KOLKATA: Every wave that lashes the muddy, brittle banks of this fast-shrinking delta island, gnawing away at its sandy base, its residents are left counting their days. With each high tide swallowing chunks of slippery earth that slide into the all-consuming Muriganga river, the fear of losing their home and hearth inches closer. At Ghoramara island in South 24-Parganas, 150km south of Kolkata, life has turned into an inescapable hop to elude the inevitable.
Over the last 25 years, the 200-year-old island has shrunk in size from a healthy 120sq km to just 8sq km. It’s withering away every day and experts believe it could disappear into the river by 2025. Once home to more than 20,000 people, Ghoramara is now inhabited by just over 6,000. It has all basic facilities, though, which are as good or poor as in any other Bengal village. It has a high school, four primary schools, a health centre that runs without a trained doctor, a flood relief centre, solar-powered lamps, an efficient panchayat that has been trying hard to secure government funds for the ill-fated island and resilient farmers who have been braving all odds and fighting erosion to save their homeland. They realize that it’s a lost cause, but aren’t giving up yet, for they don’t know where to go to. Take, for instance, farmer Shyamal Jana, whose frail mud hut hangs precariously at the edge of a muddy stretch barely a hundred yards from the river. Jana must move deeper inside the island before monsoon arrives, or else the river will gulp his home. “Till five years ago, the river used to be a 10-minute walk from my home. Now, it is inching closer with every high tide. Last monsoon, it advanced by about 100 yards. This time, it will take my home,” he says, pointing at the rippling waters of the river. Like hundreds of others on the island, Jana has borrowed money to acquire some land for a new house. Along with his two sons Kartik and Ganesh, he must work harder and earn more to repay the debts. “Life is getting tougher as the land shrinks. It’s literally squeezing everything out of us,” rues Kartik, who has to do odd jobs to support the family, since farming is difficult. Salt water gushing into the island has rendered half the land infertile. Many residents have switched over to beetle cultivation, which is easier and more profitable. Some grow vegetables in their backyard, but the quantity of the produce is meagre, certainly not substantial enough to supplement their income. Moving out in search of jobs is common, and almost every second family has a member working in some other part of the country. They will never return, their families know. “Once you leave these shores, there’s nothing that can bring you back. Eventually, everyone will have to flee this sinking island, unless the government steps in and takes some drastic steps to check erosion,” observes Rabiul Khan, a farmer. Measures to save the island have been sporadic and insufficient, residents allege. Boulders have been laid along the bank on the western side, and this has stalled the marching waters effectively. Reinforced with an iron cage, the rocks go down to the bottom of the river, cutting out the lashing waves. The other sides of the island remain unprotected, barring a few raised embankments, especially the eastern and northern banks, which are disappearing faster than ever before. Ships sailing down the Muriganga from Haldia have hastened the erosion, villagers point out. “Giant waves triggered by the vessels hit our island with great force. While the Haldia port has prospered, our island has been doomed,” Khan says. Ghoramara dreads the monsoon. Every time the rains come, scores of houses and acres of paddy fields vanish into the advancing river. This year will be no different. The local panchayat is working overtime to arrange funds for boulders and embankments. “When the rains come, our only job is to scoop earth from wherever we can and raise the banks. It has worked to an extent, but unless you have stronger reinforcements like we have on the western side, the efforts will be futile. It will, at best, delay the erosion but won’t prevent it,” says Sanjib Sagar, the panchayat chief. The 42-year-old has seen his house being shifted five times in the last two decades. “It’s a cat-and-mouse game that we have all been playing. We are losing it, but the fight is on,” Sagar declares. He says he has been lobbying hard to attract funds for Ghoramara, which had been declared a ‘condemned island’ during the Left Front rule. “It set us back and took years to convince the government that Ghoramara deserves assistance. That it can indeed survive and its people should not be forced to abandon their homes. Thankfully, the government has now started sanctioning funds and money is trickling in,” Sagar says. With the funds, roads are being built. Nearly 80% of the homes have solar lamps. Drinking water has never been scarce in Ghoramara, though the islanders have to rely on quacks for treatment. The nearest hospital is at Kakdeep across the Muriganga, and the last boat that can ferry patients leaves Ghoramara at 4.30 in the evening. Everyone knows that they can’t stave off the inevitable, but in the almost tangible atmosphere of gloom, and the fear that the end draws near, the islanders remain admirably spirited about life. They aren’t abandoning the fight just yet. Instead, they are willing to hang on to their land and home till the last. And they realize that they must help themselves if Ghoramara has to be saved. The number of teachers at the lone high school has dropped from 16 a few years ago to just three. They have to cater to 550 students, but the teachers aren’t complaining. “Instead of waiting for the government to act, we have been taking the initiative to attract teachers to the school. Recently, a couple of teachers, who had studied in this school, have joined. They were reluctant, but we convinced them. It’s our home; we must walk the extra mile to protect it,” says Surajit Kar, a teacher. Joydeb Bhuiyan, a farmer at the neighbouring Mud Point, shifted to beetle cultivation from paddy. One of the few relatively affluent farmers, he fears that even beetle wouldn’t be rewarding for too long. “Saline water is gushing in all the time. The days are numbered for us farmers. But we will give it our best shot and struggle till the last,” he says. Farmer Kamal Bhuiyan can’t remember how many times he moved his home to save it from the galloping river. He has learnt to live with fear and loss, he says. Bhuiyan’s family once had 40 bighas, of which just two now remain. “But it’s no use crying over spilt milk. Life is progressively getting tougher, for farmland is being washed away. But we must fight it out, for I believe we can still save Ghoramara, if boulders are laid on the northern and eastern sides,” Bhuiyan says, sounding optimistic. Oceanographer Sugata Hazra doesn’t share the optimism. “More than half the island has been washed away. It’s a matter of some years before the rest goes into the water as well,” says Hazra, who has extensively studied the inundation of Sunderbans islands. Sheikh Aptauddin, a 65-year-old social worker who has spent his entire life on the island, doesn’t see any future for the residents. “This was once the middle of the island,” he says, standing on the bank at Khashimara on the eastern fringe. Then, pointing towards the faraway waters, he recollects how his family lost their entire land to the waters, bigha by bigha. “It is all there now,” he says with a wry smile. “Ship movement to and from Haldia has hastened erosion. There’s still hope if boulders are laid on all sides. But the pace at which funds are trickling in, all will be lost by the time we have enough money for the job.” Then there are the die-hard loyalists, such as postmaster Jagadish Nath, who has been on the dwindling island for a decade. Nath had been transferred to a neighbouring district but he sought to return. “I am in love with this place and the people. There’s a magic about the villages, roads and banks in Ghoramara that holds you back. It will be a pity if it all goes into the river. Perhaps it will, and I wish to be there on the island on that final day,” says Nath, who will retire in two months. But it’s perhaps the sprightly and restless Sheikh Diljan, a van-rickshaw puller who is endearingly called Moyna on the island, who symbolizes the state of Ghoramara. Diljan realizes that he might have to part with his home and village. “So, I have grown a detachment from the things around me. Yet, I love them and want to cling on to the last piece of mud before it melts into the river,” he says.
