. The region is vastly rural, its main towns are Tura, Williamnagar, and Baghmara. Its economy revolves around betelnut plantations." writes Abhishek Udaykumar, a filmmaker from Bangalore.
Garo Hills is the westernmost territory of Meghalaya. The region is vastly rural, its main towns are Tura, Williamnagar, and Baghmara. Its economy revolves around betelnut plantations. They are owned by the locals and their products are sold to external markets, often through traders from Assam, Bengal, and Meghalaya. Land for these plantations is acquired non-monetarily and by belonging to a village’s clan; the betelnut trees are planted on advances taken from the traders. The farmers use this money for their needs and pay their dues with each year’s harvest.
It was August 2021 when I landed in Garo hills to make a documentary with Bakdil. The NGO is a significant movement in the region that facilitates medical infrastructure, sustainable livelihoods, and farmers’ enterprises. It
implements livelihood missions and schemes of the government, runs training programmes for farmers and social workers alike, and seeks to establish a system for rural transformation.
I was unprepared for Meghalaya’s expansiveness. When I first traveled out to the village, I went in search of a pressing story, an unknown phenomenon. Though I was uncertain of my enthusiasm, my lack of knowledge and urgency to film drove me towards that dreaded method – journalism. I was aware of my tendency to probe at any event, disparity, injustice, or latency, and though it did offer the unexpected slice of intrigue, the process was impractical. It took me months to conceive a cohesive narrative that wasn’t invented and resembled reality. The result was an undramatic, gradual unfolding. The film did not need to pose as interrogative media, a statement, or an opinion. It would be a story that took its time to explore the farmers’ lives.
I have seen but a handful of documentaries. The tribal film is perhaps the most recognizable form of the documentary after wildlife. Its aesthetic is apparent in its titles, posters, and descriptions. It relies on tropes of tribal worlds and mystical abodes of idealized beings and terracotta relics. The idea of the ‘tribal’ is just that – a sprawling magazine of vibrant feathers and sepia photographs for coffee tables. The tribal is an urban mannikin whose most fitting outfit is the ochre of all things rudimentary. An illusory aspiration of the bourgeoise. A tribal region is a playground for filmmakers, the pastiche, and the lustful aesthetic. The obsession over ‘the marginalized’ is universal. Diversification of technology and online platforms have turned communities into valuable content. However, the media cannot be blamed. Our awareness of such communities begins with the same clichéd, cosmetic media that is equally informative and impactful. Like how a famous writer and teacher of mine once told me, ‘No matter what your intention maybe, you are always going to benefit from the people’s story a lot more than they ever will.’ And so, it comes down to the way that that media is presented.
The villages are full of unexpected stories as much as they are overwhelmingly boring. It is hard to be sure that an interesting find will remain so for long, and that the mundane is as unworthy of a story as it may seem. My limited experience of watching documentaries had left me with images that I wanted to see for myself. I wandered from village to village in search of these happenings. I had conviction, but I felt a little ridiculous. A documentary is a time-lapse. Much of it is spent waiting, watching, and doing nothing. The images I had conjured, or been impressed with – tumultuous harvests, were months away. Though I had much else to film, I suddenly felt lost. I didn’t know where to begin.
I had to alter my perception. Much like how the Garos are betelnut planters, a lot of life in the region is a fact. It is devoid of remorse, self-pity, or worries over the temporal. A story about the villagers needed to be independent of identities attached to documentary films. I had to set it free from techniques used to fascinate audiences. I wanted to create a landmark in time, a book whose relevance exceeded its period. A voice that wasn’t mine but that of the land, I believed, would stand the test of time. I started to observe everything I had overlooked and tried to stop filming for the film’s sake. It didn’t happen as easily as I had hoped. The process doesn’t find expression in a single body of work. But I saw a significant shift over my five months in Garo Hills. Though I had always been comfortable with filming the mundane, I stopped labeling it as important or unimportant. Everything was important and everything was unimportant. One of my favorite quotes is from Voltaire, ‘the secret of being a bore is to say everything.’ The realization of this in the field, however, was contradictory to its theory. I could not film everything and expect to make a picture out of it all. I had filmed over seven hundred gigabytes and found that a ton of it was either useless, repetitive, or unnecessary.
The offset of this newfound attitude was, however, endearing. I appreciated every moment with the villagers. I stopped fancying the coming months of their lives, which to them was but a ritual, and immersed myself in the present. Across my travels, I saw contentment and acceptance in life. It is difficult to understand contentment in rural parts as it leaves one with a glimmer of doubt over it being synonymous with ignorance and detachment. Despite the internet, which is deep-rooted in their subcultures, there is much to mull over the real extent of their desires, from the real extent of their exposure. Are they happy because they don’t know? Or do they know and not care? Bakdil’s efforts are to emancipate the farmers and alleviate their dependence on exploitative outsiders. Yet, amongst the farmers there exists an adamance towards cash crops and a pale inclination for self-organization, enterprise, or longevity. The Garos may receive sizeable revenue for their betelnuts, but the worth of their products is likely manifold elsewhere; they may be making much less than what they could. Their lack of entrepreneurship may be caused by several other rural dynamics, but their contentment makes their impoverishment unrecognizable, even when it is apparent. The investment in betelnuts is not stupid by any stretch of the imagination. It requires less labor, promises yields, and acts as a security for an entire generation that may be the first to see itself through college. Compromise is a hallmark of any developing world. But there is not much development. Bakdil tries to inculcate a culture of financial growth through long-term planning and proposes a model by which the farmers can benefit wholly from their land.
The film is a collection of five stories. It follows the farmers from the monsoon to the winter. It is mostly edited in-camera; meaning that each piece of footage was cut with the record button (rather than the software) when I knew I had filmed what was required. There were a handful of cuts made in the computer. They were relevant when a shot’s meaningful monotony became insubstantial in a sequence, was overstated, or did not do enough work. Though a lot of what I had documented was redundant, the resolve to find depth in each moment helped me build the people’s lives on film just as they were living them. Since I didn’t know the language, I focused on the activities, anxieties, and desires that filled their days. I had to be intuitive and often tell myself to refrain from cutting a shot, to wait. I made the first sequence of the film, oblivious to everything spoken in my footage. Months later, when I finally sat down to translate, the enormity, vibrance, and connections in people’s conversations surprised me. I was relieved to have filmed through my indecisiveness.
Each story in the film shows a different aspect of the farmers’ lives, in different regions. The documentary has a twenty-minute candid interview as well, interviewed by one of the villagers, the only one in the film. I wanted a story that requires patience to watch, not because patience is a virtue that I expect from my audience, but because the pace of the film is what makes it realistic. There is no narration or added music, the stories flow seamlessly with no explanation besides the title cards. It is not journalistic, there is no statement that I seek to make. I had started this documentary with a strong influence from slow cinema, but by the end of it, I knew that each film requires a different style. The narrative of the film spreads itself thin, and yet not too thin that it begins to seem like a journal. It allows for several interesting moments that often have more to say than an interview. I wanted an audience to attach themselves to each story for a significant duration so they would feel as though they are part of that farmer’s life. To ensure this will happen, I followed a particular farmer to create each story, rather than filming activities of just any farmer simply to account for shots in the film. The film sees them as people and not tribals, peasants, or some indigenous population. I was particular that the film will be made up of female voices. I was aware of the repeated instances when the man assumed himself to be the speaker. I noticed that when I was indifferent, I came back with a man’s story – I had to make an effort to seek a woman’s voice to balance my documentation. But this wasn’t a uniform occurrence, as it may be in other societies. There were families where the woman’s prevalence was visible.
I knew that the film would not go online. I wasn’t interested in adding to the digital media of the world. The film is an experience. I wanted people to dedicate their time and energy to watching it and not glimpse at it because they happened to come across it on their phones. Showcasing the film online has its merits. People can watch it at their own pace and rewatch it if they wish. But I am skeptical about the film entering the internet. I recall my moments in the village, the unassumingness in people’s eyes; if ever they should fathom themselves on YouTube, it seemed impossible that they could measure the reality of it when I could not do so myself. It felt unnatural to have waved my camera at them when they were engrossed in their lives only to later scatter those moments across the web.
Bakdil’s projects continue to impact the lives of people in Garo Hills. They strive to expand their work faster than the market forces can consume the people’s vulnerability. Their readiness to support storytelling and the Garos’ openness about a wandering camera was what made the film possible. The villagers’ hospitability is renowned and there isn’t a visitor who leaves them without mention of it. I often felt myself tearing up when I had to turn my back on a village, the people’s company and affection are unforgettable. If ever you were to travel into Garo Hills from a neighboring region, you will know when you are in Garo. The film, however, may not have the same impact that an NGO does. Besides my limited understanding of the region; the nature of a story is that it is nuanced. Indeed, the villagers may not have an abundance to learn from the film, for a lot of it is the life that they already lead. It is a reflection of their lives. But to an outsider, it is an opportunity to watch something unglorified. The film is called Garo Hills Ni A˙chik Songrang / The Villages of Garo Hills. I chose this title as it best represented the theme of the film without turning the people and their land into a fairytale. It runs for two hours and thirty – nine minutes.
-Abhishek
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