An argument over a Valentine’s Day gift leads shubhranshu choudhary to the politics of an aluminium ladder

On the eve of Valentine’s Day, a friend of my son persuades me to take my wife “out for dinner and buy her a nice gift”. I thank her for the idea but do not ask her to hazard a guess on my choice. She is understandably horrified to hear that I had purchased an aluminium ladder to complement my wife’s new bookshelf, and admonishes me, “You could have bought her a rose.”

I argue that an aluminium ladder is a more ethical gift than a corporate rose.

I invite her to take a look at the politics of corporate roses, grown on leased farms in Asia and Africa. Within a few years, the land is ruined by excessive pesticide and fertilizer use—the only way in which roses can be cultivated, in keeping with demands of European and American markets. Corporate agriculturists move on from one poor farmer’s land to another, after spoiling the first one. I suggest that she should examine the issue in the uk, where she lives, while I take a deeper look at ‘the politics of aluminium’ in Chhattisgarh, where I am to travel. We agree to exchange notes.

I am travelling to my home district, where there is significant amount of bauxite mining; aluminium is its end product. Most inhabitants of Surguja district in Chhattisgarh are tribal. The region has large swathes of thick saal jungles, the land below which are rich with coal and bauxite. Lately, the forests have been dominated by Maoist guerrillas. “At least they listen to our grievances,” one tribal tells me.


A tribal lawyer among miners
Ambikapur is the district headquarters of Surguja. Through a common friend there, I meet Indradev Nag who is a lawyer and trade union leader. A tribal lawyer is a rarity in this region. Nag is also associated with the Communist Party of India, a mainstream political party which is opposed to the guerrillas. He is more of a listener than talker, but slowly opens up. “The fight with the guerrillas is only a smokescreen behind which the administration is helping Hindalco run its mines,” he says.

Hindalco, India’s biggest aluminium company in India, is owned by one of foremost business houses in the country: the Birlas. Nag says, “Hindalco signed an mou with the government that they will give permanent jobs to all who lose their land to the mines. But most mine workers, including those who lost their land, are casual labourers. And Hindalco uses police intimidation to stop trade union activity.”

A few days ago, he was accosted on his way back from a trip to the mines. A jeep bearing Hindalco’s name had pulled up, and some policemen alighted from it. Their leader was a young man in plainclothes. He enquired about one Indradev Nag.

“As soon as I responded, he started beating me. Had his deputy not snatched the pistol from him, he might have killed us. Then the deputy warned me not to come back to the area. We have complained but no case has been registered,” Nag said.

Hindalco is a reputed company and this was hard to believe. I decided to visit the company’s mines. Journalist friends told me that the leader of the police team, who had attacked Nag, is a young man called Dheeraj Jaiswal.

“Jaiswal is a local boy who joined the Maoists a few years ago. He has now changed sides. The police have caught key guerillas with Jaiswal’s help. He uses his influence for other purposes too,” they said. No journalist wants to accompany me when I want to meet Jaiswal.

The road to Hindalco is one of the worst I have ever travelled by.