Zero Day

A Preliminary Study on the Socio-Economic Impact of Goat Fatalities on NGO Inductees in Godda District, 1999

Abstract:This paper seeks to examine the first-day experience of a newly recruited NGO worker in Godda district (then Bihar, now Jharkhand), with special reference to the unfortunate demise of a goatling and its economic, political, and gastronomic consequences. Using a combination of participant observation, involuntary hostage-taking, and midnight sericulture exposure, the study demonstrates that entry into the voluntary sector is rarely voluntary. Data collected through direct cranial collisions with the roof of a 407 bus indicate that rural development follows neither linear models nor standard operating procedures, but instead oscillates violently between tasar cocoons and livestock negotiations. The conclusion challenges the conventional expansion of NGO as Non-Governmental Organization, proposing instead the empirically verified definition: Never Guaranteed Outcome.

Main Text

If destiny is inscribed on the human forehead, mine must have been written with a leaking nib. Otherwise, while my fellow graduates were heading towards banks, corporates, and diamond mines, how did I end up in a place called Godda, employed by something called an NGO?

I sometimes wonder if life is an elaborate prank. Just when you imagine you have caught it by the tail, it turns around and bites you on the wrist. My first job is a case in point.

I had graduated from university with more enthusiasm than expertise, and during the campus placement drive, I appeared for the only one organization that was open to Geology as a subject. Somehow it worked for me , probably because I had some lessons in leadership and natural resource management. The job and the recruiters, a NGO,  sounded suitably noble, suitably scientific, and—above all—vague enough to impress upon my peers . First and only one to getting out of the university with a job, sounds  good to start your innings.

Let me clarify: in 1999, “NGO” was not a household word in Bengal. It sounded suspiciously like a failed chemical formula. My family asked me what it meant. I told them proudly: “Non-Governmental Organization.” They looked blank. “So, not government, not private—then what exactly?” To this day I am not sure I gave them a convincing answer. How do you explain a career that defines itself entirely by what it is not? Imagine a man at a party introducing himself as “Not a doctor, not a lawyer, not an engineer.” Would anyone let him hold a salary?

Still, the placement cell was enthusiastic. “NGOs are the future,” they said.  And my family, reluctantly optimistic, consoled themselves with the fact that my first letter of appointment instructed me to join at Purulia. At least Purulia existed on a map.

When the letter of appointment arrived, my family beamed with pride. “Our boy will manage water,” they announced to the neighborhood, as though I were about to become a personal assistant to the Ganga.

The first letter asked me to report at Purulia. This seemed acceptable. Purulia was famous for its red soil, its droughts, and for being geographically close enough to Kolkata to reassure parents. My family nodded approvingly. But then, like a second act twist in a detective novel, a new letter arrived instructing me to report instead to a place called Godda.

Now, if you asked a respectable Bengali middle-class household in 1999 to place Godda on the map, you would only get blank stares. My mother was convinced it was a code word for something illegal. My father muttered darkly about organ-trading rackets. My uncle said it was clearly a misprint for Goa. And my cousin, never one to waste an opportunity for wit, said: “If you go there, at least the epitaph will be easy—Godda is gone.”

It did not help that I also had another job offer on the table—one from the diamond mines of Zambia. There, the pay was generous, but the small print said: no insurance, bandit bullets not covered. In other words, an assured near-to-life experience with the bonus of a near-death one. Compared to that, Godda seemed innocent. After all, what could possibly go wrong in a small district town in Bihar?

I boarded the train from Howrah, bound for Jasidih. According to the letter, the office was a mere ten minutes from the station. I did the mental arithmetic: arrival at 4 p.m., ten minutes by road—by 5 p.m. sharp I would be sitting at my desk in Godda, reorganizing rivers. It was only when I reached Jasidih that I discovered the missing zero in the official estimate. The office was not ten minutes away. Deoghar ,from where ,I am to board the bus is 10 minutes away. Godda was another ninety kilometers .Between ten minutes and ninety kilometers, there is the same difference as between “I’ll have a cup of tea” and “I’ll undergo open-heart surgery.”

At Deoghar bus stand, I waited. And waited. And waited some more. The sun went down, my enthusiasm went down, but the bus did not come up. Finally, at 5:30 p.m., the last surviving 407 bus appeared. It looked less like a mode of transport and more like a post-retirement hobby. Inside, there were villagers packed tighter than jackfruits in a basket. Midway through the journey, they disembarked, leaving me alone with two men, three goats, and a box of hens. If you have never traveled ninety kilometers in the company of goats and poultry, I can assure you it is an education. The goats bleated, the hens clucked, and I began to suspect that this was actually the NGO’s orientation programme: “First learn to adjust with goats, then learn to adjust with villagers.”

The bus stopped midway at a place called Hasdiah to rest for half an hour. Some surviving travellers told me, it might not actually travel upto Godda, if there is not a full house. It’s already 7.00pm. In desperation, I walked to a nearby phone booth and called the office. A sleepy voice answered and assured me with great pride: “Office open 24×7.” This was even more puzzling. What kind of NGO kept itself open all night? Were they running a railway station? A casino? Or had I been recruited by a secret service without knowing it?

The road to Godda was not so much a road as a philosophical puzzle: a series of holes held together by mud. My head banged against the roof at every bump, the goats fell into my lap, and the hens occasionally pecked my feet. Thus, when we finally arrived at Godda bus stand at 10 p.m., I was already a seasoned fieldworker.

Godda town greeted me with darkness. There were no lights in the street, no hotels, and no visible signs of civilization except for two rickshaw pullers who looked at me as though I had arrived from another planet. “Is there a hotel?” I asked. They smiled, as one smiles at a child asking for ice cream in a desert. “Hotel? No hotel. But you can stay with us.” I was unsure whether to be grateful or terrified. But then cautiously, I said , I want to go to something named PRAMAN. “Oh, we know them. No wonder, that you are here in this odd hour. They are a very gentle, intelligent and generous bunch.We often carry them with odd luggage at odd hours to odd places. But they exist for good.”

One of the rickshaw puller happily took me for the ride , sharing all whom he knows from PRAMAN. Though he was not sure what they exactly do. By the time I had found the PRAMAN office, it was nearly midnight. The building looked more like a deserted post office than an institution of rural development. A lone tube-light flickered above the staircase. I was told this was the guest room. “Spread your hold-all”, Joseph, the facility manager said, “and consider yourself lucky. You have another Bengali around. And , yes ,I had kept some food”.

I had my food and went upstairs. There was some one half slept. I said , “good evening, I’m Kallol , new comer”. He replied  , “Great. I’m Abhijit and you don’t have any business with me. Good night”. And he went on sleeping occupying the only available cot there in. In ten minutes,  I was lying on the first-floor guest room of the office, spreading my hold-all like a makeshift bed. Let’s try to get some sleep, in the name of wear and tear.

It was around 2.30 AM. Just as I was about to sleep, a truck thundered in. Large sacks were unloaded onto the courtyard below. From it, half a dozen men began unloading sacks of something round and heavy. My heart leapt with joy—finally, potatoes! I had seen enough goats, hens, and darkness for one day. Potatoes were a return to civilization.But still , ‘Potatoes’?

“No,” said Abhijit-da, who seemed to be the senior resident philosopher of the organization. He looked at me with the contempt usually reserved for those who mistake Rabindrasangeet for Hindi film songs. “These are tasar cocoons. From tomorrow, you will work with them. Your guide is here. Amjad, here’s your new boy. ”

Tasar cocoon, for the uninitiated, is a silken object produced by a worm, worshipped by traders, and completely indistinguishable from a bad potato at midnight. Out stepped a man from the truck , wiping sweat. “I am Amjad,” he said. “Your guide. Now help me unload.” And so, before I could even collect my appointment letter, I was inducted into the tasar silk industry.

Exposure, or Exposed?

The next morning, Amjad cheerfully announced: “Today is your exposure visit.”

I thought he meant a polite introduction to the office. Exposure, however, was a euphemism.Exposure, I soon realized, was not the same as training. It meant being dropped into a distant tribal village for two months and expected to survive on goodwill, hunger, and whatever knowledge you could “learn from the people.”

This was the moment I, a confirmed communist, decided to pray. It is easy to be an atheist in a Kolkata tea shop. It is more difficult in Sundarpahari with two months of exile looming. I prayed fervently.But even Lenin could not protect me from being abandoned in Sundarpahari.

So I clung to the back of Shamsad’s motorbike, my hold-all rattling behind, as we sped out of town.  About 8 km from Godda, near Sundarpahari, Fate, however, was grazing on the roadside.

The goat appeared suddenly. A small goatling darted across the path. The bike swerved. The goat fell. And so did my illusions of an easy career. The animal was hurt . But, noise came from all around. Within minutes, nearly a hundred villagers gathered. Voices rose, fists shook. They took the animal first . The demand: five thousand rupees.

I had not even received my first salary. How could I pay compensation for a goat? Was I expected to mortgage my degree? While I fumbled for answers, my mentor Shamsad quietly disappeared, promising to fetch a political leader. Which meant that I, a first-day recruit, was left as a hostage.

For four long hours, I sat on the ground, surrounded by villagers who discussed my fate as if I were an unwanted groom at a wedding. Some argued I should be made to pay more, some argued less, while others suggested I should be kept as security until the next harvest. By the third hour, I began to feel like part of the cattle economy.

At last, the political leader arrived. He had the serenity of a saint and the cunning of a fox. He surveyed the scene, wagged a finger, and delivered his verdict: “Compensation will be five hundred rupees. Goat will be kept for feast.” The villagers roared in approval. The matter was settled. Justice was done. Dinner was arranged.

I had set out to manage water and natural resources. By nightfall, I was managing livestock fatalities and political negotiations. Compared to the diamond mines of Zambia, perhaps it was safer. After all, in Zambia you dodged bullets. In Godda, you only dodged goats, and a few cocoons.

But even today, when people ask me what NGO stands for, I never say “Non-Governmental Organization.” That is for textbooks. For those who have truly worked at the grassroots, NGO has only one meaning: Never Guaranteed Outcome.

Notes & References :

1. “According to a study conducted by myself at 9:15 p.m. in a 407 bus, goats occupy 1.5 seats each, excluding horns.”

2. “Survey of Roads, Bihar (unpublished), concluded that 78% of rural roads are holes connected by sentiment.”

3. It was later discovered that ‘open 24×7’ meant that the office door could not be locked because the key was missing since 1987.

4. A goat in Bihar in 1999 was valued somewhere between a month’s salary of a field worker and two and a half marriages in the extended family economy.

Findings

A. Transport Systems:A 407 bus carrying three goats and one box of hens is statistically more reliable than a government timetable.

B. Accommodation Facilities:Hotels in Godda in 1999 existed only in metaphysical terms. Field staff survived on hold-alls and philosophical resilience.

C. Livelihood Diversification:New recruits trained for water resource management may be abruptly diverted to sericulture at 2:30 a.m. through exposure to tasar cocoons disguised as potatoes.

D. Conflict Resolution:Compensation for goat fatalities was negotiable between ₹500–₹5,000, with final outcomes depending less on law and more on local culinary arrangements.

E. Political Mediation:The presence of a political leader reduced financial liabilities by 90% while simultaneously increasing protein availability for the community.

Conclusion

This study concludes that NGO work in rural Bihar in 1999 was characterized by unpredictability, livestock-based economics, and 24×7 office hours caused by missing keys. The goat incident at Sundarpahari demonstrates that while water resource management may remain on paper, sericulture, community feasts, and involuntary hostage situations are the real building blocks of grassroots exposure.

The author recommends redefining NGO not as Non-Governmental Organization, but as: Never Guaranteed Outcome.

References (all fictitious, naturally):

1. Singh, P. (1997). Preliminary Report on Accidental Goats and Their Market Valuation in Santhal Parganas. Journal of Livestock Catastrophes, Vol. 2, pp. 14–29.

2. Anonymous (1998). On the Transport Efficiency of Poultry in 407 Buses. Bihar Department of Hypothetical Studies.

3. Saha, K. (1999). Field Notes on Tasar Cocoons Mistaken for Potatoes. Unpublished.

4. Political Leader, Local (1999). Oral Award of ₹500 Compensation and Goat for Feast. Proceedings of Village Assembly, Sundarpahari, Godda District.