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Journalism of Courage
In the ghost town that is now Tehri the only signs of life are the local elections in Uttaranchal. Empty houses and broken pillars play host to posters of various parties and the silence of the sullen town is broken only by fluttering political flags.
The canvassing cars bellow out their messages of hope and promise to a town that has been deserted by both. From a bustling town of over a lakh and fifty thousand people, only a thousand and five hundred remain, of which many are involved with the dam construction. An important seat of power of the Shah dynasty, Tehri remained a strong political and cultural centre in Uttaranchal for about two hundred years. There is little evidence of that now.
There is a saying in this part that everything else will disappear here except dogs, pigs, monkeys and netas, says one resident, pointing to the motley crowd that now make up the majority of Tehri’s population.
A few temples, mosques and the clocktower are the only unbroken structures amidst the ruin, waiting out their time till the entire town is submerged by the dam water.
Pratap Inter College, an important landmark of the town, lies bereft of any sign of activity. The dusty college playground adjusts to its new role of a site for novice drivers as a spluttering ambassador and a hesitant driver go round and round in dusty circles.
Apparently to avail of compensation, the residents had to break down their houses and get a certificate from government appointed officials. Consequently, Tehri is now just a ruined town of hollow frames of once-upon-a-time houses. The windows and doors of most stand intact though some are being taken away by people to burn as firewood.
Along with Chipko leader and anti-dam activist Sunderlal Bahuguna, over 300 families remain, still fighting their compensation battles. A group of local women sit out on a dharna demanding their due from the government. Faded handwritten posters dot the tent behind them. ‘‘Desh ko bijli do aur hame jal samadhi,’’ puzzles one such poster.
In the once-famous exhibition ground an old man takes a lonely walk. He stops occasionally inspecting a heap of rubble. For him, change came not in an era or in decades but in swift strokes. Beginning a life afresh and words like compensation have little meaning for him. ‘‘Who will drive me out? I am not going anywhere,’’ he says with the obstinacy of the very old or the very young as he continues his walk along a winding path flanked with hills of debris, looking for symbols of the past in a town that has almost become one itself.
