Nayantara Bibi, 16, packed a jar of pickled dried fish, a few rotis, and dry torkari for her husband, Abbasuddin Sheikh, 21. The rotis and vegetable were intended to last him during his train ride from Kolkata to Chennai, and the pickled dried fish, for a couple of months of his stay there. Leaving behind his family of four — his wife, 5-month-old child, ageing mother, and 21-year-old brother who lived with autism — Abbasuddin prepared to leave his village Chousutti Para for Chennai, recalls his wife. Joining seven others from his village in Kakdwip, a town in South 24 Parganas, he boarded a toto for ‘5 number bajaar’ from where they would take a bus to Dharmatala and another bus to reach Shalimar Station in Kolkata. The train would head to Chennai Central, in a journey lasting 26.5 hours, covering 1,659 km.
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Like many before him, Abbasuddin left with the promise of returning after six months and sending money every month, with an extra ₹1,000 for his wife and new mother, Ms. Bibi. Two of the seven who left, came back to the village in an ambulance from Balasore, the site of the accident. They were the survivors of the Coromandel Express train tragedy that killed 288 people and injured over 1,000. Five, who boarded the general compartment of the train, went missing. One was Abbasuddin. He did not have a reservation on a train, the general compartment of which is meant to carry about 100 people but actually holds about 400, cramped onto the berths, standing or sitting on the floor. Undocumented, his name does not feature on the list of people — dead or alive — who could be identified. His brother-in-law spent over a week in Balasore, but could not identify his body. “We went to the morgues and hospitals, but could not find him anywhere,” says Rahul Sheikh.
Over the past two decades, the districts of low development in West Bengal, like North 24 Parganas, South 24 Parganas, Uttar Dinajpur, Malda, and Murshidabad have become hotspots for people leaving to work in States like Andhra Pradesh, Tamil Nadu, Gujarat, and Kerala, says Abhijit Mistry, an assistant professor in Manipur University, Imphal, who specialises in migration and population studies, and grew up in the Sundarbans. Many, like Abbasuddin go to work as construction workers, but there are also those who go as agricultural labour. All go in search of a stable income.
“Abbas left his home for the first time when he was 14 years old, to feed and provide for us. He tagged along with his mastoto bhai (mother’s brother) who took him to a construction site in Kerala to learn the work. Since then he has been working as a construction worker in many southern states,” says Asmina Bibi, Abbasuddin’s mother.
Moving for money
The 2011 Census suggests that West Bengal recorded negative net migration for the first time. “Negative net migration indicates that more workers are migrating to other States in comparison to the number of migrants who move to West Bengal for temporary settlement, owing to the lack of work opportunities, falling returns from agriculture, and the drastic impact of climate change on their caste assigned work,” says Mr. Mistry. Upto .34 million people from migrated from the State to other States, for employment, with 0.22 from rural Bengal.
For most migrant labourers from the Sundarbans region in West Bengal, the decision to move to other States for work is less of a choice and more of a compulsion owing to the lack of development, work opportunities, and ecological challenges due to changing weather patterns.
One of those brought back home from Balasore was Nazimuddin Purkait, 37. He has been working in Kerala for the past two decades, and says migration for him was a question of survival. “The lands where we used to work as agricultural labourers are gradually getting submerged under the water,” he says, referring to the rising water level of the Bay of Bengal that is gradually eating away the mangroves and islands of the Sundarbans region. “Whenever a natural calamity hits and we lose these lands, the landowners get compensation, but what about us? What will my family eat? How will we survive here?” says Mr. Purkait.
Mr. Purkait went to Kerala with the help of his maternal uncle, who used to work there as a jewellery craftsman in a jewellery store that has a chain of shops. “Every passing year returns from the agricultural sector were successively lower than the previous year. Belonging to a family of fishermen and farm labourers, I realised that learning a skill will help me sustain all 12 months of the year,” says Mr. Purkait.
The jewellery craftsman comes back home to Kakdwip every five or six months. “Though the State government helped us to rehabilitate and build our houses, there are no job opportunities here. Had I stayed here or gone to Kolkata for the same work, I would have still been struggling to make ₹8,000 a month, but in Kerala, I can make ₹25,000 for the same number of hours, and get free housing and cheap food,” says Mr. Purkait.
Despite chances of linguistic familiarity in a metro city closer to their home, Kolkata remains very much an alien site for millions of migrant workers from Bengal’s districts. “Historically the industrial belt around Kolkata has recruited labour more from surrounding States than the far-away districts of the same State and it has contributed to this failure in building social networks and connections for these workers,” says Adil Hussain, assistant professor of political anthropology, at Azim Premji University, Bengaluru.
Away from home
Mr. Purkait is now petrified of boarding a train. The slightest noise or shaking triggers him. He talks about one instance, when at night the ceiling fan rattled a little. “I got up in a sweat,” he says, adding that even when the bed shakes, he is panicked. But he also knows he will have to board the train soon. Though perhaps only temporarily, mothers are nervous of sending their sons to work, because of the accident. “I myself am so scared of boarding a train, how do I convince them?” says Mr. Purkait.
A senior police official from the Sagar Island Coastal Police station, secure in a government job, says it is “greed” that has pushed people from the Sundarbans to work in other States, while Gram Sabha member, Abdus Rashid Sheikh says it is a choice between starvation and work stability for most landless people in the region. “Today, every second household in the district has a teenage son and adult men working outside West Bengal,” he says. Families often consist of parents, wives, and daughters. “There are villages where it is difficult to find an adult man to work for us or help during difficulties,” adds Mr. Sheikh.
Mr. Hussain says that while the social welfare schemes of the Mamata Banerjee government target women, and the enrolment and school completion rate of female students have increased, the dropout rate of male students in school has increased. “In the 90s when India’s economy India opened up, most would migrate to north Indian sites like Delhi, Gurgaon, and Ghaziabad, at present there is a rise in the domination of south Indian States for migration,” he says.
Survivor story
The other survivor from the village is Shanwar Hussain Mullah, 32, who returned with a head injury, an injured limb, and a blood-soaked fine parchi, issued to those travelling unreserved. The sole breadwinner of a family of five, he cannot fathom how he will put food on the table, educate his three minor sons, and get his late teenage daughter married.
“Despite belonging to a family of agricultural labourers, I started working as a construction worker seven years ago in states like Karnataka and Kerala,” he says. In Kerala, he felt there is less animosity towards Muslims. “In Karnataka, on many occasions I would get jibed at for being a Bangladeshi because I wear a lungi and speak Bengali. This has not come from employers, but mostly from local residents,” says Mr. Mullah.
Like the others, for Mr. Mullah too the Coromandel Express symbolised freedom from hunger and a promise of a better and stable income. “I could save around 60% of my daily earnings,” he said, adding that he would earn about ₹1,000 a day, against ₹300-400 in the Sundarbans. The company covered his lodging expenses.
While initially getting used to the coconut-oil-based cooking was difficult, Mr. Mullah says that in the past few years, quite a few pocket-friendly Bengali eateries and home delivery options had emerged around construction sites and labour chowks to meet the growing demand of Bengali labourers in the region.
The battered and bruised Mr. Mullah cannot think of returning and will only work in the Sundarbans in future. “The government should tell us how this accident happened,” he says. His wife, Anwara Bibi, stands quietly next to him, trying to offer him some relief with a hand fan.
