Champaran, a century after Mahatma Gandhi's satyagraha

Having started in this region, non-violent civil disobedience went on to win India its Independence

It is the 100th year since Mahatma Gandhi’s Champaran Satyagraha campaign. Champaran symbolises a watershed moment in modern Indian history. The farmers of Champaran, mostly tenant farmers, were coerced by the British landlords to plant indigo, failing which they had to pay heavy taxes. The small farmers weren’t allowed to cultivate foodgrain, resulting in a quasi famine situation. This was the context of Mahatma Gandhi’s arrival in Motihari in Bihar’s East Champaran district. The then district magistrate served orders on Gandhi to leave immediately but Gandhi declined, willing to court arrest if needed. During the trial, Gandhi read out a statement, openly proclaiming disobedience, agreeing to any penalty without protest. This act of civil disobedience was novel and Gandhi was “allowed” to continue his work. He went on to collect over 8,000 grievances of the tenant farmers to understand the extent of distress that became instrumental in formulating the Champaran Agrarian Bill, leading to a law. It was a historic victory. The seeds for non-violent civil disobedience, which started in this region, went on to become the bedrock of the freedom struggle.

To commemorate the centenary, the Bihar government conducted weeklong celebrations of the historic event in April 2017. As part of the celebrations, the Motihari railway station has been renamed as Bapudham Motihari, as homage to the Mahatma’s efforts. The rechristening was replete with splendour that befits a modern-day government inaugural ceremony. 

I was in Muzaffarpur during the weeklong celebrations. Muzaffarpur had been an important pit stop for the Mahatma en route to Motihari. In fact, his first visit to Motihari was in a train that he boarded from Muzaffarpur. I walked in to the government bus stand in Muzaffarpur in the hope of finding a bus to Motihari to set foot on the soil that has played a critical role in shaping democratic engagement, not only in India but also the whole world. There were several buses lined up in the bus stand with posters indicating celebrations of the momentous times gone by. I was part of a group of strangers that had instantly bonded over the common pursuit of going to Motihari. A shared experience of listlessly waiting can become a strange glue of camaraderie. It soon became clear that I was the only one in that group nurturing a romantic interest in going there, to soak in the historic air, while the others had more compelling reasons.

Upon asking one of the bus drivers if the bus was headed to Motihari, I was asked to check with a burly man speaking on the cell phone if “passengers” were permitted. I did as I was asked. The man was surrounded by an army of sycophants. He was the organiser of the bus rally. I somehow managed to sneak in within the inner perimeter of his coterie and ask him with as much humility as I could muster if I could board any of the buses to Motihari. His response was askance, hurried and without any pretentions of politeness — “Hato! Nahin! Yeh aam logon ke liye nahin hai (No. These buses are not for common people),” he said brusquely. I was pushed to the outer circle soon after his petulant response as he continued speaking with some other officious-looking man. I didn’t lose hope. I asked each driver of the 10-odd buses that were scheduled to depart for Motihari.

After each of them directed me to check with the same burly man, the buses departed in style, forming a long train-like chain. Most of the buses left vacant while one of them had a few government officials in it. The buses left, billowing a heady combination of smoke and dust, leaving all of us stranded. In the blistering heat and commotion, a woman, in her 20s was sleeping using a dirty white bag as a pillow. She was in a corner of the terminal, next to an unattended leaky tap. She seemed eerily serene, draped in a green sweater and a blackened brown blanket. She appeared homeless and presumably has to carry her entire wardrobe wherever she goes.

Each of these things is commonplace — the pompous state official, his ardent troupe of obsequious sycophants, the homeless woman, and the unattended leaky tap. However, the location and the timing of the scene reinforce the irony that is India. The state official’s use of arbitrary discretionary power keeps reproducing the hegemonic structures that appear unchanged in over 100 years from the historic Satyagraha of Gandhi. It felt strange that common people were barred by the state official from boarding a bus that was en route to commemorate a landmark subaltern revolt against state oppression. The tableau of the bus station is yet another reminder that some people are indeed more equal than some others. The official and his coterie used a familiar language of control to distance the more common people from the less common. Doesn’t it strike you as more ironic that Motihari also happens to the birth place of George Orwell?