Pakistan (later Bangladesh) University of Engineering and Technology  University, and the tape was smuggled out of the country as a first hand report of the massacre to the outside world. The area where the attacked took place in the student dorms, there were also selective break-ins at the faculty residences and a couple of professors were killed on that fearful night.

Before the so-called control of Dhaka city it was a night of infamy … one could watch with horror the constant flash of tracer bullets across the dark sky and listened to the more ominous clatter of machine gun fire and the heavy clump of tank guns …That night, the holocaust began”.

“The Pakistan Resolution after this entire passage of time, became brittle and meant nothing,” says Husain Naqi. “This was the resolution moved by the ‘Sher-e-Bengal’ himself, in 194. Yet nothing had been constituted in East Pakistan.

Whatever anyone may say, even today, this situation rings true when we think of what is happening in Khyber Pukhtunkhwa and Balochistan. Operations take place but no details are let out. The people of Pakistan remain oblivious to what is happening in those regions. Today too there is censorship and we seem to have learnt nothing.”

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This story first appeared in Prothomalo

It has not been possible to prepare an accurate and full list of freedom fighters over the past 52 years since the independence of Bangladesh. The Jatiyo Muktijoddha Council (Jamuka), which exercises legal authority to prepare the list of freedom fighters, holds meetings almost every month aimed at either adding new names of freedom fighter to the list or dropping someone from it. As a result, uncertainty looms large over whether a correct and full list of freedom fighters will be prepared during the third term of Awami League.

According to the gazette branch of the liberation war affairs ministry, a total of 235,467 people have been gazetted as freedom fighter from time to time while the budget branch of the same ministry said the government allocated allowance to 219,758 freedom fighters in January this year. Besides, the government published an incomplete list of 147,537 freedom fighters in March 2021 on the occasion of the golden jubilee of independence. As a result, ambiguity remains on the actual number of freedom fighters in the country.

Liberation War Affairs minister AKM Mozammel Haque said work on preparing a full list of freedom fighters nears to an end and the number of actual freedom fighter would not exceed 190,000. He told Prothom Alo on 23 March, “No appeal to include name in the list of freedom fighters will not be accepted after next June and no one will also be included anew either. We hope to finalise work on the full list of freedom fighters by this year.”

According to Jamuka, a person requires 33 documents to prove himself/herself as a freedom fighter. The name of many freedom fighters differs in various documents, and finally, the name on the national identity card is considered for documentation. Many freedom fighters are facing hassle because of difference of name in the identity card and the list. All this contributes to the delay in publishing the full list.

Two important members of the cabinet appealed to Jamuka in 2021 to include their name in the list of freedom fighter. Jamuka ‘recognised’ fisheries and livestock minister SM Rezaul Karim as a freedom fighter under ‘special consideration’ and rejected the appeal, in which finance minister AHM Mustafa Kamal himself claimed to be a freedom fighter, after scrutinising it. There are lots of such applications from numerous influential people pending at Jamuk and the agency is scrutinising those.

Currently, a freedom fighter receives an allowance of Tk 20,000 a month, an Eid allowance of Tk 10,000 twice a year, a Victory Day allowance of Tk 5,000 and a Bengali New Year allowance of Tk 2,000.

The government published a gazette on 29 October 2020 stating that the word ‘bir’ (valiant) must be used before the name of a freedom fighter. A government order was issued in 2012 to extend retirement age of freedom fighters holding a government job by one more year to 60 years from the regular retirement age of 59 years. Since then, according to Jamuka sources, top government officials started applying for the recognition of freedom fighter. Yet, application of four secretaries and a joint secretary, who once were recognised as freedom fighter, were revoked in 2014 after verification.

The list of freedom fighters has been revised at least seven times in 52 years with age, definition and standard to get a recognition as a freedom fighter being changed for 11 times.

Jamuka sources said the Ershad government took an initiative to formulate a list of freedom fighters in 1984 and formed a national committee. The national committee then prepared a list of 102,458 freedom fighters, known as the national list, from a list collected by Bangladesh Freedom Fighters Welfare Trust (Muktijoddha Kalyan Trust) formed during the Bangabandhu government, a list of East Bengal Regimental Centre (EBRC) in Chattogram, and a list from India.

Then Muktijoddha Kalyan Trust managing director Major General Amin Ahmed Chowdhury, Bir Bikram, collected a list of 69,833 freedom fighters from India in 1988, which is known as the Indian list of freedom fighters. Muktijoddha Kendriya Command Council convener Brigadier General (retired) AJM Aminul haque, Bir Uttam, formulated a list of 86,000 freedom fighters in 1994 to conduct the election of the Kendriya Command Council. A list of 186,790 freedom fighters was prepared during the Awami League government in 1996-2000, which is known as Muktibarta (green). Another list of 158,452 freedom fighters, which is known as Muktibarta (red), was formulated later following verification.

Jamuka sources said a 15-member national committee was formed during BNP-led 4-party Alliance government in 2001-2006 with then cabinet secretary Saadat Hussain as convener and liberation war affairs ministry joint secretary Momtaz Uddin as member secretary. This committee prepared a list of 210,581 freedom fighters.

When Awami League came to power in 2009, it alleged the BNP-led 4-party alliance government included more than 70,000 non-freedom fighters in the list. The Awami League government then formed local committees with all deputy commissioners and upazila nirbahi officers and started verification process to omit the name of non-freedom fighters from the list. Meantime, the Awami League government has added 11,500 new names to the list of freedom fighters and dropped nearly 20,000 names from it. However, inclusion of new names in the list of freedom fighters has not stopped.

Speaking to Prothom Alo, Ekattorer Ghatak Dalal Nirmul Committee president Shahriar Kabir said name of all actual freedom fighters are yet to be included in the list of freedom fighters and name of people who did not participate in the liberation war has also been added to the list. Recently, influential and powerful people have been active to add their name in the list of freedom fighters to hide their wrongdoings.

If an independent commission scrutinises and verifies the list of freedom fighters of the MIS (the government maintains the full database of freedom fighters receiving allowance with management information system centre), then the list will halves. The names of many freedom fighters allegedly did not appear in the list as they failed to bribe the people concerned. So, the list of freedom fighters will never be error free, and it will be possible to omit non-freedom fighters from the list only when rules will be introduced to provide allowance to needy freedom fighters, he added.

This report appeared in the print and online edition of Prothom Alo and has been rewritten in English by Hasanul Banna

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This story first appeared in www.outlookindia.com

Rashmi Saksena recalls the scenes of horror and revelries she witnessed after Bangladesh won its Independence from Pakistani rule. She writes about cheering as well as the people in Khulna who seemed to be carved in stone after the horrors they had been through.

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By Suhasini Haidar and Samridhi Tewari

For decades, Mohammad Karim Dastagir thought of India as a ‘second home’, a country he travelled to for work, and the country where he met his wife Rifaut. The 48-year-old businessman, who ran a travel agency in Kabul, which managed visas for the Indian embassy since 2002, found his world turned upside down in August 2021. While the Taliban takeover of Kabul and the closure of the Indian embassy robbed Karim of his livelihood and his sense of security, India’s decision to cancel all pre-existing visas for Afghans nearly robbed him of his family, including Rifaut and his daughter, four-year-old Hanya. What does one do when a ‘second home’ closes its doors on you, asks Karim, who fled to Türkiye in the aftermath of the Taliban’s brutal crackdown and restrictions on people.

“I handled thousands of visas for the Indian embassy for years, but when I needed them the most, for my own visa, they forgot I existed,” he says with some bitterness, speaking to Magazine from Istanbul. Eventually, Karim moved his family to Türkiye. He shares a confirmation message that he applied for an Overseas Citizen of India card in October 2021, something he is entitled to have as the spouse of an Indian national, but he has received no response from the Indian embassy yet. When he telephones officials he knew earlier in India, they often don’t take his call, and when they do, plead helplessness. The online status simply says “under-process” 18 months later, and Karim says his savings from his once flourishing business are now running out.

Who is affected by India’s visa ban for Afghans?
Spouses of Indian nationals who were outside India when the Taliban took over
Indian nationals married to Afghans who do not want to return home without children/ spouses
Afghan students who had received new admissions and scholarships
Afghan students who had returned home during the COVID-19 pandemic and for summer vacations
Afghan students in India who are unable to return and visit their families for fear they can’t come back to India
Traders and businessmen seeking to resume travel to India

No fairytale ending

Karim isn’t alone. According to officials, among more than an estimated 60,000 Afghans who have requested visas for India are a large number of those married to Indian nationals. Many couples met each other while they were studying, as India ran a generous programme for Afghan students from 2002-2021, offering seats at different universities and scholarships. Others came as traders and businessmen, much like Tagore’s Kabuliwala, and built up flourishing trade between the two countries. Many others came and fell in love, but today are separated from them due to circumstances, and a cruel visa regime.

For 33-year-old Fahim Raihan, Kaifee Siddiqui came as a god-send when he visited Delhi in 2017 with an ailing relative. Kaifee, now 32, who was working at the Max Hospital in Delhi, helped him navigate medical procedures and seek doctors’ appointments. Over a number of waiting room meetings, and then later, when he visited Delhi for business, their relationship blossomed, and Kaifee and Fahim got married and settled in Delhi. They ran an auto parts business.

That should have been the fairytale ending to their romance, but on August 15, 2021, fate intervened. Fahim, who was in Kabul for a short visit, was heading to the airport to catch his flight to Delhi, but was stopped from leaving by armed guards who sent him home. Ever since then, he has tried in vain to secure a new visa as mandated by India. In Delhi, Kaifee says she has been running from pillar to post, from the Ministry of External Affairs to the Ministry of Home Affairs to the Afghanistan embassy. “Every night, Kaifee calls me to ask just one question, when will I come back?” says Fahim.

Sadia Khan and her 10-year-old daughter also have the same question. In 2007, Sadia married Ghazanfar Khan, an Afghan who had come as a tourist to Delhi. The two had met and grown closer as they shared an interest in ancient monuments and architecture, and Ghazanfar stayed back. Since 2021, the couple has been separated, living a hand-to-mouth existence as they wait for an Indian visa for Ghazanfar, who had returned to Kabul briefly to meet his ailing mother.

“My 10-year-old daughter and I have to move often, as rents become unaffordable, and she has not been enrolled in a school for two years because of this,” says Sadia. Her husband is now in Iran. Ghazanfar says he has waited for hours together at the Indian embassy in Tehran, but has not been able to make officials take note of his case. “There’s no job here, but back in India I used to manage a guest house, I had a shop, I even worked as a translator. Now everything is gone, I depend on the money my family sends,” he says.

An endless wait

In Istanbul, Shamimullah Mehmoodi, who earlier ran a dry fruits business in Delhi, has to now contend with the difficulties his sons, aged five and seven, face over language at the local school. Shamimullah says that while his family is with him, they all miss their home in India.

Shamimullah Mehmoodi and his wife who are trying to return to their home in India. | Photo Credit: R.V. Moorthy

While many have been able to leave Afghanistan for a third country while they wait for visas, those that remain have a more difficult time eking out an existence in the middle of a country in chaos. Abdul Hamid Nawab, 39, says he has been reduced to cleaning dishes at a local hotel in Kabul while he waits for a visa so he can see his wife and four children again.

The Ministry of External Affairs has declined to respond to a number of requests for comments on when visas may be available for Afghan nationals. When asked about the Modi government’s policy to shut out tens of thousands of Afghans, including students, professionals, and even those married to Indians, officials are unable to help.

“I was told a divorce would be easier”

I met Faizan* at a party in Delhi in 2012. He was from Afghanistan, a businessman with a clothing export factory, who would frequently visit India. We fell deeply in love and decided to marry in 2014. We had a nikaah, but also a Hindu marriage, as Faizan said he was even prepared to convert for me, and live in India. We had a happy marriage, although we kept it a secret from many members in my family who would not have approved of an inter-religion marriage. When the Taliban took over in Kabul, we were worried, but also relieved that at least we were together in Delhi, and safe. In August 2022, however, Faizan had to go back for a family emergency. He approached officials here for a visa as his previous single-entry visa had been cancelled along with all other pre-existing visas given to Afghans. One official told him he would have no problem in securing a new visa in Kabul, as the Indian mission there had just re-opened. We realised too late that we had been misled. Since then Faizan keeps trying to meet someone at the heavily-guarded mission in Kabul, but the gates are shut and nobody is allowed near the periphery. There is no one to listen to his plea. Here in Delhi, I have met every possible official I could in the hope that someone would allow my husband to come back to me. Faizan and I had legally adopted his 10-year-old son, who lives with me, and I have no answer when he repeatedly asks me when his father will come home. I have no income, and my father is seriously ill. I travel from one government office to the next, but receive no response. I have panic attacks and sleepless nights. Some officials have been sympathetic, but others have been downright rude. I broke down when one official asked me, ‘Why are you taking so much trouble for his visa… wouldn’t it be easier if you get a divorce and start your life again?’ I was shocked. What is my crime? Is it a sin to marry someone from another country? Is it Faizan’s fault that the regime in his country changed? We are both victims of circumstance, and have no control over what is happening to us. No country and no law should stop a husband and wife from meeting each other. — Rashmi*
(*Names changed on request)

They also deny that the policy is discriminatory towards Afghan Muslims, but point out that Hindus and Sikhs in Afghanistan were at greater risk for their lives and thus were evacuated sooner. During a public lecture in Vadodara in October 2022, External Affairs Minister S. Jaishankar told a group of Afghan students who petitioned him that “nobody could doubt India’s feelings for the Afghan people”. Alluding to security concerns, he added that visas can only be restarted when a “level of trust and efficiency” grows.

For thousands like Shamimullah, Ghazanfar and Sadia, Fahim and Kaifee, Karim and Rifaut, and their children, the doubts are indeed growing as they stare at an uncertain future with the ‘second home’ they have loved for years seeming more distant from them every day.

This story first appeared in 101 Reporters

Despite a bumper harvest, prices down by half this year; contradicting laws also prevent implementation of MSP for the minor forest produce

Kandhamal, Odisha: It is 3.45 am. Srimati Mailik (49) is up and about. In less than an hour, she finishes her household chores — cleaning the house, washing clothes and preparing lunch — and sets out along with 15 other women and their children into the lush green forest surrounding her village.

Fear of snakes, insect bites and wild animals looms large all throughout the journey along the uneven path with thick bushes engulfing both sides. For the next seven to eight hours, they will collect mahua flowers, locally called mahuli. This is what a routine day looks like for these women through the peak summer months.

“There is no fixed time when we return — at times by noon, or later. In summers, mahua collection can fetch us a good revenue, if the flowers are sold at good rates,” Srimati says.

However, for the women of Mardigocha village in Odisha’s Kandhamal district, it has been four months of collecting mahuli without any sale. The entire collection of 21 quintals of dried flowers lie in a closed room, tightly packed in gunny sacks.

This year, they claim to have witnessed a bumper harvest. But the huge supply has brought down the prices by half. In the absence of a proper procurement system, they could not find genuine buyers. From Rs 40 to 50 a quintal the previous year, the prices crashed to Rs 20.

A time-sensitive produce

In most households in and around forests, women venture into the jungle to undertake the labour intensive task of collecting minor forest produce (MFPs).

“My husband works at construction sites or does odd jobs. The jungles are for us (women). We collect MFPs. We keep whatever we want for our family’s consumption and sell the rest,” says Ambika Malik, a villager.

Mahua flowers are eaten as cooked vegetables, or dried and used in bread, made into jam, mixed raw in cattle fodder, and also used to extract liquor. It contributes nearly a third of the annual income of these tribal and other traditional forest-dwelling communities.

Flowers are dried for three days after collection. “They should be devoid of any moisture content. Or else, the quality dips. But due to the ongoing rains even in October, storage and drying have become a major challenge this year,” Srimati informs.

The women sell mahua flowers in the nearest market in Khajuripada town, six km from the village. “We walk with the produce mounted on our heads. There is no road to our village from the town. So it takes us nearly three hours to reach the market, taking an unpaved and rocky path cutting through the hill,” another villager says.

The revenue generated through the sale of mahuli is kept aside for meeting medical emergencies or for family functions. “We are unwilling to sell at a low price. But if we do not sell it on time, the quality might degrade. And if we sell it at low prices, we suffer losses,” Srimati says.

No price-protection mechanism

“We spend the entire day seeking better prices. However, by the end of the day, if we are not able to sell, we agree to whatever prices the traders offer. Under any circumstances, it is not viable to carry mahuli back to the village,” says Maiti Hansdah of Sanjhili, located in the buffer zone of Similipal Tiger Reserve in Mayurbhanj district. She, along with her sister-in-law, collected two quintals of the flower this season, but are yet to sell any.

In Burudihi of Sambalpur district’s Kuchinda block, traders come to the village for procurement. “One trader bought mahua for Rs 30 per kg from five households. He then verbally booked a quintal from different households at the same price, saying he will return in a day to buy. Though the villagers stored the designated quantity, he returned only after 20 days to offer less than Rs 20 per kg,” says Fuljensia Tete from Burudihi.

In some places, people are forced to barter mahua at local stores. “The mahua flowers that I exchanged for groceries will be sold at hefty rates. Because we have not been able to sell any of it for money, we have to barter it for ration,” says Susham Nayak from Daspalla block of Nayagarh district.

The rates tend to fluctuate under the direct influence of traders, the villagers claim. The prices are generally high when the flowering starts, but it gradually dips to a bare minimum. “If there is a fixed rate which we are aware of, it will help us understand our finances better and sell it accordingly. In absence of a Minimum Support Price (MSP), we continue to struggle,” Nayak adds.

Conflicting laws on procurement 

Recently, mahua was included under the Centre’s ‘Mechanism for Marketing of Minor Forest Produce (MFP) through Minimum Support Price and Development of Value Chain for MFP’, making it eligible for sale under MSP. But in Odisha, the storage, possession and sale of mahua are strictly regulated under the Excise Rules, affecting the livelihood prospects of forest dwellers.

The MSP is decided by the Tribal Development Cooperative Corporation (TDCC), which functions under Odisha SC/ST Development Department. The TDCC does not procure mahua flowers because of the Excise law.

“The storage, export and sale of mahua flowers, which are used to make liquor, are regulated under the Excise policy. To avoid any overlap, mahua flowers do not come under the TDCC ambit. The same goes for many other forest products, as they conflict with certain other State or Central laws,” says Chandan Gupta, marketing manager, TDCC.

Under the State Excise Rules, “storage or possession of mahua flower shall remain open for inspection at any time by day or night by any officer of the Excise or Police Department.” Mahua has always been controlled by the State Excise laws, except for a brief period when it was nationalised in 1991. Its procurement and trading again came under existing Excise law from March 1992.

The Excise Department issues permits for collection and storage by charging a nominal licence fee. After the enactment of Non-Timber Forest Products (NTFP) Policy, 2000, the procurement and trade rights of mahua were handed over to village panchayats, but it continued to be regulated by the Excise Department under the Bihar and Orissa Excise Act, 1915, thus making illegal the storage and collection beyond a certain amount by forest-dwelling communities.

“Mahua flowers are used for various purposes, but the law defines the produce as an intoxicant. As a result, it comes under the control of the Excise Act. This contravenes the objectives of the NTFP Policy, which primarily aims towards enabling the primary gatherers to earn enhanced income,” says Y Giri Rao, Executive Director of research advocacy organisation Vasundhara.

“Even the Forest Rights Act, 2006, vests the right to collect, store, process and sell the MFPs. As it is a Central law, legally it overrides the State law,” Rao explains.

“The excise policy regulates the storage of more than two quintals, for which a licence is required,” says Rama Chandra Palata, Deputy Excise Commissioner, Excise Directorate. On issues of local traders, Palata says, “A lot of traders from nearby states are involved, which leads to illegal exports and lack of proper payment. Our teams keep intercepting them and there are regular crackdowns.”

Edited by Rekha Pulinnoli

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This story first appeared in The Week

As Khatera Hashmi smoothed the creases from her new salwar kameez—a confection in red and gold that she got for Eid—and arranged her daughter on her lap for a family portrait, a small frown appeared on her smooth brow. “I had told you, hadn’t I? That you should wear a good dress, too, we will be having our pictures taken,” she said. “But you don’t listen to me.”

Her husband, Mohammad Nabi, shrugged helplessly. “You are looking pretty, little Bahar has a new dress on, why bother about how I am looking?” replied Nabi.

Khatera, however, was not pacified. She knows he is wearing a faded tee and shabby shorts—his home clothes. She has smelt and felt them. Nabi looked at us sheepishly, as his wife gave him that wait-till-we-get-home expression.

Khatera is very image-conscious. How she appears to the world is very important for her, even though she can no longer see the world.

India came to know of Khatera’s existence when she came to Delhi in 2020, a living testimony of the Taliban’s brutality. The young woman in her thirties, who only months earlier had finished her training and joined the police force in Ghazni town, had immediately come on the Taliban’s radar. At that time, the Taliban was a guerrilla force, the US troops were still in Afghanistan and Ashraf Ghani was heading the country.

They threatened her against continuing her job—it was not right for a woman to be working. The threats were dire enough for her superiors to suggest she take a transfer to Kabul. Nabi, who owned a cloth shop in the market, headed to Kabul, looking for an accommodation to rent. “It was the afternoon of June 6, 2020. I was walking back from my shift at the police station, which was very close to my house,” recounted Khatera in perfect Hindi. “Suddenly, three men emerged from a narrow lane—two were on a motorcycle, one was on foot. They began hitting me and the scarves they wore around their faces loosened, even as I fell to the ground. I had seen their faces.” That was the last thing Khatera ever saw. She blacked out in pain. The men, ostensibly afraid they would be identified, simply gouged out her eyes with some sharp weapon—no one knows what it was.

“I was reading the namaz when I got a call from Khatera’s friend, saying she was attacked,” recalled Nabi, his Hindi heavily accented and liberally sprinkled with Pashto. “I thought it was a joke and went back to reading the namaz. But then I began feeling uneasy and I called her again. And my world crashed around me.”

Khatera was shunted from hospitals in Ghazni to Kabul. She had injuries all over, but her face was the most battered. “I didn’t think she would survive,” said Nabi. She did, however. And as she recovered, her family dreaded telling her the truth. Around 12 days later, when her injuries were healing, she realised that as the bandage slipped from her eyes, her lids seemed stuck together—they weren’t opening. “I realised I couldn’t see,” she recalled that moment in a surprisingly composed voice. “Vo din mere liye bahut sakth tha [it was a very difficult day for me].”

What Khatera was not to know was that even her eyelids were mutilated. It has taken several painstaking surgeries by the doctors at Dr Shroff’s Charity Eye Hospital in Delhi’s Daryaganj to bring back the beauty of her face. Only, the light they haven’t been able to restore.

However, they have taught her to “see” her world in so many different ways. “With the right rehabilitation, a blind person can be extremely productive,” explained Umang Mathur, executive director of the hospital. Mathur has a soft spot for Afghanistan—he did the end part of his schooling (class nine and ten) there. That was in the 1980s, when Afghanistan, under Russian occupation, was a different world—a place where women sported haircuts and where cabarets were happening.

Khatera resumed her story. “I was plunged into the world of darkness, but there was more trouble awaiting,” she said. Her story was being told and retold in Kabul, and this brought her on the Taliban’s radar again. Amid all the bleakness, however, there was one more development. Doctors discovered she was pregnant. “I wanted to kill myself so many times since the attack,” she said. “But when I came to know I was going to have a child, I got fresh hope.”

Hope has been a shifty companion for Khatera. It has kept her going during the worst times, but it has also crashed the world around her as many times. Hope then took the form of an American charity worker—Stephanie K. Hanson—who came to know of her. Through charitable foundations Orbis and Seva, which work for eyesight restoration and rehabilitation of the blind, she reached out to Dr Shroff’s hospital in India. “With the Taliban focusing on my case, even the government recommended we should go to India for treatment and safety,” said Khatera. Thus, Khatera came to India in December 2020, in the thick of lockdowns, leaving her home, perhaps, forever.

India, for many Afghans, is a land of dreams. It is the solution to their problems. It brims over with possibilities. Khatera came over, clinging on to a hope that the miracle of vision would happen in India. “As of today, we can only do corneal transplants to restore vision. In her case, both the eyes had been mutilated,” explained Dr Sima Das, head of the hospital’s oculoplasty and ocular oncology services. In the months before she was shifted to Delhi, the local doctors had anyway removed all the eye tissue. Mathur said that the practice these days was to retain as much of the original tissue, because, sometimes, despite the worst trauma, miracles happened. It could only be a perception of light and dark, but for a patient, even that small perception is a huge empowerment. “The Israeli doctors always recommend saving original tissue,” he explained, but added that ground realities are often very different, and doctors have to take on-the-spot decisions. In Khatera’s case, the mutilation was so bad that she even required reconstructive surgery on the eye sockets.

The months that followed were a series of surgeries and recoveries as doctors rebuilt her face. She even had hearing loss in one ear because of the injuries, which has been improved vastly.

Khatera recalled the day when her last hope shattered. The technicians were taking her measurements for artificial eyes. “I knew then that this is my reality.” Khatera’s new eyes may be sightless, but they are beautiful works of art, painstakingly hand-painted to replicate what her actual eyes must once have been like. She wears them proudly, they give her confidence in her looks. She “sees” things in different ways, however.

Sonia Srivastava, assistant manager, low vision services, was the messiah who brought a new light to Khatera’s life, guiding her through a rehabilitation process that helps her use hands, ears and nose as her new visual aids. The process is slow, often frustrating, but the results are game-changers. “I used to be so scared to be alone,” recalled Khatera. “I would not allow my husband to leave the room. I could not even turn on an electric switch. I used to be scared I would get an electric shock.”

Nabi has loyally stood by her side, taking on every setback with a brave front, and rejoicing in every small progress. Blessed with a daughter last year, he has two demanding women to take care of. “He is also learning a lot,” said Khatera with a warm smile. “Initially, when he would go to the kitchen, he would pester me about how much salt to put, how long to stir a dish and so many other annoying questions. You should taste his cooking now. He makes such delicious chicken.” Nabi smiled shyly at the compliment.

Theirs was a love match. Romance blooms even in the most forbidden environments. Khatera’s father was a tailor; she did some sewing, too. She would often go to the market to purchase new material. Soon, the shopkeeper was as much an attraction as the latest bolts of textile, mostly imported from India. “I remember giving him my phone number, so that he could alert me when something new arrived,” said Khatera. Numbers exchanged, the romance bloomed further, till the couple got married four years ago. He has an earlier wife, and several children, all of whom have been left behind as they made their journey to India. “We always thought we would go back, or the family would come to meet,” said Nabi. But first there was Covid-19, then the Taliban takeover in Afghanistan. A reunion seems impossible in the foreseeable future, at least.

The last two years have been trying on their relationship, but Khatera said it helped her “see” people through. “My husband did not give up hope,” she said. “My mother-in-law would nag him constantly to leave me—I was useless and blind. He did not give up on me.” Nabi tugged at his hair. “See all these whites, the last two years have brought them on. The day Khatera was attacked was the worst day of my life,” he said, an involuntary shiver passing over him. He has battled her suicidal thoughts, her struggles with re-learning every little thing, the endless visits to the hospital—it can be intimidating for the well-trained caregiver, let alone someone who has no experience and is himself battling loss at various fronts. But the day Khatera demanded he get a “big speaker” for her to listen to music, he knew that the darkest hour was past. “Such a big speaker she wants,” he said, spreading his hands theatrically. “She always wants loud music.”

Khatera was born when her family lived as refugees in Pakistan, so she speaks and understands Hindi. Even on return to Ghazni, she spoke in Hindi and Urdu with her siblings, watched Bollywood films and listened to Hindi songs.

She is back to humming songs as she manages the few chores she has learnt at home. I ask her to sing. She is shy. But we know there is music bubbling within her. Her husband urges her on with some suggestions. She has a choice of songs from Hindi and Pashto now, and she deliberates, before settling on a Hindi number. It is about loyalty and fidelity. As she began singing, her toddler daughter left the sliced cake she was eating, and listened to her mother in rapt attention. Nabi wore an indulgent look.

There is a new spring in Khatera’s life. Recently, she had started attending classes at the National Association for the Blind (NAB) centre in the city, thanks to Srivastava’s interventions. “I was so hesitant initially,” she confessed. “I thought, ‘Others will see me spill food, or drop something, it will be so embarrassing’. Then I realised they, too, were sightless. They are also learning, like me.” Khatera has learnt to cook again. She can boil milk and make tea and instant noodles. “I spread my hands over the pot like this,” she says, gesturing with her hands over an imaginary pot. “The temperature changes tell me how far the boiling is progressing.” However, Nabi is lord of the kitchen. “Someone has to take care of Bahar, too,” they said.

Khatera is happy she can do that part. “I can massage, bathe and change her clothes, too,” she said. “I like going with my husband to the market to buy new clothes for her.”

NAB is opening up a whole new world of possibilities for her. Her impoverished living in Ghazni did not give her access to a smartphone, let alone a computer. At the centre here, she is learning to use a computer through voice commands. Srivastava is also teaching her to operate a smartphone with the help of voice commands. Once she is proficient, she will be equipped with a special set of spectacles. These spectacles will have cameras fitted on to them, and will be synced with the phone. They will be a navigation aid, conveying what is before her through voice messages. But the most interesting feature of these spectacles is that they will be able to do a face scan of the person before her. If that person’s details match with the entries on her phone, the spectacles will recognise the person, and tell her who is approaching.

Khatera always wanted to see India. “When I got my police job, I had told myself I will save for a trip to India,” she said. “I didn’t know I would be coming here like this. But I am glad I am in India. This is a wonderful place, the people are so good, and they work different miracles here.”

The path ahead is not easy. She still has terrible headaches. There are more surgeries left to repair the damage around the eye orbits and she has only just started down the road of rehabilitation. At some point, Nabi has to think of getting some employment, too. They have got refugee cards, so at least they can stay here without worry. But as Bahar grows up, there will be newer cares to deal with.

Khatera, though, has regained her zest for living, and for taking up challenges, with her love at her side. “Zindagi abhi achchi lagne lagi hai (life is looking good again),” she said.

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This story first appeared in News18

From Golden Retrievers, Dobermans to Labradors, all of Kolkata Police’s dog squad are now beating the heat in style.

Kolkata is reeling under the scorching summer, with temperatures shooting up to 40 degrees. Kolkata Police dogs are, hence, taking special precautions to beat the heat. What have they been doing, you ask? They usually start exercising from 6 to 8:30 in the morning, but now, they just go for walks inside the Agelity Ground of PTS. Around 8:30 am, they take a swim in their special swimming pool. Kolkata Police came up with the special pool last year. This pool is a level apart: it has a special vacuum system to remove the dogs’ fur and equipped with special lights.

The officer who looks after the dogs told News18, “We make them play with balls and water polo. After 12 pm, all of the 47 dogs are accommodated in three air-conditioned rooms till 3 pm.” They eat beef for lunch but from May, they will be given chicken, as prescribed by doctors. After lunch, they are given 100 gm “ghol”, which is a drink made out of curd. Doctors have mandatorily advised it for the dogs. The Kolkata Police has applied for ACs in 55 kennels.

When the dogs are out on duty, they go in two dog carriers which are also air conditioned. More air-conditioned carriers could be on the way. They also have ice coats and drink Glucon D regularly while out. From Golden Retrievers, Dobermans to Labradors, all of Kolkata Police’s dog squad are now beating the heat in style.

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