Vinod Kapri filmed migrants who cycled from Delhi to their Bihar village

His docuseries puts India's migrant debacle into sharp focus, writes Nikita Puri

A few weeks ago, journalist-turned-filmmaker Vinod Kapri asked Ritesh Kumar Pandit, a construction worker from Saharsa, Bihar, to reconsider his decision to leave Delhi. Pandit, 22, was a daily wager and had no work after the countrywide lockdown was announced. Pandit and his friends had begun to depend on the generosity of others to survive. “We aren’t beggars, we don’t like having to beg for rations. Now our landlords are demanding rent and everyone at home has also been crying,” Pandit had said.

As India copes with a migrant crisis debacle, many who are more privileged are asking why tens of thousands have set out on harsh journeys to get home by any means possible. Pandit’s words described the crisis in a nutshell. “Rather than dying here, it is better we die after reaching home, or at least on the road home,” he said, shortly after embarking on a journey of over 1,200 km.

Pandit and six friends managed to buy second-hand bicycles with money their families in Bihar scraped together. Kapri, who had been introduced to Pandit through the former’s efforts to organise rations for those in need, realised they were resolute about getting home. He too set off almost immediately in his car, to follow and document the journey of the young men who had decided to cycle to Bihar.

A National Award-winning filmmaker, Kapri’s last project was the thriller drama Pihu. His current project pieces together the story of the journey of these migrant workers. Versions of these stories are currently playing out across India, only the names and faces change. Too many of these have had endings too horrific to be recounted.

Titled 1232 kms, after the distance the seven men covered, Kapri’s documentary is likely to be released as a three- to four-part series. Kapri expects to announce a deal with a prominent streaming platform soon. “These people are nameless and faceless for us. We don’t recognise their efforts, and sometimes not even their existence,” says Kapri.

These people are nameless and faceless for us. We don’t recognise their efforts, and sometimes not even their existence, says Kapri

As Kapri wraps up his edits, he’s already ideating his next feature film which is likely to be based on Jyoti Kumari, the 15-year-old who cycled with her injured father seated behind her from Gurugram to their hometown in Darbhanga, Bihar. “I am in touch with Jyoti for this,” he says.

The teenager has received international praise (Ivanka Trump tweeted that the traumatic journey was a “beautiful feat of endurance”). Recalling a news clip where one politician remarked how it was because of the central government that Kumari was able to get a cycle, Kapri says such perspectives are a cruel joke on migrant workers. “It’s bizarre and insensitive. Our politicians are mocking whatever her majboori (dire need) was,” he says. Another tone-deaf local leader felicitated the girl in Darbhanga for being able to help her parents despite “being a daughter”. “Tum beti hoti huye Shravan Kumar ka kaam ki ho,” he is seen saying in a recent video.

Before Kapri set off to travel over 1,200 km to Bihar, his lens was trained on Priya, a young mother walking from Delhi to Kanpur with her three daughters. When Kapri met the family, the children were walking barefoot because their slippers had fallen apart. The oldest, a girl of eight, was limping. Her sisters are five and three.

Priya told Kapri they were on their way home. “Yahin paas hi mein, hum chale jayenge (It’s somewhere nearby, we can get there.)” Those words, feels Kapri, weren’t directed at him but uttered more to reassure herself. Home for this family was 475 km away. It still disturbs Kapri that he lost track of them soon after.

It took a little over seven days for the “cast” of 1232 kms to reach Saharsa, after which followed the mandatory isolation period. During this time, the young men were locked into a room. The local administration took charge of them a few hours from Saharsa, in Gipalang, where the Bihar police loaded them onto a bus headed to an isolation centre. But they were happy to be home, pointing out the ponds they played in as children, the local temple, and the kiln they all had used to build their homes.

Between the two ends of the journey of the seven men lies a multitude of stories: of how Pandit used his tech-savviness to figure out routes that would keep them off highways. They had been beaten up by police near Brijghat, and realised it would be safer to travel on kaccha inner lanes.

Kapri talks of how Ashish Kumar Yadav, another of the seven, has a degree in music but was forced to work at construction sites for lack of a job. Yadav would sing Bhojpuri songs when the group stopped at roadside dhabas. At one of these stops, the group ate out of newspapers because the dhaba-owner wouldn’t give them plates for fear of infection. Then there’s the story of the truck driver who gave them a ride after one of their tyre tubes burst. In doing so he risked a beating by the police, his vehicle being seized, and a fine of Rs 20,000. “Jo hoga dekha jayega (We’ll deal with whatever happens),” he had said. Then there was the policeman who went out of his way to get that cycle tyre fixed.

These stories are just a minor slice of a larger narrative unfolding in India, one that marks the country’s largely callous attitude towards the people who built its cities brick by brick.

It has been a little over a week that Pandit and his friends have been reunited with their families. Every day, at least one of them reaches out to Kapri, over a call or text, to check in after a journey that neither side can forget. When the series is on air, says Kapri, he’ll make another trip to Saharsa, this time with his own family. And they’ll watch it together with the families of the seven men.

But the unfinished story of Priya and her children, whether and how they reached home, continues to haunt Kapri. He doesn’t have their address, but he plans to drive to Kanpur soon, to the Ghantaghar area he was told the family lives in. He hopes someone will be able to identify them from the footage that he has and lead him to them, to put to rest any doubts of their well-being. “I wish I hadn’t left them. I wish I had stayed with them throughout,” he says. Meanwhile, a significant part of India — millions, by some estimates — continues to take the long, perilous road home.