Running rings around onion

Pointing to low production this year,Balasaheb Darade says don’t call us hoarders without taking into account ground realities.

ATIKH RASHID

EVERY time onion prices spiral up,traders in Lasalgaon—often called Asia’s largest onion market—are dubbed villains in an insidious plot to put the otherwise humble commodity out of reach of the common man. That’s about the only time Lasalgaon,a village of around 15,000 people,located about 60 km from Nashik,makes news.

Among the 40-odd traders operating in the Shri Chhatrapati Shivaji Agriculture Produce Market Committee (APMC) of Lasalgaon,which exclusively deals in onion trade,Balasaheb Darade is bewildered at how the fate of even distant governments comes to rest on his bulbous produce. According to him,that’s because of the entirely baseless media portrayal of them as hoarders, without taking into account either trade mechanisms or the marketing chain.

Claiming that production has been low this year due to drought,the 30-year-old says: It is a business like any other. We buy the produce from growers and sell it to traders across the country keeping a certain profit. Depending on the market behaviour we sometimes make profit and there are also days when we lose money. While certain amount of produce is stored like in any other trade—the allegation of hoarding of huge quantities is baseless. If production is lower,the prices are bound to increase.

As per state government estimates,there has been a 40 per cent drop in market arrivals between April and July at Lasalgaon. While in 2012,the four months saw arrival of 12,58,995 quintals,in 2013,the same period saw just 7,51,833 quintals.

Unlike other agriculture markets which open very early in the morning—almost at the break of dawn—Lasalgaon traders such as Darade start their day late. The market here opens at 9 am.

“In the onion trade you have to be very careful about the quality of the produce. During day time you can inspect the produce thoroughly,” says Darade,who gets up at 7 am and has a quick bite and tea before he reaches the market, 2 km away, by 8-8.30 am.

Before the market opens,Darade speaks to buyers in markets such as Delhi, Kolkata, Bhopal to confirm the demand. “Based on their demand,I go around the marketplace inspecting the produce and placing bets in auctions. The morning session ends at 12 pm. The market resumes again at 3 pm and closes at 6 pm. Remaining in contact with prospective buyers is most important part of the business,” he says.

They can only flourish if traders even far away associate their name with good quality, Darade underlines.

On any given day, he can be seen among the reddish-brown heaps Lasalgaon traders do not deal with produce in gunny bags inspecting the onions closely. We traditionally deal with loose onions. The grower has to empty his truck in front of us. It makes quality control easier,you can check the produce thoroughly and it reduces the chances of a farmer selling you spoiled onions hidden at the bottom of gunny bags, says the trader. No other onion be it from Karnataka, China or Pakistan can rival the Nashik varieties in taste, size and colour. But you have to make sure that you only supply best of the best to do good in the long run.

On an average,the Lasalgaon market receives 8,000-10,000 quintals of onion everyday. This is down to 5,500 to 6,000 quintals this season.

Darade has been in the business for 13 years,having inherited it from his father. “My father worked in another trader’s shop for decades as an employee. Later he set up his own shop in the APMC. I studied in a local college till Class XII and then dropped out to help him in the business. For the past five-six years,I have taken over entirely,” says the father of a two-year-old daughter.

There is another reason the accusations of hoarding large quantities don’t hold water,Darade says. During periods of supply shortage,the marketing board vigilance is so strict that it is impossible to hoard big amounts illegally. “This year several traders had stored onions,which were bought from farmers in April-May during the harvest glut, at Rs 1,000 per quintal. However,when the prices started climbing up in July and reached Rs 1,500 per quintal,most of the stored produce was sold off at a profit of Rs 500 per quintal. We had not imagined that the prices would go as high as Rs 4,500. At present,we are buying and selling onions at a margin of Rs 50 to 100 per quintal. The APMC administration checks the total buying,total selling and storage on a daily basis and sends a report to Mumbai,” he says.

Storing also comes with its own costs as well as the ever-present risk of prices falling. “You have to pay the rent of godowns and there is a 15-20 per cent weight loss of produce due to evaporation. There have been years when we had to sell a produce which was bought at

Rs 1,000 per quintal at Rs 800. You can’t store the produce longer,for onions get spoiled, Darade says. Even if you take utmost care and make sure that not a single onion rots, you lose 20 per cent of produce weight to evapo-transpiration in a couple of months. There’s no way you can escape it in the hot weather.

Giving a more recent example, he points to a pile of onions lying in his shed. “I bought two truckloads of this (400 quintals) on August 14 at a price of Rs 4,500 per quintal. The next day was Independence Day and by the morning of August 16,when the market reopened,the prices had collapsed by Rs 1,000 per quintal to Rs 3,500 due to news of banning of exports and imports from China and Pakistan. In the past few days,the prices have further come down and now I will have to sell this produce at a net loss of about Rs 1,000 to 1,200 per quintal. Such is this business,” he says.

After getting home from work,Darade likes to spend some time with family,which mostly involves business discussions with father and taking strategic decisions on investment. “Before going to sleep I spend some time with my daughter and watch TV. I like comedy shows and Hindi films,” he says.

The tears shed over onion daily on news channels don’t escape his attention, but Darade is not disheartened. Irrespective of the highs and lows,I will stick to onions because it is the business of onion which has not only sustained my family but the entire region for decades,” he says.

Malin landslide: Haunted by loss of over 100 lives, terrified villagers want to leave their homes behind

Malin villagers at the landslide site (Express Photo)

Atikh Rashid

MALIN, MAHARASHTRA — For the survivors of the landslide that buried much of Malin village in Pune district of Maharashtra, killing more than 100 people and leaving 55 still missing, the question of rebuilding their homes has become inseparable from the memory of those who died.

Even if the Maharashtra government builds new houses for them free of cost, many villagers say they do not want to return to the place they have called home for generations.

It is not simply the fear of another landslide that is keeping them away. It is the memory of the people who were with them only minutes before the disaster — brothers, sisters, cousins, neighbours and friends — and the horror of watching an entire community disappear beneath tonnes of earth.

The landslide struck Malin, a remote village in Ambegaon taluka of Pune district in western India, early on Wednesday, July 30, after several days of heavy monsoon rain. A large section of the hillside above the settlement collapsed, sending mud, rocks and debris down onto the houses below while many residents were still asleep.

Authorities fear that about 158 people were trapped under the debris, of whom 101 had been found dead by Sunday night. Nearly 40 to 50 houses were believed to have been buried or destroyed. Rescue teams, including personnel from India’s National Disaster Response Force (NDRF), have been forced to work through thick mud and continuing rain to reach those who might still be alive.

Malin is a small rural settlement in the hills of Maharashtra, a state on India’s western coast. The area lies in the broader Western Ghats, a mountain range that receives intense seasonal rainfall during India’s southwest monsoon. The steep terrain, saturated soil and prolonged rain can make parts of the region vulnerable to landslides. Maharashtra’s disaster-management authorities identify several districts, including Pune, as highly susceptible to landslides.

Malin villagers and residents from neighbouring areas gathered for a consultation on the future of the village.

Malin villagers and others from the neighbouring areas gathered for a consultation.

For the people of Malin, however, the geography of the disaster has little meaning compared with what happened inside their homes.

The village had a population of around 600, with about 250 people living in the main settlement, locally known as the gaothan, and the rest spread across three or four smaller hamlets.

Much of the main settlement was destroyed.

“Of the 600 villagers, about 250 stayed in the gaothan (the main settlement) and the rest in three to four hamlets. Half the gaothan — about 45 of the 60 houses — have disappeared. It’s such a terrifying feeling. People who were staying with you till then suddenly died such a scary death. We are naturally scared and don’t want to stay here anymore,” said Raju Zhanzare, a villager who said he escaped death because he had gone out to buy milk that morning.

The landslide came with little warning. Heavy rain had already made the ground unstable, and when the slope gave way, there was almost no time for those living below it to react. Contemporary accounts described residents being buried while they slept. The continuing rain then made the rescue operation even more difficult, turning the debris into a vast, unstable mass of mud.

The disaster also raised questions about why the slope failed and whether factors beyond rainfall had contributed to its instability. Subsequent technical studies identified rainfall infiltration as the direct trigger of the slope failure, while investigations and public debate also examined land-use changes and human activity around the hillside.

But those questions were of little comfort to the survivors in the immediate aftermath.

Sudam Zhanzare lost a brother and three other relatives. Since the disaster, he said, residents whose houses remained standing had nevertheless left.

“We packed off children and women to our relatives’ places in other villages and men are staying in a residential school nearby. We have moved our cattle out of the village. We don’t feel like returning even to collect our belongings. I can’t even imagine setting up a home at the same place again where we had to cremate 80 loved ones in three days,” he said.

For families accustomed to living close to their farms and cattle, leaving is not a simple decision. The villagers’ homes are tied to their fields, livestock and livelihoods. Yet the emotional shock of the disaster has made even familiar surroundings frightening.

The Maharashtra government has announced that, alongside relief and compensation for the families of those killed, it is committed to the speedy rehabilitation of the affected villagers.

But the survivors want the government to look beyond rebuilding houses. They want to be moved to safer ground.

“If the government is serious about rehabilitating the village, it should do that away from this place,” several villagers said.

For Sudam Zhanzare, even returning to his farmland was uncertain.

“I don’t know if I would go back to even cultivate the paddy field where I had planted the crop a week ago,” he said.