On July 31, the world's biggest ever quake-related rehabilitation project will end, but it won't relieve these simple villagers of the confusing influences they are yet to assimilate. When the last of the government employees and NGOs leaves, the residents of New Killari will face their biggest challenge yet: turning the brand new 30,000 houses they were gifted into hearth and home.

Here, seven km from the quake's epicentre, rows of pucca

houses flanking the tarmaced lanes and by-lanes bring back memories of what once was before September 30, 1993; the names -- Limbala, Kadvi, Nandurga and Tadni -- have been retained. But, as Lingappa Dalwe of Dapegaon will tell you, everythingelse has changed.

The villagers bear no grudges against the World Bank, the state government and countless NGOs, but say they simply cannot reconcile to an urbanised existence. ``Ithe amhala karmat nahi (I cannot relate to this place),'' says Vishwanath Umate, a retired school teacher who, along with his friend Baburao Kote, still makes the trek to Killari every three days. Sitting on a pile of debris, they recall memories of a lifetime gone by.

``We are grateful for the rehabilitation. But it is like forcing a farmer into a three-piece suit,'' says Umate. ``All we need is a cattle-shed, a place to store fodder, a room to keep our harvest, fertilisers and seeds, and yes, a heap of cow dung. But the houses here are so congested that we literally have to live with our cattle,'' he says.

Lingappa Dalwe readily agrees. His 700-sq ft house is a castle by any standards, but the whitewashed brick walls give him claustrophobia. Pining for the solid cow-dung walls of his now-flattened dwelling back inKillari, 72-year-old Dalwe says this hybrid existence makes him extremely uneasy. ``We are not used to stepping out of our houses and on to the highway,'' says Dalwe, who is yet to grow accustomed to the sound of traffic periodically whizzing by.

Clogged drains, pipelines that bring no water and a mile-long walk to the market; the villagers keep stumbling on the pitfalls of `modern' living. The market-place, for instance, is located in a corner of the 200-acre township instead of being split into rows across the settlement.

Interpersonal relationships have also changed perceptibly. Where open mud-thatched houses once embraced relatives and strangers alike, now locked doors and fastened windows hide feelings of mistrust and insecurity. Also, next-door neighbours have been scattered all over the new township and, as Shantabai Dhase of Tapsi Chincholi says, ``Ya gavachi maya rahili nahi (The bond of love between us has ceased to exist).''

The biggest problem, though, is the 6-8 kilometres thatseparate the settlement from the fields. Says Rudrappa Birajdar, of Limbala village: ``Now it takes two or three hours to reach our fields. This means the labourers cannot get there before 11 am and they insist on leaving before 5 pm so they can return home before dark. It's strange, but we have actually become clock-watchers.''

Not that the rehabilitation programme failed to try and acclimatise the villagers. Several NGOs tried hard to re-orient the villagers in matters such as use of toilets, prohibition and self-employment. But the greater the culture shock, the more they recoiled.

``There has definitely been a lack of participation,'' remarks Vinayakrao Patil of Unique Trust, an NGO which has built houses in both Killari and adjoining areas. ``They have not bothered to ensure that the plantations started in each sector are protected, and the school buildings are already in a state of neglect,'' he says.