By Nidhi Tiwari In the hinterlands of Malnad, lies an obscure hamlet — Balagi. Three homes, few terraces, plentiful greenery, steep sloped mountains, the landscape is picturesque. Chandra Naik’s family came here about 40 years ago when his house was submerged by the Linganamakki dam. With five sons and four daughters, less than two acres of land, a handful of cows, the nearest road three kilometres away, his life at Balagi is anything but secure and content to an onlooker. But ask this 55-year-old, and he believes god has been kind enough. Quiz him about the future, insecurity is subtle — “let us see what happens in the future.” With three of his sons working in Bangalore (one — server at a bar, second — helper at a bakery, third a driver), and the youngest still in school (staying at a government run hostel nearby), effectively three people live at home. All his daughters are married. His wife doesn’t keep too well. The water in the nearest stream has thinned down, farm labour is hard to find and he has no clue about the future. “I am hoping two of my sons will come back, get married and stay at home. The contrast between Bangalore and Balagi is hard to miss. Chandra Naik’s hopes live on. This is the story in every home. Indigenous communities in the Ghats are clearly in transition — with the youth away in cities in search of work and money, local economy virtually non-existent — urban migration is high. Nearby lies Hebbenakeri, another hamlet tucked deep in the forests. “When my father came here, there was only one other house, now there are 12 in this valley,” says Ramchandrappa, pointing to the many red-tiled roofs that peep out of the green cover. “Can you believe it, we are facing shortage of water in the middle of these dense forests?” Not very far away in the hills of Uttara Kannda, Suresh Nayak is a worried man. “Every year, by this time the rains are over. I wonder why it is still pouring. It is a curse on us poor farmers. Our standing crop of paddy is soaking in the rain,” he says. Errant monsoon patterns are a new reality in the Western Ghats. “Earlier we had names for each rain. We even calculated our agriculture activity based on the monsoons. They were so accurate,” shares Suresh, adding that “for example, the bittane (sowing) season — this was based on the rohini male — people in villages believed that when the chagate gida (chagate plant) surfaces, there will be continuous rain and so we can start sowing seeds. But today, all this does not hold good. Monsoons have become very undependable. We don’t know what else is in store.” …

Hills of despair via The Oil Drum