Two suicides in the aftermath of Palghar mob lynching last left this Maharashtra village torn and tense

Manda Bhavar, 32, had to witness two members of her family being taken away on the same morning. The day after two sadhus and their driver were lynched to death in Palghar, Maharashtra police combed the nearby areas and arrested over 100 people for allegedly being part of the mob that participated in the crime. It included Manda’s husband, Dasu, and his father, Soma. A few days later, the Maharashtra CID arrested Dasu’s brother, too. Manda, in a span of days, had lost three family members. About three and a half months later, she lost the fourth – the most devastating blow so far. On 4 August, Manda routinely walked towards her livestock with fodder in her hand. When she reached the small stable where the cattle had been tied to a bamboo pole, she found her daughter, Aruna, hanging from the ceiling. She was 15. “I was shocked,” says Manda. “Ever since three of our family members have been arrested, she was disturbed. She was close to her father. But I did not imagine she would take such a drastic step. The entire village has been wrecked after the incident.” [caption id=“attachment_8772111” align=“alignnone” width=“640”] Thirty-two-year-old Manda Bhavar lost two members of her family on the same day. And recently her 15-year-old daughter died by suicide. Parth MN[/caption] On the night of 16 April 2020, two sadhus and their driver were lynched to death in Manda’s Gadchinchle village in Maharashra’s tribal district of Palghar. They were traveling to Surat from Mumbai without the permits required to commute during lockdown – announced on 24 March to curtail the spread of coronavirus. The forest guard at Gadchinchle, which lies on the border of Dadara and Nagar Haveli, stopped them, when a mob of hundreds of people attacked them. For days before the incident, WhatsApp groups in that region were abuzz with sinister rumours of “Muslim-looking” child-kidnappers and organ traffickers on the loose. The rumours had spread extreme panic among the Adivasi residents of the village which has little digital literacy. Villagers told this reporter that for days before the incident, men in Gadchinchle, as well as other nearby villages would sleep on the road with sickle and sticks. They had formed night vigils to protect the children in the village. [caption id=“attachment_8772131” align=“alignnone” width=“640”] 65-year-old Dharma lost his son Vinus who hung himself by a tree. Parth MN[/caption] So when two unknown sadhus and their driver landed at odd hours in Gadchinchle, panic-stricken residents launched a hysterical assault that resulted in their death. Within 12 hours, the little-known village had hit national headlines. The police and Maharashtra CID have so far arrested over 150 people and questioned over 800. The chargesheets have been filed in the court. But more than four months after the incident, the village continues to be torn. It is still grappling with the tragic aftermath. The residents of this poor Adivasi village, who belong to the Warli community, solely depend on rice crop and labour work for survival, like most people in the district. Palghar is one of the most impoverished districts in Maharashtra with 3 million people, 37 percent of them being Adivasis. With no irrigation facilities available, they rely on rainwater alone to cultivate rice, and then migrate out of the village after harvesting the crop – around November. “We don’t sell rice,” says Manda. “It is only for self-consumption. But with three of the men in my family jailed, I don’t know how I’ll be able to do it this year. It requires a lot of physical labour.” [caption id=“attachment_8772121” align=“alignnone” width=“640”] Dharma’s wife, Maathi. With no irrigation facilities, the villagers rely on rainwater alone to cultivate rice, and then migrate out of the village after harvesting the crop – around November. Parth MN[/caption] Manda, who currently lives with her sister, brother-in-law and mother-in-law, hasn’t been able to speak to her imprisoned family members since Aruna died by suicide. “I don’t know what went through her mind,” she says shaking her head. “We had planned to build a slightly better house that could sustain monsoons. But that stopped after the arrests. Aruna was really looking forward to the new house.” Covered by a black tarpaulin and surrounded by dense trees, Manda’s hut is built of fragile bamboo and quavers on a windy, rainy afternoon. She hopes the hut survives till her family members return from prison. “I don’t know if they actually were part of the mob which killed those sadhus,” she says. “I wasn’t there. What happened that night shouldn’t have happened. But we are not criminals. Everybody in the village was scared by the rumours. And scared for the safety of our kids. Why would anyone spread such rumours? And more importantly, they (the rumours) completely stopped after the incident.” The morning after the incident, Maharashtra police raided the village and adjoining areas to nab the culprits. Villagers claim some of those arrested have paid the price merely for their proximity to the lynching site. The police raids sent tremors among the residents of Gadchinchle to the extent that hundreds of people – out of the 1,200 odd residents – fled their homes and hid in the nearby forests for weeks out of fear even though they had nothing to do with the incident. [caption id=“attachment_8772141” align=“alignnone” width=“640”] Dharma said they rented two bulls at Rs 2,000 per head to work in the farmland. After four months, they will return them and pay Rs 8,000. Parth MN[/caption] “We lived in the jungle for weeks,” says one of them, requesting anonymity. “We slept among the woods, ate there, and cleaned there. We didn’t even come home to bathe. We were extremely fearful even though we were not at the lynching site. It took a while for us to get our head around what had happened. It shook us.” The men had escaped, knowing the police wouldn’t arrest women, while the women would cook at home and covertly supply it in the forests. “The police even searched the forests but we would cross over to the Dadara Nagar Haveli side of the border where the police couldn’t come,” says another resident. The residents slowly made their way back to their homes from the forests when they thought it was safe. But Vinus Dhangda, 34, did not. He walked over to the forest near his home, returned the same evening – but wrapped in a white sheet. Resident of the Diwshi village in the periphery of Gadchinchle, Vinus had been questioned as an eyewitness by the Maharashtra CID around mid  May. In the first week of June, three weeks after the questioning, he died by suicide too. He hung himself from a tree in a forest near his home. He is survived by his wife and four children. Dharma, 65, his father, says he had been afraid ever since the police questioned him. “We are poor and uneducated,” he says. “Cops never behave properly with people like us. Their behaviour instilled tremendous fear in my son. He was also a shy kid, who would be easily intimidated.” Dharma, sitting on a wooden plank outside his hut with a dimly-lit bulb hanging over him, says the authorities hardly show sensitivity while dealing with the marginalised sections of the society. “His body was taken directly to the hospital, from where I had to hire a tempo to get his body back home,” he says. “They didn’t even give me an ambulance. I paid Rs 1,200 to the tempo driver when we have earned nothing since the lockdown. We earn money through labour work.” [caption id=“attachment_8772151” align=“alignnone” width=“640”] Manda’s, tarpaulin-covered hut, barely can stand in the moonsoons. Parth MN[/caption] Every year around Diwali, Dharma says Vinus and his brother would migrate to brick kilns in Bhiwadi or Ghansoli to work as labourers. “I also used to,” he adds. “But I cannot anymore. I am too frail. They would earn about Rs 35000 between them in the six months they toiled at the brick kiln. Now, one earning member of the family is gone.” Dharma’s wife, Mathi, 60, says it would jeopardise their survival. “We need to look after Vinus’ kids,” she says. Pointing towards the four bulls tied to a nearby bamboo pole, Mathi adds, “We have rented them at Rs 2,000 per head to work in the farmland. At the end of the four-month period, we have to return them and pay Rs 8,000.” The family plans to pay for the livestock through the Rs 7,500 that Vinus’ employer owes him. “I just have to go and collect it from him,” says Dharma. “The man seems decent. He is picking up our calls. But we would feel the pinch in due time with one less earning member in the family. The incident that had nothing to do with us has ruined our lives further.” On the night of the lynching, all the family members were at home in Diwshi. “We heard of a commotion so Vinus went and checked what was happening,” says Dharma. “The spot where it happened is hardly 2 kilometers from here. He went for a while and returned immediately. But the police called him for questioning. They had also told him he could be called again if needed.” While it may be a routine thing for the police to say, it kept gnawing Vinus at the back of his head. When he was found hanging from a tree four kilometres from his home, in his pocket was the paper he had gotten from the cops after being questioned. It noted his testimony had been taken, and that he could be called again for questioning if required.