Where stomachaches are terminal

Between 1997 and the end of 2000, 1,826 people, mostly farmers, committed suicide in Anantapur district,

Andhra Pradesh. As many as 1,061 - over 58 per cent - of them were recorded as having taken their lives because of 'sickness'. Indeed hundreds of these deaths went into the records as people having killed themselves because of 'unbearable stomach-ache'. This helped conceal that most who died were small farmers, pushed over the brink by economic distress, says noted journalist P. SAINATH.

IT is a bad idea to get a stomach-ache in Chandrababu Naidu's Andhra Pradesh. Especially if you are a small farmer in debt. There is a fair chance you would try and kill the pain by downing a huge dose of pesticide. A cheap way out, since the pesticide was the one input given to you free by Government. It does end the ache. And probably your life as well.

Official data from Anantapur district on farmers' suicides there undermines all earlier estimates on the problem. Also, the way these deaths were registered in the first place raises serious questions about how the numbers have been put together.

Thus far, the upper limit of estimates on such suicides in the farming community has been around 800 for the whole State in the past three years.

The data here speaks differently. There are two "official" estimates in Anantapur. One of these - being sent up to the State legislature - says Anantapur district alone saw 913 suicides between 1997 and February this year. Why did these numbers never come into the debate on distress suicides among farmers? Simple. Hundreds of them went into the police registers with these lines: "the man (or woman) had severe stomach-ache. Unable to bear the pain, he (or she) swallowed pesticide in despair".

The despair, then, did not arise from the economic distress of the farmer. It came from an epidemic of stomach-aches. A number of farmers ended their tummy pain with the pesticide, Monocrotophos. An item provided free by the State. One official puts it with graveyard humour. "Never let it be said the Andhra Pradesh Government did not care for its people. They had stomachaches, it gave them a cure. The more necessary given the collapse of the public health system."

If the manner of recording these cases is anything to go by, then counts of distress suicides across the State do not tell a fraction of the story. A senior official in the district admits, "Half of these suicides were due to economic reasons." Yet, the State legislature will be told that only 54 - less than six per cent - of these 913 deaths are linked to poverty. And that a mere six of them could be called hunger deaths.

Why? As the official explains: "the way something was recorded two or three years ago cannot be changed now. So we are stuck with that when putting together data on the subject. It is embarrassing. But how can we define as a distress suicide something that was recorded quite differently at the time it happened?"

And even these figures are underestimates. Other data we got in Anantapur shows that clearly.

The second set of data is from the district crime records bureau. Their figures show it is even worse. Between 1997 and 2000, 868 people, most of them farmers, took their lives using poison. Mainly pesticide. Over 900 hanged or drowned themselves or used other means to kill themselves. The total number of suicides was 1,826. Last year was the worst, with 577 people ending their lives. As many as 45 per cent of those committing suicide across this whole period were women. (There are a lot of women-headed households in this high-migration area.)

Obviously, these were not all due to economic reasons. (Though the cases of those consuming poison were mostly so, police admit.) On record, "poverty" claimed no more than 42 of these suicides. Oddly, though, a lot of the other categories of "reasons" add up to a very small number. For instance, "love affairs" saw 28 suicides across all those years. "Failure in examinations" claimed 22. Suicides linked to "Neglect/misconduct of Wife/husband" were 28. Together, then, they account for less than five per cent of total suicides.

Here is the catch. Those committing suicide because of "sickness" (read stomach-ache) numbered 1,061. That is over 58 per cent of the total.

There is more. Those taking their lives due to "other" (unspecified) causes were 438 or almost 24 per cent. These two categories then account for 82 per cent of the suicides.

The way in which the cases were first recorded hid the distress element in the suicides. Then, the way they were classified allowed for more confusion.

The present police set up has been more sensitive in recording these cases. This reflects in a steep climb in recent times. For instance "poverty" suicides in the 12 months are double what they were in the preceding two years put together. Some in the force admit that half or more of the total suicides were linked to economic distress. Others place the figure much higher. But they cannot change the earlier numbers on which estimates are based.

This manner of accounting raises many questions. Among them: what are the real figures of distress suicides across the State? Anantapur is not the only district reporting such deaths. What would a more credible State-wide survey reveal?

About Anantapur itself: what is driving that despair?

Some mandals of this district get as little as 250 mm of rainfall each year. There is also a big drinking water crisis here. (Coca Cola is easily available in some villages where water is not). So drought, as always, makes a handy scapegoat. The problem with that excuse is that large numbers of farmers took their lives after a good crop last season. Now there is a drought. And its impact could worsen rapidly after this month. But it was preceded by far more crucial processes that spurred the suicides. All of them policy-driven.

One of these is debt. And its working is quite visible right in Anantapur town.

Eenadu is Andhra Pradesh's largest daily newspaper. And the advertisements in its local edition tell a story. On many days, the most prominent ads are the same. Banks announcing the auctioning of tiny amounts of gold or jewellery owned by small farmers in the district. Often this happens to recover dues ranging from Rs. 2,500 to Rs. 12,000. In one case, the sum owed is as low as Rs. 316.

The notices in the paper are many. From the State Bank of India. The Syndicate Bank. Sri Ananta Gramina Bank. Even the Indian Overseas Bank. The substance is the same. The auction of gold ornaments belonging to small farmers unable to clear their debts fully.

These farmers took loans from the banks using the only bits of gold or jewellery they owned as collateral. Many have paid back the principal and more. But they have been crushed by the interest. Most are groundnut farmers owning between two and five acres.

The crisis brought on by crashing groundnut prices saw no rescheduling of the debt.

A senior official in Hyderabad puts it this way. "The non- performing assets of the nationalised banks in India are close to Rs. 1,00,000 crores. A small bunch of big houses owe them about 60 per cent of that. Little or no attempt has been made to get that money back. So the harshness with which recovery of sums like Rs. 316 or Rs. 5,000 is being pursued here is surely curious."

The relentlessness of the auctions can be seen in the daily profusion of such ads in Eenadu. On just the first two days of March, 132 villagers had their names listed as those whose meagre assets were up for auction. On March 2 alone, seven such ads appeared in Eenadu. They continue to appear with monotonous regularity.

Some have lost land in the auctions. D. Tirupal and his brother Venkataramiah, for instance, in Chiyedu village. About 10 acres of their land were auctioned after they failed to keep up with debt repayments. Neither went to the auction.

"How could I go? It was humiliating for us to lose our land," says Tirupal. "If there was any way we could have paid, we would have. But we had nothing left to pay."

That sense of humiliation is a factor in pushing human beings to the brink. But along with the misery, it also has other effects. Organised scamming, for instance. Tirupal and his brother owed Rs. 30,000. The land auctioned was worth a lot more than that. They have no idea of what has happened to the remaining amount. "We certainly never got it," says Tirupal.

Often, there could be a single buyer at the "auction". In Ipperu, people spoke of a nexus between bank officials and the "buyer". The two, they say share and pocket the difference. Sailadrimurthy of Ipperu had a loan outstanding of Rs. 20,000. The worth of his property up for auction was around Rs. 35,000. He too, never went anywhere near the auction. And never received the balance.

So strong is the shame of losing your wife's only gold and jewellery, that auctions are a tough subject to broach. In village after village, people began by denying that any of them had faced such auctions. And so it was in Ipperu. Yet, slowly 20, then 50 and more cases were acknowledged. By the time we left, over 100 cases of people facing or about to face auctions had been admitted to in that one village.

Ipperu has 350 families. Its debt burden is calculated by an ex- official of the BC Corporation as being in excess of Rs. 1.2 crores. "That is only the loans from formal sources," says Sailadrimurthy. "Loans from private lenders, with far higher interest rates, would be much, much greater."

"Whether it is the banks or the moneylenders, the pressure never ends," says B. Lachmamma. Her husband Bandi Narasimhalu was among the first to take his life last year. A groundnut farmer with five acres, he could no longer cope with his debts. "He came home one day and took the only thing the Government had given him. Monocrotophos." The case rocked the State Assembly and many promises of help were made to Lachmamma.

What it boiled down to in the end was the minimum sum due under the National Family Benefit Scheme: Rs. 10,000. "From that," yells her angry neighbour, "the bank deducted Rs. 5,000. From a grieving widow and her children." They said "it was only a part of what he owed them," says Lachmamma.

She smiles grimly. "Your visit here will create more problems for me. The fact that someone from the city has come to my house is enough. All the creditors will be here soon after you leave. They will say: "those people looked like officials. They must have given you money. We read about it in the papers. We saw the announcement on television. Give us the money they gave you."

(To be continued)

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