Remember the iconic struggle in "Toilet-Ek Prem Katha," where Keshav (Akshay Kumar) fights against age-old traditions to build a toilet for his wife? Let me take you through a similar basic yet eye-opening journey unfolding in Supaul, Bihar—a tale that challenges our perception of basic necessities.
Imagine moving to a place where the sight of families using an open field as their bathroom is a daily reality—this shocking scene in Supaul reveals a critical gap in public health and hygiene conditions.
As someone who has spent my entire life in bustling metropolitan cities from Kolkata to Bengaluru, I found the shift to Supaul for my new work to be both a challenge and an eye-opener. The change was not merely geographical but cultural and social. Adjusting to the serene pace of life in Supaul, surrounded by lush green fields and a closely-knit community, presented a contrast to the fast-paced, anonymous hustle of city life. Embracing local customs, dialects, and traditions has been an exciting experience. This transition has offered invaluable insights into a different way of life.
One such afternoon, as I sat by the office window, I noticed a lively village fair taking place nearby. The fair was bustling with activity, featuring a multitude of stalls stretching from food vendors to eateries, utensils to bags, games to rides, and even cosmetics. Shopkeepers and their families had gathered from various places, traveling together to set up their stalls and temporary homes in tents wherever the fair was held. It was a fascinating glimpse into a way of life far removed from the urban hustle I was accustomed to.
Each morning, I observed a rather unsettling routine. A group of more than 20 people from the fair would head to a nearby grassland to relieve themselves. It was the same spot, day after day. My curiosity was piqued, and I couldn't help but wonder about the government policies regarding public sanitation. Aren’t there initiatives to ensure everyone has access to proper washrooms (Swacch Bharat Abhiyaan, remember anyone)?
Realising these families were migrants, often staying in one place for no more than a month or so, I understood the complexity of their situation.
To gain further insight, I approached a shopkeeper and struck up a conversation. When I asked him about their sanitary arrangements, he responded with a touch of sarcasm,
"Hamare baare mein kya kahein, hum jaha bhi jate hain asthayi ghar banate hai aur apne sath ek handpump lekar chalte hain, jaha sambhav hai waha laga lete hain. Bathroom milna toh bahut badi baat ho jayegi” (What should I say about us! Wherever we go, we make temporary shelters and carry a tubewell with us, fixing it if possible. Getting a bathroom is a luxury.)
His words lingered in my mind. The idea of a bathroom as a ‘luxury’ was alien to me or, say, a clean, usable bathroom, a stark reminder of the privileges I had taken for granted. I inquired about government schemes for washrooms and whether they had ever asked for such facilities. He explained that for them, constantly moving from place to place, the concept of a fixed washroom seemed unattainable. They usually stayed inside their stalls at night or built small temporary tents or huts for their families, making a portable washroom neither feasible nor cost-effective. Although a public toilet exists, its condition is such that it's unpleasant to approach. Also, not having any local support from authorities for proper hygienic facilities forces them to use open grounds as washrooms wherever they go. The state's responsibility for hygiene and the well-being of its people, including migrants, seemed a distant concern.
After coming back from work and hearing the narratives, I delved into research, eager to find policies or facilities addressing the needs of migrating families. To my shock, I found none. There were no provisions and no structured plans to support the basic hygiene and health needs of these people who moved from one district to another in pursuit of their livelihoods.
This revelation left me deeply troubled. The lack of sanitation facilities for these families not only endangered their health but also posed a significant risk to the local residents.
Open defecation is not just a personal health issue; it's a public health hazard. It can lead to the spread of diseases such as cholera, dysentery, and typhoid, which are caused by contaminated water and poor hygiene. These diseases can spread rapidly, affecting not only the migrant families but also the residents of the area. Not to mention, Supaul is malaria-prone as well.
It's crucial to address these gaps in our systems. The transient lifestyle of migrant families, including women and children, should not exclude them from the right to hygiene and health. The government must develop flexible and mobile solutions to cater to these communities, ensuring they can maintain dignity and well-being no matter where they are.
My experience in Supaul has been a profound lesson in empathy and awareness. It has shown me the stark realities of life beyond the metropolitan bubble and highlighted the urgent need for inclusive policies that consider every individual's right to basic health and hygiene.
As I continue my work here, I remain committed to advocating for these essential changes, hoping for a future where no one has to view a bathroom as a luxury.