My First Visit to Barabanki (and other stories)

It sounded simple enough. We were going shoot a short documentary with Khabar Lahariya on debt, and its emotional and social impact on farmers. 

Simple, because we assumed our pivot was a clear story of a perpetrator, the system, and a victim, the farmer. It really did sound that simple, because you know, as self-respecting left liberals who had read every newspaper report from here to the American drought, we knew we were going to just throw a giant electric beam through this whole debt-suicide nexus.

48 hours with Khabar Lahariya journalist, Lakshmi, on one beat, to investigate one case, which has been registered as a farmer suicide, only taught us one thing.

That we know nothing.

'A farmer went outside the DM’s office in Barabanki and hung himself. KL is investigating. You know Lakshmi?' Alam, our driver, mumbles a sure, but what’s the film about? 'Umm, you know this whole culture of debt, the breakdown of agrarian economy…' 'I don’t know what you are talking about,' he interrupts. 'I’ve just come back from my village, my uncle’s farm. All the wheat is fine. So, what else do you know?'

Lakshmi sits cross-legged, and swaps between five Whatsapp windows while taking us through the case. 'The question is, how did he get three bank loans against the same piece of land?'She tries the number of the inspector in-charge for the umpteenth time. 'We need to see the FIR.' She has just travelled an hour to meet us, changed three buses, and now sits calculating how much interest it takes for a Dalit farmer in UP to run up credit of 15 lakhs.

The tree from which Asharam was found hanging is probably a young peepal, which sits halfway between the Barabanki district court on the left, and the Barabanki police station on the right. We go right. The Investigating Officer is in court, but a team of opinionated men surround Lakshmi and me with chairs. 'Let’s discuss the connection between debt and suicides in farmers?' asks Lakshmi. 'Well, statistically speaking, there are as many suicides in other professions. Lots of people kill themselves, why are you only looking at farmers?' said one man, not in uniform, but with the authority of one. 'What does the post-mortem say?' replies Lakshmi.

'I’m going to give you information only because you’ve come all this way in the sun,' says the investigating officer magnanimously, when he arrives. 'When I take a loan I can’t even sleep at night. I know I have to return it. But these people, they take a loan to repay a previous loan. Why? It’s like they don’t understand money. And the government keeps announcing subsidies around every election. Yeh loan maaf.Voh loan maaf. So, they feel they don’t have to return it.'

Lakshmi asks for the FIR one more time. The investigating officer doesn’t hand it to her, but reads it out loudwhilethe whole station stands rapt. The FIR is against a Suresh Chand for lending money to Asharam against the land of the deceased’s best friend Vijay, without any written paperwork, and then putting pressure on the deceased such that he was driven to kill himself.

'Why did Vijay mortgage his land for someone else?' asks Lakshmi, to no one in particular, on our way to Bhul Bhuliya, the village of the deceased.

Asharam’s ample house glistens with its fresh coat of pink. His wife, two sons, and brother-in-law, answer Lakshmi in automation. I don’t know how much the debt is, they say. I don’t know how much he owed the bank, she says. The government hasn’t helped me, except for the seven lakh rupee cheque she says. I want free education for my sons. 'Who did you file the FIR against?' asks Lakshmi. 'We haven’t filed any FIR,' says the brother-in-law. 'But the FIR has your name on it,' says Lakshmi. 'I never filed it,' says the brother-in-law.

Suresh walks out of his thatched home, dressed in little more thana thread across his chest. 'I knew someone would come,' he says and waits for us to start recording. 'I know I have an FIR against me because Amar Ujala reported it. But I have not been served any notice,' he says with practised calm. 'You lent money to Asharam?' asks Lakshmi. 'Does it look like I have money to lend?' We get batashas. And tea. 'I’ve legally bought Vijay’s land, and I’ve been giving him money. Now what he does with that is his problem.' Lakshmi asks what he means by legally. He doesn’t stir, but two copies of stamp paper magically appear, each bearing a photograph of Suresh Chand and Vijay Yadav. Lakshmi reads silently. More women and children appear from the same house, waiting for something. 'Okay, I need a record of this,' says Lakshmi, and takes photographs of the documents on her phone.

'The question you need to ask is, what is the relationship between Vijay and Asharam? Unke gehre sambandh ke baare mein hum nahin bata sakte. It’s too dirty,' says Suresh Chand, not moving a muscle.

We sit on a charpai outside Vijay’s house because he has gone to cremate someone. On his return, he mics himself up with the deftness of a final year film school student. 'You see, a harijan can’t sell his land – so I offered to mortgage mine because Asharam was very dear to me.' So, you must know about his debt. 'No, I didn’t know that, else I would’ve dissuaded him from taking this step,' says Vijay, practising for court. 'I don’t understand,' says Lakshmi. 'How can you be his best friend and not know how much debt he has?'

Lakshmi does not speak for the ride home. Trucks’ headlights fall on her and fade, but she does not speak. What is the story, then, I ask her. 'I don’t know yet. But I still want to see the bank papers. How did three banks give him a loan and against what…'

Yes, okay but are we following her investigating a farmer’s suicide then? 'I guess not,' she said. 'I also need to check how there are no eye witnesses to the hanging.'

**
Click here to watch a video that attempts to tell this murky tale.

Shabani Hassanwalia is the co-founder of Hit and Run Films, an independent film company, which engages with changing socio-political-personal realities through non-fiction cinema.