Baby

Kamble lives in Phaltan, a small town in the Satara district of Maharashtra.

She is a veteran of the Dalit movement in Maharashtra. Inspired by the radical
leadership of Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar, she has been involved with the struggle
from a very young age. She has established a government approved residential
school for socially backward students in Nimbure, a small village near Phaltan.
She has been honoured with awards for her literary and social work. Collections
of her poetry have also been published.
Maya Pandit is an activist who is involved with the womens and teachers’
movements in Maharashtra for the last two decades. She has published research
papers on issues in the women’s movement as well as education. She has also
been associated with the alternative Marathi theatre and has translated Marathi
plays into English. She now works as a professor and teacher educator at English
and Foreign Languages University, Hyderabad.

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My Years with Boss

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ASHOKAMITRAN

THE PRISONS WE BROKE

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For all my comrades who wish to change the world
Contents

Cover
Title Page
Introduction
The Prisons We Broke
An Interview with Baby Kamble
Afterword
Glossary
Acknowledgements
It has been my privilege to translate Baby Kamble’s Jina Amucha into English.
These memoirs were first serialised in 1984 in Stree, a Marathi women’s
magazine, and later published as a book in 1986. The memoirs have been
translated into many languages such as Hindi, Urdu, Punjabi, French and
Spanish. It gives me great pleasure to have been able to make this book available
to readers of English.
Translating these memoirs has not been easy. Baby Kamble uses the dialectal
Marathi of the Mahars living around Phaltan—a small town in Satara district of
Maharashtra—while writing about the life of her community, and a standard and
more formal language for discussing political developments. The dialectal
Marathi comes alive with live cadences, subtle humour and varied tonal patterns.
I am aware that much of that flavour is probably lost in translation.
The last chapter in this translation is an addition and is being published for
the first time. Many details of Baby Kamble’s growth as an activist are
recorded in this chapter. Another distinctive feature of this work is a long
interview with Baby Kamble, where she discusses her personal life and work, and
raises many issues related to women and patriarchy, family and violence,
problems encountered by Dalit women in the articulation of their experiences
and in political struggles.
During the course of this translation, I have received help from many quarters.
I would especially like to thank K. Satyanarayana for his help in the initial stages
of this project and later on for having read the translation; Jayanti Alam, for
reading the initial draft of the translation and pointing out many problem areas
as well as for her extremely valuable suggestions. The responsibility for any gaps
that remain in the final translation are, of course, entirely mine.
I would like to thank Malathy Krishnan and Meera Manavi for reading the
translation and for their encouragement; Baby Kamble and her family for giving
me so much time and making me and Uday feel at home; Uday for being with
me throughout and for helping at each stage of this project, including the
interview; Nikhil and Neeraj for their invaluable support. I do not know what I
would have done without them.
 I am grateful to Prakash, Kumari and Nagamani for taking care of the home
front. Without them cooking, cleaning and washing, this translation would not
have been possible. And, finally, Sivapriya for taking a keen interest in this
project.
MAYA PANDIT
Introduction
Jina Amucha, the Marathi original of The Prisons We Broke, is a milestone in the
history of Dalit writing in Marathi. It is probably the first autobiography by a
Dalit woman not only in Marathi but in any Indian language. Like most Dalit
autobiographies, The Prisons We Broke is an expression of protest against the
inhuman conditions of existence to which the Hindu caste system has subjected
the Dalits for thousands of years. There exists a long Marathi tradition of protest
writing against the caste system. Since the nineteenth century, radical social
reformers like Mahatma Phule and Shahu Maharaj had raised their voice against
the atrocities of the Brahmin-dominated caste system. It was Dr. Babasaheb
Ambedkar who provided the intellectual and ideological foundations for a
sustained critique of the caste system. Under his leadership, Dalit protest
acquired the form and force of a militant, political movement and challenged the
very foundation of varnashramadharma—the Brahminical creed that has
sanctioned and perpetuated the oppression of Dalits.
However, since Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar's mahaparinirvana, the situation
changed. The oppositional forces represented by the Dalit movement were
sought to be contained, controlled and demobilised by the hegemonic structures
of power in political and social spheres. Dalits were concentrated in rural
Maharashtra and were largely landless labourers. The Indian National Congress
had begun to build a base among the rich and middle-class farmers with the
policy of green revolution, which transformed them into modern capitalistic
land owners. But needless to say, Dalits were not the beneficiaries of this
revolution. Since most of them were landless agricultural labourers, they became
the chief target of exploitation. At the same time, the upper castes, smarting
under the frontal attacks from Dalits, especially the Mahars who were politically
more aware, retaliated with vengeance, and innumerable atrocities were
committed against the Dalits. The unholy alliance between feudal forces and the
bourgeoisie in the political sphere on the one hand, and between the Brahminical
systems of domination and control in the sociocultural sphere on the other hand,
tried to whitewash the inequalities and the resultant oppression in society under
the garb of the so-called developmental policies. In reality, these policies pushed
the already oppressed communities further into desolation, depriving them even
of basic resources like water and food. There was a large-scale migration of Dalits
to cities. The Congress lured away many Dalit leaders with a little share in power.
At the ideological level, there were attempts to selectively project the pluri-
cultural ethos in terms of a fundamentalist, Brahminical concept of a Hindu
nation. There was growing disillusionment among the poor people, especially
among the Dalit masses.
It was in this atmosphere of coercive suffocation in the 1960s that radical Dalit
sensibilities sought to give vent to their frustration and outrage, thus aligning
themselves with other revolutionary and radical movements and events taking
place around them, such as the Black Panther Party, anti-Vietnam war protests,
the Naxalite movement, Left struggles, anti-price rise movement and so on. The
establishment of the Dalit Panthers was one of the major happenings in Dalit
cultural politics. On the literary scene in Marathi, there was a conscious attempt
to challenge the universalist, metaphysical and aesthetic norms that had created a
closure in the literary discourse. Little Magazine and the writing produced by the
Dalit Panthers rebelled against the established literary, linguistic, formal and
cultural conventions, and opened up new horizons of creative articulation to
engage with the disease and chaos in the world.
Dalit writing bloomed. Poetry (Namdeo Dhasal, Yashwant Manohar), fictional
narratives (Baburao Bagul, Arjun Dangle) and autobiography emerged as the
dominant forms of articulation. Daya Pawar's Baluta, Pra. Ee. Sonkamble's
Athawaninche Pakshi, Madhav Kondvilkar's Mukkam Post Devache Gothane,
Shankarrao Kharat's TaralAntaral may be cited as the major Dalit
autobiographies written during this period. Baby Kamble’s autobiography The
Prisons We Broke is located in this tradition of direct self-assertion. But it also
went two steps ahead; it was a head-on confrontation with Brahminical
hegemony on the one hand and with patriarchal domination on the other. In one
sense it is more of a socio-biography rather than an autobiography. As Baby
Kamble states in her interview featured in this translation, it was published
almost twenty years after she completed writing it. Yet, it redefined the tradition
of autobiographical writing in Marathi in terms of the form, the narrative
strategies, the experiential world and the selfhood and subjectivities articulated.
The Prisons We Broke is written with a deep-rooted urge to engage with the
history of the Mahar community’s oppression. The political edge of such a
critical scrutiny comes obviously from the radical, self-assertive politics of Dr.
Babasaheb Ambedkar, a major source of inspiration for Baby Kamble, as he is for
many radical and Dalit writers in Marathi. Whereas most of the Dalit
autobiographies by men are in a sense written for a mixed readership of Dalit
and non-Dalit readers, Baby Kamble asserts that she is writing for her people. In
her foreword to the original Marathi autobiography, she asserts, ‘Today, our
young educated people are ashamed of being called a Mahar. But what is there to
be ashamed of? We are the great race of the Mahars of Maharashtra. We are its
real original inhabitants, the sons of the soil. The name of this land is also
derived from our name. I love our caste name, Mahar—it flows in my veins, in
my blood, and reminds me of our terrific struggle for truth.’
Baby Kamble’s engagement is with the history of Dalit oppression. She does
not try to glorify the life of the Dalit community, rather she explicitly states that
her intention is to subject the life of her community to critical scrutiny in order
to demonstrate how Brahminical domination had turned the Mahars into slaves,
forcing them to live in conditions worse than animals. ‘I have described in this
book the details of the life of our community as I have experienced it during the
last fifty years. The readers should not feel ashamed of this history. I have tried to
sketch a portrait of the actual life of the Mahars and the indignities they were
subjected to. I am writing this history for my sons, daughters, daughters-in-law
and my grandchildren to show them how the community suffered because of the
chains of slavery and so that they realise what ordeals of fire the Mahars have
passed through. I also want to show them what the great soul Dr. Babasaheb
Ambedkar single-handedly achieved which no one else had achieved in ages.’
Obviously, the fire of emancipatory struggle characterises this recasting of
history. Memory becomes a device to inculcate the urge for resistance in future
generations. It also serves the purpose of bringing to book the Hindu caste
system as the perpetrator of heinous crimes against humanity.
During the course of the narration, Baby Kamble brings alive a world that is
constituted by 'difference in location'. The difference is not only in terms of
geography. Her world is physically located on the margins of the village and also
on the margins of the 'social imaginary,' it is at once alienating and alienated by
being cut off from the village as unclean, impure, polluting and untouchable. The
customs, rituals, rites, festivals and the jatras that she describes are indeed a
source of unexplored treasure for a sociologist, as Maxine Berntson has stated in
her brief introduction to the Marathi edition. But more than that, they represent
the composite apparatus of Brahminical dominance perpetrated through
superstitions, illiteracy, ignorance and oppressive practices.
 Baby Kamble's narration reflects her love for her people without seeming to
glorify their terrible condition. Outrage against the inhuman conditions of
existence and love for her suffering people are organically fused to evolve a self-
critical and yet humane and mature tone. Nowhere does the narration sink into
self-pity. On the contrary, the narration is fused with a subtle sense of humour as
evidenced by her descriptions of ritual baths, unwashed children with dripping
noses, the games and the weddings.
Another significant feature of The Prisons We Broke is the transparency with
which Baby Kamble brings out the internal trauma in the psyche of her people
situated on the threshold of a fundamental transformation. Her descriptions of
their negotiations with this whirlwind of change — the contradictory impulses
they had to confront, their bewilderment and doubts, their urge for self assertion,
the intense struggle between the pulls of an oppressive yet familiar way of life
and the promise of a more dignified yet unfamiliar new world — brings to light a
view from within, which would otherwise have been irretrievably lost.
A singularly important aspect of Jina Amucha is Baby Kamble’s Dalit feminist
critique of patriarchy. She graphically describes the physical and psychological
violence women have to undergo in both the public and private spheres. If the
Mahar community is the ‘other’ for the Brahmins, Mahar women become the
‘other’ for the Mahar men. Baby Kamble demonstrates how caste and patriarchy
converge to perpetuate exploitative practices against women. It is here that the
urge to define the self becomes most evident in women. Baby Kamble shows the
remarkable dignity and resilience of the Mahar women in their struggle through
which they have emerged as the agents of transformation in their community.
The Prisons We Broke thus brings to light experiential worlds as well as
discursive practices that have rarely been discussed in mainstream writings. It
reveals the diverse ways in which the construction of the resistant selfhood and
subjectivity of not just a person but an entire marginalised community happens.
It also brings to the fore the tremendous transformative potential of oppressed
people to change the world.
Maya Pandit
Hyderabad
1
Children love their grandparents’ home. At least it used to be so forty-five years
ago. Besides, in those days, most children were born in their maternal
grandparents’ home. Growing up in the grandparents’ home was like being in
the cool shelter of love.

Naturally, children would prefer their grandparents’ home to that of their own
parents.

I was no exception. I always loved being with my grandparents, that is, my

aai’s parents. They belonged to Veergaon, a village in the Purander taluka in
Pune district. The village was small and so was the maharwada. But the people in
the maharwada were large-hearted. They were poor, of course, but they were
very affectionate and simple, ready to even lay down their lives for someone they
loved.
My aai’s parents did not have a son; that is, my aai did not have a brother and I
was deprived of having a mama. They had only two daughters. The elder one was
Chandrabai, and Sunderabai was the younger one. Even my mawshi had only
one daughter, Vithabai. She too was brought up by our grandparents. My aai had
two children—me and my elder brother, Babu. Both of us stayed with our
grandparents. My father was a contractor and he had to stay away from home
quite often. So my aai generally stayed with her parents. My father approved of
this arrangement, as he was sure that his parents-in-law would take good care of
his children. Babu was my parents’ first child. My aai gave birth to three
daughters after him, but none of them survived for more than two or three years.
Then, for a long time, Aai did not conceive. Finally, in desperation, my aaji went
to a village nearby called Harni. Now this village was famous for the goddess
Kalubai, who granted devotees their wishes. Aaji prayed to her fervently for a
child for her daughter. The devrushiin in the village had also put the angara
mark on aaji’s forehead and, as luck would have it, I was born. I fell ill when I
was about one and a half years old, and in a couple of weeks’ time, I came very
close to dying. One day, at about six in the evening, my condition began to get
worse. My body grew cold in a couple of hours. My aai, aaji and the neighbours
started wailing loudly. My aai cried so much that she almost fainted with grief.
The people around decided to give me an immediate burial to spare her the
prolonged agony.

Armed with a hoe and a spade, a couple of young men got into the garbage pit
and started digging a grave. When they had dug enough, my chulat aaja bent
down to pick me up from my aai’s lap. But she clung to me fiercely and would
not let go. There was a sort of tug of war for a while. Then, with tears pouring
down her eyes, she begged people around to let her hold her child in her lap at
least for the night. ‘You buried all my daughters in the night. Now let me at least
hold this girl in my arms till the break of the day. Let me gaze at her face, I won’t
see it again!’ This heart-rending appeal

affected her uncles and aunts so much that they let the baby lie on her lap and
prepared to keep vigil by her side through the night. ‘Alright, we will do whatever
you wish but please don’t cry so much!’ they said.

My aaja had brought a book from Kashmir called Pandav Pratap. He began to
read aloud from it. Now, all the people of our community were devout Hindus.
With great religious devotion, they listened to the exploits of the Pandavas and
lord Krishna. It was the first day of the month of Shravan. My aaja kept reading
into the wee hours of the dawn. He had come up to the eleventh chapter. The
first cock crowed. Then one of my aunts happened to cast a glance at me and to
her intense surprise, she saw my eyelids twitch. She whispered into the ears of the
elders sitting around. The warmth of happiness flowed into the cold hours. My
aaji held some cotton in front of my nose and it fluttered.

My body grew warmer. People were overjoyed. Then my aaja came forward and
folded his hands in prayer and supplication. ‘The holy mother at Veergaon has
given rebirth to my grandchild. But if she makes her strong like the corn, I’ll
offer a holy feast to all the people in the community,’ he declared. By then, my
eyes had opened. Then members of the bhajani mandal, falling over each other,
rushed forward to apply the holy bukka on my forehead. Then some old wise
men remembered an old dictum that a burial pit should not be left unoccupied.
So my aaji chose the plumpest hen from among her birds and gave it to the
people to be buried alive in the pit. Accordingly, the bird replaced me in the
burial pit.
 My aai stayed with her parents for two more years after this. When I was three
and a half, my father came to fetch us. But I was so attached to my aaji that I
refused to go with my parents.

My father’s name was Pandharinath. He was a contractor by profession, but he

had so generous a heart that he was called Karna, the epitome of generosity in
the Mahabharata. An extremely kindhearted man, he had no craving for wealth.

His only wish in life was to make people happy. There is an amusing story about
how he became a contractor. In 1918, a canal was to be dug in Phaltan. But
before the work could start, the thick wild cactus bushes had to be cleared. My
father bagged this contract and completed the work quite satisfactorily. He was
also able to work out a little profit. He developed a liking for this profession.
When work on the canal started, labourers got paid at the rate of one cowry shell
per basket of soil removed. For carrying fifty baskets of soil, fifty cowries would
be paid. Five cowries fetched one ganda, that is, one pei.

Five peis made a paisa. So a labourer could make ten paise every day. People
somehow managed to survive on that meagre amount so long as there was work.

But once the work on the canal got over, they had to face tough times.

Soon there was an outbreak of an epidemic. This disease had plagued them for
ages. It killed many and compelled the survivors to migrate to distant lands.

When people started migrating to escape the epidemic, my father too joined the
crowd and somehow reached Pune. Terrible hunger awaited them there. The
government had started some construction work in order to help the migrants.

But the migrant labourers had no shelter, nor any help. Hoards of labourers
flocked to the work sites. The news that there was work available, spread far and
wide by word of mouth. Families from Phaltan also got wind of the news that
work on the construction of a dairy was going to begin. All of them rushed to the
site of the dairy with their meagre belongings and camped nearby, under the
trees and against the walls. In the morning, the European engineer arrived at the
site along with a host of other officers to start the work of laying the foundation.
 When the labourers saw the engineer, there was a great commotion amongst
them. My father approached the engineer with his notebook, which contained
the record of the fifty-rupee contract he had undertaken to dig the canal. The
sahib stared at my father with great curiosity. My father was a mere boy of
sixteen or seventeen years—hardly four and a half feet tall, his thin body barely
covered by a torn and patched shirt, a torn dhoti mended in innumerable places,
and a turban which looked no better than a bundle of rags on his head. He must
have presented a very unusual sight to the sahib. In those times, a white sahib
always carried a cane in his hand. This sahib was no exception. The sight of this
strange-looking character must have tickled his sense of humour. He raised his
cane and flicked off my father turban. Then, poking his stick into my father’s
tattered shirt, he asked him, ‘How will you undertake this contract? Do you have
any qualifications?

You need at the least labourers in order to take up this contract.’ My father
blurted out, ‘Why not? See all those people squatting there? They are my
labourers.’ No sooner did he signal at them than the crowd of people rushed
towards the sahib who stared at my father in sheer amazement.

The sahib fixed some amount and my father bagged the contract. The digging
started. The work proceeded smoothly and speedily. But this brought a new
worry. What would the labourers eat till the first payment was made? Now one of
my aunts stayed in the Camp area in Pune. My father went to her and begged her
to give him her gold necklace. She gave it to him. He took it to the pawnbroker
and got some money for it. That fetched food for all for at least four days. Sunday
came. His bill was sanctioned. Now he had to go and collect the amount from the
treasury. But he had nothing even to carry it in. Finally, he took some cement
bags with him to collect the payment. He filled one bag with pure silver coins,
another with the pentagon-shaped coins of one, two and four annas, and a third
bag with coins of dhabbu paise and peis. The sahib provided him with police
escort up to the place of work. When the labourers saw him coming in a tonga
with his treasure, followed by the police escort, their eyes filled with tears of joy.
From then on, my father got into the habit of being generous.
In those days, it was the custom to keep women at home, behind the
threshold. The honour enjoyed by a family was in proportion to the restrictions
imposed on the women of the house. When no one could see even a nail of the
woman thus confined within the four walls of the house, then this ‘honour’
became the talk of the town—a byword among the relatives and friends in the
surrounding villages. Then people would tell each other, how one Pandharinath
Mistry kept his wife completely hidden in the house and how even the rays of the
sun did not know her.
My father had locked up my aai in his house, like a bird in a cage. Whatever
money he earned, he would squander away. While his contracts lasted, there
would be plenty of food, clothes and fun. But when he was out of work, we had
to go without food even. My father gradually became an expert in his field.

Even then, it used to be awfully difficult at times to get a little kerosene to light a
single lamp in the house. My father loved to drink tea. Even during his lean days,
he refused to go without tea. He would boil tea leaves without any sugar and
happily drink the strong bitter brew. But he would never go without tea. My aai
would always fight with him. ‘What’s the use of earning so much money?’ she
would grumble. ‘You don’t even have a hut in the village.

What’s the point? You earn so much and here we are, without even a few
morsels. What will the children do?’ Then my father tried to ‘educate’ her, ‘Come
on, can you only get happiness by hoarding money? I have earned a lot of merit,
you see! Just as children inherit their parents’ wealth, they also inherit their
merits and sins. God sees to it that they do so. Don’t you worry! Our children
will be comfortable. If I do well unto others, I will earn a lot of merit. Then they
will automatically get a share of my merit. They will be quite well off. Why do
you unnecessarily worry about such petty matters? I don’t care for money.’

My aai must have felt so oppressed, so suffocated! And that must have made
her so insensitive, so cruel towards the others. She could never maintain good
relations with her relatives, not even with her own mother and sister. She could
never get along with people. She was basically a very difficult person, with scant
regard for others. My father was the exact opposite of her. He loved people far
more than he loved money.
Thus they were two opposite poles. They never got along well with each other.
Aai used to expose my father’s so-called capital, that is, his sense of morality. If I
was around, she used the opportunity to push a few lessons down my throat too,
‘What have we earned with such values? We followed the path of morality all
right but what have we gained? What has morality earned for us?’
 ‘Morality! What rubbish!’ She would say angrily. ‘The world belongs to the
man with money. Don’t ever be taken in by your father’s lofty words. There’s no
merit, no sin. It’s only

money that matters. Money whitewashes your sins. It’s money that brings fame.
Nobody is bothered about how you earned it. Be rich and people will willingly
pluck ticks off your body. You can earn while you are young. Earn money you
must, whichever way, then your children won’t have to worry.’ She often told
me, ‘Baby, you have only one brother. It is your duty to help him!’ She would go
on and on like this. I wonder whether this was her true nature or whether her
poverty-stricken life made her speak in this way. Actually, she learnt to speak out
only because she travelled to many cities with my father. It was staying in the
cities that had taught her how to live. Whichever city my father went to, the only
thought he had in his mind was of helping his people to survive.

Whenever my father went to Mumbai, he used to buy lots of things for me—
thick silver anklets, thin and hollow silver anklets, a silver nose ring with a red
bead, gold earrings with red stones, three big silver tassels for my hair, silk for a
long skirt and blouse, and a red chunni with a crescent on it. He used to send all
these to me through my mawshi.
In the maharwada of Veergaon, I behaved as if the locality was my personal
property. I called all men, mama, and their wives, mami, and their parents, aaja
and aaji. All those fifteen or sixteen houses in our maharwada were like family to
me. My father had named my brother, Babu, and me, Baby. For the maharwada,
I was their Begabai. I used to walk in style with silver tassels down my back, silver
anklets on my feet, silver chains clinking above them, my half-tola nose ring,
earrings, and silk clothes! The tassels and the anklets used to make sweet jingling
sounds when I walked or ran and everybody used to admire me so in all my
finery. I used to roam around from house to house, chatting away about
something or the other.
There were around fifteen or sixteen houses in our community. Only three or
four among them were in somewhat good condition. These belonged to the
Mahars who were granted the sixteenth share.[1]
The rest of the houses were the poorest of the poor, eternally stricken by
poverty. The walls were nothing but stones arranged vertically with some mud
coating. They were tiny huts really. There would be a big clay pot with a small
mouth kept at the entrance for drinking water. The pot was called keli. The
mouth would be covered with a broken coconut shell that also served as a cup for
drinking water. It had three holes at the bottom. One had to pour water into the
coconut shell, and blocking the holes with one’s fingers, hastily empty the shell
into one’s mouth. One corner of the hut would have a clay chulha near which lay
a couple of clay pots, a wooden pali, and a tawa. The centre of the tawa would
usually be burnt out so there would be a big hole in the middle. There would be a
wooden katwat, for rolling the dough and a long piece of tin for turning the
bhakri while baking it. A grinding stone would be in one corner. Above the
chulha would hang a long string called walni. These strings were our holy
threads, the markers of our birth, our caste—like the janeu of the brahmins.
These strings had to be there because on these strings we would hang the
intestines of dead animals in order to dry them!

There would be rags used as mattresses heaped in another corner. Near the
chulha would be a small platform called bhanwas with a few clay pots on it.

They matched the overall decor of the house.

People would be covered in thick layers of dust and dirt, a black coating on
their skin. You could see the deep marks where moisture had trickled down.

Hair, untouched by oil, fell over their shoulders in thick tangles. They looked like
rag dolls, nibbled and torn by sharp-teethed mice. The thick tangles of hair
would be infested with lice and coated with lice eggs. Children looked as if they
had rolled in mud, snot dripping from their noses in green gooey lines.

If one were to use a figure of speech, their noses were like leaky taps of snot.
Their bodies would be completely bare without a stitch on them. Each hut
contained at least eight to ten such kids; some even had fifteen to twenty. The
custom was to offer the eldest son to the mother goddess. That was important.

He would be called potraja.

Children up to nine years of age would look as thin as sticks. When girls
reached puberty, their mothers would pull out some dirty rags from a bundle and
put them on their bodies to somehow cover them. That was all, by way of
clothing. A rag would be tied around the waist; its ends pulled between the legs
and tucked up at the waist. The traditional khun blouse pieces offered to goddess
Mari Aai would be assiduously saved for such purpose. They would be brought
out from a bundle and with huge stitches would be somehow made to resemble
blouses. That was the uniform for grown-up girls. For the boys, a rag of an arm’s
length and four-finger width would be considered adequate to cover their
nakedness. But they needed one more thing—a waist string called kargota. This
would be made up of sari borders rolled into strings. Even this waist string would
be infested with lice, so the skin continuously itched and had to be scratched.
The two ends of a rag tucked into this waist band from the front and the back…
that was enough of clothing for a boy. He was considered dressed. The lady’s son,
they said, has come of age!
There used to be a small god’s place — a platform made of stone and mud —
in each house. The size and shape of these platforms indicated the status and
prestige of the householder. Small size, small status. Big size spelt out prestige!
Big-sized gods would be placed on these large platforms. The god was a huge,
round, smooth stone, weighing two to three kilos, painted saffron, with long
lines of bhandara and kumkum drawn on it. Some stones also had two large
protruding eyes and huge mustaches painted on them. A blood-red piece of cloth
would be spread in front of the gods, on which lay neem twigs with leaves gone
crackling dry and a heap of green bangles. One glance at this would be enough to
strike terror in the heart of the beholder. The goddesses of the house — the
women — matched the goddesses named Wadjai and Kadjai in their appearance.
Guests visiting the house, impressed by the ghastly platforms, spread the fame of
the house far and wide.
The chawdi was the place for exchange of views. ‘You know that guy Satwa,’
someone would start. ‘Yesterday, I had gone to leave my daughter at her in-laws’
place. She really is most lucky, you know, to get into such a house. What a
prestigious house! What a huge platform they have! Easily comes up to the waist!
And the number of gods they have on this platform! O my! Simply unbelievable!
The senior woman of the house, our relative, narrated their individual histories
to us at night when we were chatting. Their great-grandfathers, it seems, had
travelled as far as the Konkan region! They brought these gods from those
faraway places. Such demanding and strict gods! What can I tell you about them!
They can immediately make out everything you know. Since their old man
passed away, these gods possess the young son. Their house has become a holy
shrine now, with people pouring in from everywhere. It’s crowded like a fair.
And that young man—what strength! You should see him when the god Laman
Pathan possesses him. Even twenty strong men can't control him. But he has one
rule: in the holy food offered to him, he must have a suti roti and an opium pipe.
Without those, Laman Pathan won’t possess him.’
The listeners would immediately nod furiously and endorse the god’s urgent
need for an opium pipe. ‘Yes, yes, quite so, quite so! After all, it is the god Laman
Pathan! He must be given his due. Otherwise the body possessed by him would
suffer.’ This endorsement would be fuel enough for the narrative to proceed at
full steam. ‘Absolutely right. The man possessed by Laman Pathan can tell
everything about anybody who comes to him.

He’ll not have any inhibitions even with his parents. He leaves nothing unsaid,
nothing secret! He can read one’s innermost secrets and he brings everything out
into the open, for all to see. I was completely nonplussed to witness that. Now
that’s what I call achievement. You should do something like that to make your
parents proud.’

Old people listening to this talk would nod reverently and add their own pearls
of wisdom, ‘Yes, yes young man, you’re right! The parents must have earned a lot
of merit, that’s why holy spirits like Laman Pathan possess their son. That god
won’t possess just anybody out there.

Why go far, let me tell you my own tale. Now you know that my own in-laws are
from the place called Jeur Mandki. They also have such huge gods on their
platform! Its height would easily be up to the waist of any full-grown man. Now
he gets possessed by no less a god than the Yetal Sahib himself. Now that’s a real
tough god, if you know what I mean. He won’t allow womenfolk to even come
and bow to him. And his black magic! Perfect! Whosoever he wants dead, will
vomit blood and die at that very instant. Well, this relative of mine was very
famous in the whole region. Even a pregnant cow would abort the calf when she
heard his name! Now this guy I’m telling you about was the only surviving child
of his parents. All the others, nineteen of them, had died. Once when this child
was on the threshold of youth, growing a moustache and all, he had gone to his
field. Suddenly, his eyes went blood red and he started speaking in the
Musalmaan dialect. That was Yetal Sahib! He told him in his own tongue, “I’m
sitting in your body.” From
then on, Yetal Sahib made him his vessel. But the relatives got envious. His
mawshi went to some place in the Konkan, she returned with Margi Mata. A bolt
meant for the young man. One day a thorn pierced his foot. That was all!

Immediately Margi Mata entered his body and possessed him. She and Yetal
Sahib fought a fierce battle over him; but who’s heard of Margi Mata losing to
anyone? Around sunset, the young man fell down frothing at the mouth. How
shall I describe the victory of the other? The young man’s tongue hung out like a
goat’s and he breathed his last. But since then, everybody is dead scared of the
mawshi! Now it’s her house that’s

famous.’

After this narration, his listeners would immediately slap themselves and start
praying to Margi Mata most devoutly. ‘Oh mother, please forgive us our
mistakes and sins, and have mercy on us, oh holy mother from Konkan!’
Come to think of it, what kind of life did these people really lead? What was
there worth living for? Generation after generation wasted away in the senseless
worship of stones, in utter misery. Generation after generation perished. But it is
a basic human need to hope for change. The tiny sapling of hope was reared in
their hearts too. It grew tall, drawing strength from the iron in their souls.

[1] The leader of the Mahar community was entitled to 16 per cent share of
whatever payment the community received from the village for the services
rendered. The payment was usually in kind—for example, bhakris.
2
Of all the months in the year, Ashadh was their favourite month. The Mahars
considered this their own month. This was the month for ritual baths, house
cleaning and the polishing of floors with dung. This meant a lot of work. And yet
it was a month of comfort, of sweet food! Even better than the months of Ashwin
and Kartik, when Diwali comes—these were months of false happiness. They
decidedly liked Ashadh better. If eleven months of the year were together a
horrible curse on the Mahars, Ashadh was an antidote. When else could they
experience moments of joy and comfort? This would be only a tiny drop of
happiness in a sea of suffering and yet it was this that helped them endure every
misery in their life. This one month of happiness developed in their hearts an
iron will to endure whatever suffering came their way during the remaining
eleven months. Such strength would put even the gods to shame. That great
maker of the universe had indeed made some provision for the meek slaves of
the earth. If he had given a mouth, he also had to give a few morsels to feed it, to
compensate for the fasting of the remaining eleven months. Perhaps Ashadh was
the provision that had been made to allow them a little food. Slaves needed this
provision. Ashadh for them was the burgeoning of happiness. A blessing for their
starved bodies—when the tongue was satiated with the tastes it loved. It was also
a golden opportunity for the godmen to display their skills, when the holy spirits
of their gods possessed them. The happy times began with the women, though.
Women would clean their huts, and polish the walls and the floor of their
crumbling huts with dung. All their precious belongings — what else but their
clay pots! — would be brought out. These pots contained all the wealth saved by
previous generations of women. But would the treasure troves be in good shape?
A clay pot would have at least two or three holes, large enough to allow entry to
at least a couple of mice. But our women were more than a match for the mice.
They would close the holes with rag balls, which had sharp babhul thorns stuffed
inside. This would prevent the mice from chewing them away. The delicately
engraved mouths of the clay pots were usually broken and the pots chipped and
cracked. Yet, that was all they had by way of wealth, preserved for generations!
Women would polish the mud walls and then the floor of the house with cow
dung or buffalo dung. After that, they would bring all the broken pots inside and
arrange them in a pyramid, one on top of the other. In poor households there
would be only two or three pots. But the house which had the right of the
sixteenth share would have at least five such rows. Then all the rags would be
washed and hung on the carts to dry. All the impurities would thus be washed
away. The first day would thus be spent in cleaning and washing. The next day
would be assigned for bathing. The ritual began in the early hours of the
morning.
Women would wake up and start making preparations for lighting the
chulhas. This would mean sifting through the waste pits for dry twigs and sticks
for fuel. Then they would go looking for burning coals. Generally, everyone
would go to the house that had set the chulha going. There they would light up a
rag and, holding it in their palms, rush back home. After putting the
smouldering rag into the chulhas, they would blow on it till flames sprang up.
Then they would push sticks and twigs into the flames and place big clay pots
filled with water on the chulhas. The old woman in the house would be given the
duty to tend the chulha. Once this was done, the lady of the house would go to
the village shop. Standing in the courtyard, keeping a distance from the
shopkeeper, she would pull her pallav over her face and then, using the most
reverential and polite terms of address, she would beg him with utmost humility
to sell her the things she wanted. 'Appasab, could you please give this despicable
Mahar woman some shikakai for one paisa and half a shell of dry coconut with
black skin?’ The shopkeeper's children would be trickling out into the
courtyard for their morning ablutions. He would give the innocent children
lessons in social behaviour, ‘Chabu, hey you, can’t you see the dirty Mahar
woman standing there? Now don’t you touch her. Keep your distance.’
Immediately our Mahar woman, gathering her rags around her tightly so as not
to pollute the child, would say, ‘Take care little master! Please keep a distance.
Don’t come too close. You might touch me and get polluted.’ The
shopkeeper would come out and, from a distance, throw the things into her
pallav, which she had spread out in order to receive them. She would then
respectfully keep her money on the threshold. That of course did not pollute
him!
By the time she returned home, the water on the chulha would be hot. If she
had a young daughter-in-law in the house, she would order her to grind the
shikakai into fine powder. This would be done on the huge stones set outside the
house. The tiny tot of a daughter-in-law would dutifully start grinding.
Meanwhile, the woman would hide the dry piece of coconut in her blouse for
fear of the children finding it and eating it up. Then she would empty the hot
water from the clay pot on the chulha into another pot and carry it outside.
While mixing some cold water with it, she would repeatedly warn her daughter-
in-law to grind the shikakai well. Then she would go up to her elder son, still
sleeping unawares on his bed of rags, grab him by the scruff of his neck, drag him
to the door and push him down on the big bath stone. The boy’s hair would
be long and tangled—a mark of his having been offered to the mother goddess as
the first fruit the marriage had borne.
The snot-nosed eldest son would bawl at the top of his voice, his fists beating
against his mouth, vehemently protesting this assault in the name of a bath. He
would thrash wildly, looking for the first opportunity to escape. But his aai,
impervious to his tantrums, would pick up a stone and start scrubbing his legs
with its rough surface. The continuous scrubbing would scrape the already
cracked skin and blood would flow from the wounds. The boy would howl till he
went blue in the face. The gooey streams flowing freely from his nose would
hang long and low like two green cords. The boy would try to draw them back
into the nose, screaming all the while. This in-and-out manoeuvre would go on
till the bath was over. The more his mother scrubbed, the more the child howled,
and the more he thrashed his feet against the stone. Mother’s temper would
rise slowly and once it crossed the danger mark, she would use the same stone to
give the boy a sound beating. Finally, the child would helplessly submit to this
ordeal. Then she would pour the scalding hot water into another clay pot.
Pressing him down immobile on the bath stone, she would bring out the dry
piece of coconut from her blouse, break it into pieces, put a piece into her mouth,
chew it into a fine paste and spitting the whitish mixture of coconut juice and
saliva on her palm, she would massage the child’s head with it. When she was
convinced that she had covered each strand of hair on his head, she would
massage his head further and then wash it with hot water. The water would be so
hot that it would kill all the lice, which would fall in a shower over the body. The
bath stone, covered with dead lice, would look as if black sesame seeds had
rained on it. Then she would embark upon the next task of combing the hair.
The boy would already be suffering terribly because of his burning skin and the
tangled hair that had been tugged at roughly. The comb with its sharp teeth
added new dimensions to the torture. The mother would attack the tangles in the
hair with such force that the comb would make a thudding sound every time it
landed on the boy’s head. She would virtually tear through the hair, pulling
out half of it along with the knotty tangles. The poor child would go completely
numb with pain and shock.
After the bath, the boy would be dressed in a small piece of newly washed
loincloth. The mother would get the haldi and kumkum box and smear his
forehead with the yellow and red powders. Now he looked proper, like the
vaghya or the coachman of the goddess. Finally the ordeal got over. No sooner
had the mother finished dressing him, than the boy pulled himself free from her
hands and threw himself down among the rags near the grinding stone.
Completely exhausted, he would remain inert for the rest of the day.
All the children had to undergo the bathing ritual experienced by the eldest
son. The programme easily went on till two o’clock in the afternoon. No
worries about cooking, no hurry in eating! Just baths. That was the motto! The
mother herself took a bath only after she had bathed all her children. Then she
removed her sari and wrapped herself in a longish rag. The sari she had taken off
would be handed over to her young daughter-in-law to wash. It has to be called a
sari, of course, for want of any other suitable name for the rag. Actually it looked
like a tri-colour flag, a piece of cloth made by stitching together different rags. It
had big holes; the borders were folded and stitched, and the stitches looked like
thick strings. The cloth was rough and coarse, thick as a bed sheet. A sari had to
be long, so the women had to stitch many pieces together till the piece attained
the length of a sari. This sari, thick as a blanket, was given to young girls, barely
nine or ten years old, to be washed. I too had been one of them. All of us young
girls carried the saris to the stream to be washed. How we loved to wash them!
First we soaked the saris in the flowing water and then rubbed mud all over
them. Then we repeatedly dashed the saris against the rocks to wash the mud off.
The more we washed and scrubbed, muddier was the water squeezed from it.
And the more we scrubbed, the saris became cleaner. After washing, we spread
the saris over the rocks to dry. Another joy awaited us! The lice could not crawl
out of the wet cloth, so we could see clusters of lice and their eggs sticking to the
saris. Even the borders of the pallav would be thickly infested with lice. It would
appear as if the sari was embroidered with lice. This sight enthused us to no end.
The lice would be too numerous to be picked out one by one. So we would gather
some stones or coconut fibres and virtually scrape the lice off the saris. After the
saris had dried, the big lice crawled out from the folds, which would send us into
yet another bout of frenzied activity. We picked them out, crushed them against
the rocks with our nails and they perished with a 'plock’! When our gang had
killed enough of them, we would be very tired, and so, after folding the washed
clothes, we would saunter back home.
In the meanwhile, the woman in the house prepared for her bath. She would
pour hot water from the clay pot on the chulha into the pot on the bath stone,
mix some cold water to make the heat bearable and then sit down on the stone.
Wrapping herself in a longish rag, she would scrub herself vigorously with a
stone till her skin turned black and blue. She would scrub her face so hard that
the stone virtually rattled against her bones. Once she was satisfied that her body
and face were clean enough, she started on the head bath. The coconut paste
ritual would be the same as for the children, with only one difference. She had to
apply the coconut paste to her hair herself. By this time, it would be four
o’clock in the afternoon, but that made no difference whatsoever. By now, her
sari would be ready, washed and dried by the young girls. She would wrap it
around herself, her wet hair dripping down her back. Hair was generally combed
only at the time of the bath. Then she would apply a big kumkum tilak on her
forehead, with a dot of haldi below. The pallav would be pulled over the head,
pleated and crumpled at the right places. Pulling the crumpled part down to
cover her face, the woman would visit her neighbours to enquire after them and
to exchange notes.
‘Haven’t you finished bathing the children yet?’
‘You know what happened while I was bathing my elder son? The god Mad
Malhari suddenly possessed him. You know how strong that god is!’
Immediately another woman endorsed this assessment of the god’s
strength, ‘O yes, yes, that’s right. But let me tell you, Saru, your father-in-
law was a vaghya of the same god. You know how much he used to earn! He used
to return from his collection round, his rusted bones creaking, his back bent
double, with heavy bags of food hanging from his shoulders. Even the
neighbours used to survive on that food. So naturally the same god wants to
possess this child as well, don’t you know? And why not! Isn’t he the eldest
son? He has to continue his aaja’s tradition. But tell me, did you apply the
bhandara on his forehead?’
The other woman would hastily reply, ‘Yes, yes, I did all that, Atyabai! It is
our simple devotion that has brought the god to us.’
‘Now Saru, you must take good care of this child. The child is being
possessed for the first time. Be careful now, don’t pollute things. Some sluts
around here will be quite jealous, you know! They may go to any lengths.
That’s why I am telling you, be careful.’
The women would go visiting their friends’ houses and such talk could be
heard all over the neighbourhood. The village would reverberate with such
conversations.
The whole of Ashadh was hectic; but especially hectic were the Tuesdays,
Fridays and the full moon night of this month. There was a lot of work to do.
Women made the most of these days, exploiting this opportunity to the hilt.
Hindu philosophy had discarded us as dirt and thrown us into their garbage pits,
on the outskirts of the village. We lived in the filthiest conditions possible. Yet
Hindu rites and rituals were dearest to our hearts. For our poor helpless women,
the haldi-kumkum in their tiny boxes was more important than even a mine full
of jewels. We desperately tried to preserve whatever bits of Hindu culture we
managed to lay our hands on. And yet no one tried to understand us. Our minds
somehow kept on hoping against hope—that we too would be able to live like the
upper castes, that we also would be able to enjoy wealth like the Patil’s wife
and practise the same rituals as them. But when our very bodies were considered
worthless, who was going to spare a thought about our minds? The upper castes
knew quite well that they would be able to control the Mahars only if they were
kept on a tight leash. They were scared that if the hold was loosened even a little,
the suppressed community would spring up in revolt and break their
domination.
These rituals were, in a sense, an outlet for their oppressed souls. This was how
they tried to find some solace in their terrible lives. It was to the Hindu gods that
they prayed for deliverance from their suffering. They consoled themselves with
the hope that their time too would come one day.

The eldest son was the pride of the house. He would be offered to the deity as
vaghya or potraja. Fathers had a lion’s share in preparing their sons for this
role. To offer the son as vaghya or potraja was considered a great honour and
prestige for the family. Besides, giving away the child in the service of the deity
would sort out the problem of earning a livelihood—it was like making a
provision for generations to come. These customs, in fact, had provided their
ancestors with the resources with which they had earned their livelihood. And
what sort of resources were these? The god’s house in each home would have
a square copper tray called kotma, a tiger skin bag called ghol that was used for
keeping the bhandara, and a string instrument called chawandake. These four
items formed the property that had been handed down by successive
generations. Nobody had objected to this practice. The potraja’s capital, in the
form of these various things, would hang on a peg in the god’s house.
The father very diligently saw to it that his son was properly trained. The
training would begin when his son was seven years of age. The first Tuesday in
Ashadh was chosen to initiate the son into the ritual. The father would begin by
decorating his son. First, the parents took down the bundle hung on the peg. It
was necessary to sprinkle gomutra on the bundle before it was opened. Square
pieces of choli cloth, which had been saved over a period of several years for this
occasion, were brought out of the bundle. The son was first dressed in a frock,
then the choli pieces were hung on his chest with their ends tucked inside. Brass
anklets were clasped around his feet. These made a tinkling sound when he
walked. A big whip called asud, the mark of the mother goddess, was hung on his
left shoulder. On the right shoulder was hung a bag of haldi and kumkum. He
also had to wear a small brass ring which made a musical sound. They combed
his long hair and let it hang loose on his shoulders. Then they smeared his
forehead with haldi and kumkum, applied kajal in his eyes and gave him green
bangles for his wrists. The boy would be given another bag called madaan to
hang on his shoulder for collecting alms. Every family decorated their elder son
in this way. The relatives — the kakis, kakas, aajis and aajas — gazed upon the
child, now become a potraja, with eyes brimming with admiration and love.
Thus began the child’s training in the art of being a potraja. The father would
teach his son how to carry on his head the devhara; how to dance, bend and
revolve balancing its weight; and how to sing the prayer to the mother goddess;
how to conduct the dhupa arti, beating the brass ring worn on his thumb to keep
rhythm.
The prayer went like this:
Hail our Mother of the land and water/ Lakamai is your name/ Dressed in
yellow silk cloth/ the temple resounds with your name//
You wear around your neck/ necklaces of diamonds and rubies/ What you
love to wear in Aakhad is the kumkum on your forehead/
Your eyes are dark with kajal/ Your mouth is full of tambul/
 The Mother sits on a throne/ Her food is hen and goat//
Suti roti is what she likes/ It's potraja's honour to offer it to her/ The food
makes her happy and quiet/ Thus will she protect all of us//
Chang bhale Mari Aai/ Chang bhala Laxmi Aai//
The surrounding crowd would join the prayer, singing in a chorus. Then they
would touch their foreheads and fall at the child’s feet. This would send the
young sons into an intoxicated tizzy. Even before their fathers finished giving
them further instructions, they would hurriedly take out pinches of haldi and
apply it on the foreheads of the people in the crowd. Furiously sounding the
rattle in their hand and the anklets on their feet, they would strut around, singing
a prayer for the mother’s grace. Surrounded by an adoring crowd of snot-
nosed children, their bodies bare and faces dirty, they would proceed at furious
speed to the chawdi. The enthusiasm of the young potrajas gladdened their
parents’ hearts to no end. This would be an unforgettable moment of ultimate
happiness for them! Then both the husband and the wife would praise their
family. The husband would say, ‘Lake, see how bright our young boy is. I
taught him to sing the prayer just once and he has mastered it in no time at all!
See how well he sings it. And how lovely he looks! Like a nachya!’ The wife
would blush and answer, ‘Why wouldn’t he? After all whose son is he? Like
father, like son!’
This left both the husband and wife feeling elated. The boy would feel heady
with all this adoration. Stamping rhythmically on the floor, the tinkling anklets
providing music, he would sing the prayer loudly, dancing all around the locality.
These young potrajas drew admiring crowds — of men and women, both young
and old, who devoutly listened to their songs — everywhere they went. Then
they would shower praise on the boys. Mothers scolded their younger sons,
‘You silly good-for-nothing oafs! Learn something from him! Stuffing yourself
with food is all that you’ve learnt! See how well this boy sings! You can’t
even clean your nose properly!’
The older men would say, ‘Well done, my boy! You have done your father
absolutely proud today! You have brought fame to his name!’
The child-hero, who had thus brought fame to his father’s name, would
then embark on the tour of the village to beg for alms. He would go begging from
door to door, ‘Madaan, madaan of Lakshmi Aai! Give generously!’
 This was their only joy, the only oasis in their wretched lives.

For married women whose husbands were alive, Tuesdays and Fridays in the
month of Aakhad were full of activity. A lot of work had to be done. The poor
daughters-in-law would really benefit from the grace of goddesses like Lakshmi
Aai and Mari Aai. It seemed as if ten days of this month — four Tuesdays, four
Fridays, Amawasya and Pournima — were reserved specially for them by the
goddesses. The sasus invited daughters-in-law from another family to eat with
them. The whole year’s prayers would now fetch them some reward. They
could eat sweet dishes made from wheat flour to their heart’s content. The
sasus would begin making preparations for the meal early in the morning. First,
they soaked some arhar dal in water to make sweet chapattis. But before they
proceeded further, many would become possessed. Resounding screams of these
possessed women could be heard all over. We kids used to rush from place to
place to see women getting possessed. It wasn’t an ordinary thing, getting
possessed. The screams could be heard from a long distance. You know how it is
with women! One would give an earsplitting scream, another would hear her and
she too would begin to scream. Some more would follow suit. That’s how the
screaming epidemic spread, creating a huge commotion all over. Meanwhile a
potraja started beating rhythmically on his dimdi! That would excite the women
all the more. They would just sprint towards the chawdi, like excited she-
buffaloes, completely unaware of what they were wearing or the people around.
They would dance around the potraja, screaming all the while at the top of their
voices. These possessed women were called goddesses or mothers. When they
started dancing, the potraja too slipped into his element. The goddesses got more
and more frenzied. The potraja would alter the rhythm and the women matched
their dancing to the changing beats. The potraja would get tired, but the women?
No way! In case a potraja wanted to stop, the mothers would get terribly
annoyed. They fixed him with hard stares, and vigorously nodding their heads,
signalled him to go on. The poor guy would get exhausted. Then he urged the
mother, that is, the spirit of the goddess possessing the poor woman, ‘I beg
you, oh mother, please don’t get so agitated! Please leave this tree, this woman
whom you have possessed. I promise you, we will play again, but later, after some
time. Now please leave this poor woman and go home.’
 Then one possessed woman would sit down sobbing and another would roll
her eyes and grind her teeth at him and shower curses on his head. They used
some strange form of language, suffixing each word with a ‘tri’. They
shouted in an adamant tone, ‘No! Never! I will never leave this woman. I
don’t want to go.’
Then the wise old men from the community would come forward with folded
hands before the potraja and begged him to play on, ‘Oh coachman, don’t
you know today is the mother’s day of playing and dancing? Please play on
and let them dance to their heart’s content. Let them go on till they are
exhausted.’ This request was sufficient enough for the coachman, that is, the
potraja. He whipped up different rhythms and the possessed women danced to
the beats in frenzy till they collapsed in a heap on the floor, their jaws locked.
Then the potraja squeezed lemons into their mouths, on their heads and pushed
spatulas into their mouths to unlock their jaws. Many such dramas would be
played out. Even when a couple of mothers fell down, the potraja would not stop.
The mothers would get completely exhausted, but even then they would not stop.
Then again the senior members of the community came forward with folded
hands and begged them, ‘Oh holy mother, please don’t exhaust the poor
woman’s body so! Oh Mari Mata, Oh Laka Mata, we are all your children.
Please protect us. Let the children grow to a ripe old age. They may have to go
hungry but see to it that they survive. Please give us a good omen, a good
forecast.’
Then the senior most among the possessed women, a leader of sorts, would
come forward and announce, ‘I promise you a good future. All the children
and the people in this community will be as strong as rocks. I won’t allow
even a thorn to prick their feet. Now come on coachman, give me my due and let
me go. My bahin is waiting for me elsewhere.’
When one mother forecast a happy future, another burst into tears. Yet
another harped on something completely different. She started with a strange
humming sound, ‘Unh…hun, unh…hun, you silly men with black heads, you
have not recognised me at all…Oh children, I’ve come a long way just to meet
you. And yet you do not recognise me? I have come across from the seven seas to
this small place of Veergaon. And yet, oh my child, you haven’t given me my
due. This doesn’t augur well for you. Mind you, I am the bahin of no less a
god than the Aagya Vetal. My name is Sat Asra. You haven’t treated me with
reverence. You will have to suffer for this.’
 The threat generally struck terror in the leader’s heart. His mouth went dry.
A frenzied activity then ensued. All the men folk took off their turbans and
placed them at the mother’s feet in utter supplication. They begged her not to
be angry with them. At other times, these men commanded great respect as the
father-in-law or brother-in-law of the woman who was now possessed. But now,
she was the mother goddess, and they her children! They fell at her feet; it was
the goddess who was speaking through her. With folded hands, the wise men
prayed to her, ‘Oh mother, we are the stupidest of stupid people. What do we
know? We are so ignorant. We know nothing, oh mother! You can see
everything! You can see everywhere. But we are blind. We can't see. Please, oh
please mother, forgive us.’
At this point, the old men spread their turbans at her feet, in a gesture of
utmost humility, and continued, ‘Oh mother, please forecast a good future for
us. These are all your children. They need your protection. That’s all we want
mother.’ This humility finally worked. Then the mother said in a conciliatory
tone, ‘You silly coachman, I have come from far beyond the seven seas to see
you. I was angry because you did not give me my due.’
The old man then turned to the women around him, ‘Hey you, are you
women from good families or female donkeys? Go and fetch the kumkum box
like a good wife. Give the mother her due! It is because of your stupid ignorance
that the mother is angry. Hurry up, smear the mother’s forehead with
kumkum and haldi.’ Then some woman hurriedly fetched the haldi-kumkum
box. Then five suwasinis applied the haldi and kumkum on her forehead and fell
at her feet. It was only after all this that the mother cooled down. She then
laughed uproariously and said, ‘Don’t be so afraid, child! I won’t allow
even a thorn to prick your children. Don’t be worried at all. This is your
mother’s promise to you.’
This assurance made everybody very happy. Exulted, they hailed her. After
this, the spirit of the goddess left and the woman became conscious of her
surroundings, as if she had just woken up from a deep sleep. Hurriedly, she tied
her dishevelled hair into a knot and pulled the pallav on her head, becoming,
once again, a docile and virtuous wife. Then she exclaimed in anguish, ‘Oh, is
my mamaji here? Oh god, how my pallav has slipped from my head, like a slut, in
front of all these elderly people!’
 She felt extremely embarrassed. Meanwhile another possessed woman began
to wail loudly, wildly gesticulating with her hands. People rushed and gathered
around her to listen to what she had to say. ‘Mother, what's wrong? Please
don’t wail so. Do let us know what has hurt you.’
The goddess possessing this woman began to grumble, I have come to see you
from beyond the three Times and seven nether worlds. And yet you haven’t
recognised me!’
‘O mother, what do we know? What do we understand? We are men with
black heads. We are like dust underneath your feet. Oh mother, please help us
understand.’
‘O children, for your happiness, I have brought with me the deity Laman
Pathan. He grinds his teeth at you! He stares at you with big round eyes! Give
him his due. Make a place for him under the banyan tree. Bathe him in the blood
of a goat and a cock. Give him the ritual offering of suti roti. Right now he is
sitting under the karanja tree, near the stream. Build him a temple. Now let me
go. I am already late. My bahins are waiting for me. Here I go.’
The old wise men would say in supplication, ‘Yes, yes, goddess mother. You
are so right. It is so kind of you, indeed, to tell us stupid people about the god
Laman Pathan. This god is very strict. He can't tolerate women folk at all. The
mother goddess has brought her own brother for our protection! This is a great
favour indeed. Now our children will be healthy. Our land will be happy. Now
please mother, please tell your brother, the god Laman Pathan, who can be very
dangerous, not to send any problems our way. Not even a thorn should prick us.
Only then shall we worship him and give him his due.’
‘O don’t you worry!’ the mother goddess would answer, ‘I know
my brother quite well. Everything will be alright.’
‘That’s all we want.’
‘Then give me my due,’ the mother would demand, I am in a hurry.’
Again the suwasinis would come forward to smear her forehead with haldi
and kumkum. Then the spirit left and the woman became normal, as if an
electric current had been switched off. Then she would cast a frightened glace at
the people gathered around her, pat her hair into place, pull her pallav down her
forehead and sit among the other women around her. She would then ask them
what the mother had forecast. Somebody would lean forward to tell her, ‘Oh
my, what a strong spirit possessed you! All these elderly men found it so hard to
control you! They were completely exhausted. When the spirit showed itself in
you, it was agitated. It was wailing. You know, our hearts literally stopped with
fear. The spirit of the mother goddess told us that the god Laman Pathan is
sitting on our land near the stream. Now we have to establish him properly. That
is the omen the mother gave.’
Another would endorse this, ‘Yes, yes, that’s what the mother said. She
said she had asked her brother to take us under his protection.’ On hearing
this, the woman loudly slapped her own cheeks, asking for the forgiveness of the
god Laman Pathan. The chawdi buzzed with the talk of the new spirit Laman
Pathan and his demand to establish a temple for him properly near the stream.
Day and night, this was the only subject of discussion. The only goal in their life
now was to build a temple for this new god. People crowded into the chawdi
discussing this issue threadbare. Old men, youngsters and children—everybody
would be obsessed with it. The old wise men instructed the young, ‘Boys, this
Sunday go to the stream early in the morning. Sweep the place under the karanja
tree well. Make it absolutely clean. Then go to the Lonari people. Ask them for
some lime. Tell them that a new god, Laman Pathan, has come to our land, and
that we need good lime. Then go to the stream and look for nice round stones;
wash them clean and then colour them white with the lime. Let us make an
offering of lemon, ganja and thick wheat rotis to the god in the morning. Around
twelve, we’ll make an offering of suti roti. Let us do all we can to properly
establish him in our land.’
The women returned home, their head awhirl with this new spirit and his
chosen location. All the people — young and old men, women and children —
felt as if they were possessed by the new god and his spirit. Women made sweet
chapattis engrossed in thoughts of the new god all the while. Then in the
evening, there was again a great deal of work because women had invited each
other’s daughters-in-law for a feast. They would be in a hurry to fetch them
from each other’s houses. Once five suwasinis gathered in the house, the
woman of the house kept a big wooden plate in front of them, generally used for
mixing dough, with a little jaggery and two jars full of water. One girl would be
asked to mix the jaggery and water well. Then seven or eight chapattis were
crushed to crumbs by the woman of the house into the plate and kneaded well
with the jaggery mixture. Even while she was doing this, she would become
possessed. The poor daughters-in-law would sit quietly, their eyes fixed on the
plate. Hordes of flies hovered over the plate and many fell into the mixture.
Several kids, related to them in different ways, accompanied the daughters-in-
law and they would attack the plate. Their noses dripping, they hurriedly stuffed
themselves with the food, unaware of the world around them. The syrupy
mixture would trickle down their arms as they scooped it with their palms and
filled their mouths. The daughters-in-law, worried whether any food would be
left for them at all, stared anxiously at the quickly depleting mixture on the plate.
Since they were daughters-in-law, decorum demanded that they eat only after
the children had finished. The poor souls could do nothing but just stare at the
plate, licking their lips, hoping against hope that some food remained for them.
Meanwhile, the goddess possessing the woman of the house would be in her
element. The goddess made the woman utter a fearful scream. She repeatedly
made the ahun…ahun sounds and then, wailing loudly, she addressed her
husband, ‘How could you forget me? I have walked all the way from a distant
land to your house. Yet, you don’t have time to see me, eh? What had I told
you? I had said, when you get your first son, offer him at my feet. Your son is
now seven years old and yet you haven’t brought him to me. I am so sad,
I’m so sad! But you still have time; at least now open your eyes and do your
duty.’
The man of the house would then literally fall at his wife’s feet. He begged
her to have mercy on him, ‘Oh holy mother, I fall at your feet and beg you,
don’t be angry with me—I accept all my mistakes. I’ll offer you my child.
I’ll pawn my right hand and offer you a worship of five annas from today. But
mother, take me under your wings. Protect your poor child, mother. Please
don’t take my mistake to heart so. Mother, I haven’t forgotten my promise,
but I am so poor that I wasn’t able to do anything about it. That’s why I
wasn’t able to offer you proper worship. I’ll try everything in my power to
give you your due. Please forgive me. I accept my mistake. I’ll even untie my
turban and put it at my wife’s feet to express my humility. But please don’t
torture her body so. Please give us a good omen. Mother, it is in your name that
we have invited all these suwasinis for dinner. Please forgive us stupid people our
mistakes, mother. Please give us a happy omen. Depart for your home happily,
mother!’
This cooled the mother down considerably. Still punctuating her speech with
‘ahun…ahun’ sounds, she assured him, ‘Child, don’t be so scared. I
have taken you under my wing. Now for your safety give me something with two
feet. Give me my food—an egg, opium, roti. I am going to do good to you. Now I
have to go, I have no time. I depart for my home.’ Then all the married
women in the house rushed to put the haldi and kumkum marks on her forehead
and fell at her feet. Then the ‘zad’ regained her consciousness and scolded
the other women, ‘Why are you idling away, you lazy girls? Look, the chapattis
are all crushed and ready to eat!’ Then all the daughters-in-law would say in
unison, ‘Oh Atyabai, you were possessed by the Mother! What a strict goddess
she is! It was only when our mamaji promised her what she wanted, that she gave
us a good omen.’
On hearing this, the woman would slap her own face a couple of times, and
then, turning towards the girls, she would say, ‘Come on girls, now for the
food! Say the mother’s name and start eating!’ The children would have
polished off half the plate by this time. The hostess would then crush some more
chapattis in a plate with a small ball of jaggery and a jugful of water and give the
mixture to the young daughters-in-law. The children would again attack it, but
in this round the daughters-in-law could join the fray and eat to their heart’s
content. The sweet food pacified their ever hungry, burning stomachs at least
once during the whole year.
3
The entire maharwada looked upon the four weeks of Ashadh as one of those
rare occasions of festivity and joy. On every Friday and Saturday of this month,
the yeskar Mahar would carry several huge cane baskets to the temple of the
goddess. The entire village flocked to the temple with varied dishes as offerings
to the goddess—fried delicacies, curd rice, bhajis cooked with choice spices and
kurwadya. They also offered beautiful pieces of khun and bangles to the goddess.
The food offered to the goddess would fill three or four baskets. People would
break coconuts before the goddess and the broken halves would fill up a couple
of more baskets. After sunset, some of the Mahar men would keep folded
ghongadi on their heads, place the huge baskets filled with the offerings on top
and carry the load to the chawdi. There, they would spread the ghongadis on the
floor, take out all the food from the baskets and arrange it neatly on the
ghongadis. The food would then be divided into small heaps on yet another
ghongadi, for distribution among the Mahars in keeping with their status and
honour.
Meanwhile, someone would rush to the maharwada to make a public
announcement, ‘Come on folks, all you men, women and children, come and
take home your share of the offerings.’
The announcement would cause such a frenzy in every household! Seven or
eight kids would burst forth from each house. Naked, their noses running, they
would sprint madly towards the chawdi. People flocked to the chawdi in the
incessant drizzle, fully drenched. Covered with mud, they crowded around the
ghongadis of food, clamoring to collect their share. The entire chawdi would
soon get mud smeared. The karbhari would divide the food into small portions,
according to the share due to each of the Mahars. People would literally pounce
upon their share. Children jumped up and down to snatch food from their
parents’ hands. Half the food would get over on the way home and the
remaining food did not last very long either. However, without saying a single
word and with their eyes glued to the food, the poor hungry daughters-in-law
would helplessly wait for their turn to eat. Just in case a sasu noticed this, she
would contemptuously throw a morsel at her daughter-in-law, saying, ‘Push
that down your throat, you shameless hussy! Aren’t you ashamed to stare so at
a child who’s eating? At least let the food get down his throat! Your evil eye
will make the child choke. Don’t you know how to behave like a good
daughter-in-law?’
By the time three weeks of Ashadh were over, amawasya would be
approaching. The hearts of the people would be fired with grand expectations.
This amawasya night was known as the goddess mother’s rede jatra or the
buffallo fair. Rede jatra was an extremely important event, considered to be a gift
the Mahars had received directly from Indra, the king of gods. From the moment
the first cock crowed, the white-haired Mahars, the wise old men of the
community, could be seen rushing about hectically. All the men would get up at
the crack of dawn, bathe in the stream, gather loads of the wild pink kanher
blossoms and carry them to the chawdi where they were piled neatly in a corner.
Then the men would return home, grind sandalwood paste and apply it on their
forehead as a holy mark. The women would have already polished the ground
with dung on the previous night. By now even the young boys would have
bathed in the stream. They arrived at the chawdi looking fresh and clean. Then
an elderly Mahar would take charge of the affairs, distribute the work among
them and send them all off on different errands, ‘Boys, now go and fetch
Dadu’s Shriranga, Guni’s Sadya, Awa’s Ranya. The buffalo will be very
difficult to control. You won’t be able to handle it by yourself.’
The boys would immediately set off. They would go from house to house,
calling out to people by their names, fetching them to the chawdi. The elders
often pretended to scold the young men in mock anger.
‘Come on, you bastards, you know that nobody can do this work except
you. Now look sharp. String the buffalo through the nose, take it to the stream,
bathe it and bring it back. In the meantime, I’ll send a word to Ranba.
Yesha’s daughter-in-law will be our suwasini today. I’ll ask her to put
kumkum on the buffalo.’
Then one of them would turn to the women, ‘And you there, Sitayvahini,
Kondaykaku and Gunaykaku, take these grains of jowar and distribute them
among the households for pounding. Take care that the work is done well;
otherwise, mind you, we’ll hang onions in your hair. Gunaykaku and
Kondaykaku, take these red chilles and grind them fine. The panji must be good.
Remember, you are not like sluts on the streets! So don’t cook like them. The
panji must taste good. It must become like laki, soft and properly mixed.
Relatives and guests will come from all nook and corner for the fair so take care
that the food is cooked well.’
And the women, pulling their pallav over their heads to show that they were
decent housewives, and not like some woman on the street, would say in
reassurance, ‘Oh karbhari, we do belong to respectable families! We know
how these things are done. Don’t worry, leave it to us. We’ll cook the
barbat so well that our guests would never have tasted anything so delicious in
their whole lives.’
Then the women would bathe, put red kumkum marks on the foreheads with
a line of haldi below, and begin the sacred work. They would beat the jowar
grains and grind the red chillies to a fine powder. Everything would be kept
ready. In the meantime, the young men would have got the buffalo back from the
stream, its back glistening in the sun. They would string a rope through the
buffalo’s nose and tie it to the iron railing at the chawdi. Someone would
massage the buffalo with oil. Someone else would paint its horns red and yet
another would stick lemons onto the sharp ends of the horns. Then the Mang
suwasinis, specially invited for the occasion, would smear the buffalo’s
forehead with red kumkum, wash its feet with water, worship it, and finally feed
it with the pounded and cooked jowar grains and liquor. The men would put
garlands of kanher flowers around the buffalo’s neck. Meanwhile, one of the
Mang suwasinis would take the holy bath. She had to wear a green sari and a
green blouse. They would rub haldi all over her body and smear her forehead
with kumkum and place a coconut and some grains in her pallav. The coconut
would be broken during the ritual. The suwasini was made to carry a jar of water,
with the coconut placed above it, on her head. By two o’clock in the
afternoon, the buffalo would become fully intoxicated. The Patil, the chief of the
village, would then give the Mang suwasini a new sari and a piece of khun.
By now, the preparations for the fair would be nearly over. Then one of the
men from the Mang community would be asked to publicly announce that the
buffalo fair was about to begin. ‘Listen honourable folks, listen,’ he would
shout at the top of his voice. ‘The Patil has given orders to start the buffalo
fair. So the buffalo will now be paraded through the village. Everybody should
remain inside their homes and keep their doors bolted while the procession is
going on.’
 The whole village would disappear indoors and stay behind closed doors. Not
even a stray mongrel could be spotted anywhere. The entire place acquired a
deserted look. With this, the preparations for the fair would be complete. One
man carried a clay pot, containing ambil and ghugrya, another held a leafy neem
twig and yet another followed with a pot of gomutra. The Mang suwasini swayed
in her green sari and green blouse, a garland of kanher flowers around her neck,
her untied hair falling loose down her back. The Patil wore the traditional
brocade turban and carried a sword in his hand. Some people from the village
accompanied the Patil. Once everybody had gathered, two more ropes would be
strung through the buffalo’s nose, with their ends hanging out on each side.
Then the procession would begin, with the Patil accompanied by other men from
the village, leading in the front, followed by the Mang suwasini and a couple of
men holding her on both sides. The entire Mahar community followed behind.
The buffalo fair, as this procession was called, marched silently in the hot sun. By
now the Mang suwasini would be possessed by the goddess. She would sway
from side to side, moaning and twisting her body as if in a trance. It required at
least four men to control her. The buffalo would be completely intoxicated. Its
eyes would acquire the colour of blood. The Patil would already have made cuts
on its thighs from which blood oozed out. With a kumkum-smeared forehead,
kanher flowers hanging around his neck and the wounded, bleeding thighs, even
its eyes seemed to ooze blood. Without any band playing, or any kind of fanfare,
the buffalo would be silently paraded through the village. The procession then
arrived at the temple and halted at the courtyard. At this point, the entire village
flocked to watch the buffalo sacrifice. The Patil would lift his sword and bring it
down with brute force, severing the buffalo s head from its body in a single blow.
The buffalo would collapse on the ground with a huge thud. Blood would spurt
out and the sword would drip with blood. Then the Patil wiped a little blood off
the blade of the sword with his finger and touched the forehead of the goddess,
to make a mark with the blood. Then he touched his own forehead with the same
finger and made a mark there as well.
Another young buffalo would be brought forward and have haldi rubbed over
it—a preparatory rite for its sacrifice the next year. After this ritual, people from
other communities in the village would depart in a hurry, leaving only the
Mahars on the scene. Then the Mahars loudly hailed the goddess and made
preparations to skin the buffalo with knives and axes sharpened to an edge. They
first skinned the buffalo, and then separated each limb from the body, cut off its
four hooves and placed them in the mouth of the severed head. The head was
then placed in front of the goddess, with a lamp made of wheat flour burning on
top. The protruding bulging eyes, the long red tongue hanging out of the mouth,
the bared teeth, the four hooves jutting out from the mouth of the buffalo lying
at the feet of the goddess and the red light in the temple—what a sight that was!
The goddess, a huge brass mask with large protruding eyes, and a long nose with
a huge nose ring hanging from it, was draped in a green sari. The fierce-looking
goddess, the burning lamp with its flickering red flame, the surrounding
darkness in the temple—the entire scene used to be so terrifying that the
onlookers would be literally petrified.
Once the buffalo was completely skinned and its limbs removed, the
remaining flesh would be cut into large pieces, each weighing about half a sher.
These pieces would be placed in huge pots. Even today, if you find large pieces of
meat in your meal, they say, ‘Such big pieces! Are they from the buffalo fair?
’ The liver of the buffalo would be as large as the cane basket used for sifting
corn, and its heart as big as a huge pitcher. The organ, which looked like a bunch
of grapes, was called boka. These three organs — the liver, the heart and the boka
— were not cut. The Mang would already have prepared a special rope, three feet
long and quite thick, especially for this occasion. The three organs, tied together
in a bunch at one end of a rope, were cooked in a huge pot. The other end of the
rope was tightly wound around the mouth of the pot. After the uncut organs
were cooked, the rope would be unwound and the meat taken out. Meanwhile,
women prepared the nivad, which included rotis made of wheat flour without
oil. The rotis were then stacked in a neat pile and the three cooked organs would
be placed on top. This nivad was then brought to the temple as an offering to the
goddess. Later it would be brought to the chawdi and cut into smaller pieces and
distributed among the Mahars as the blessing of the goddess. Even young
children would first touch this sacred food to their forehead as a mark of
reverence and only then would they put it in their mouth.
By this time, huge stone chulhas would be ignited, with the pots kept atop, the
huge flames licking them. One of the pots contained beaten grains of jowar. After
the meat had been cooked till it was tender, some red chilli powder, prepared and
kept ready, would be added. Jars of water would be slowly poured into the pot.
The panji was now ready. If it turned out to be very tasty, it would qualify as laki.
After the chilli powder was added, all meat pieces were taken out and kept in a
huge basket and the hot soup would remain in the pot. Then the pot was filled
with red chilli powder and brought to the boil. Now it was time to serve the food.
The guests would be served first. They would be lovingly served repeated
helpings. Only after the guests had had their fill, would the hosts sit down to eat.
Children would be extremely impatient to eat. Each child carried an aluminum
bowl and a plate. Each received a plateful of panji with a couple of meat pieces
and a handful of cooked grains. Some men would polish off six to seven plates
and yet ask for more. Such heavy eaters they were! The meat was distributed
among the twenty-five odd houses in the maharwada and the mangwada, and
thus the entire buffalo would be finished up in no time. Bursting at the seams
with the meat, the men would pace around the maharwada till late in the night.
Memories of the buffalo fair would help them survive their miserable and
wretched lives. They would live in their dirt pits on the periphery of the village,
like discarded rags, ignored by society, and wait for the buffalo fair to come again
the following year.
Meanwhile, there would be work to do. The elders would arrive at the chawdi
next morning. The young and the very old would follow them there. The potrajas
would come, dressed in their ritual finery and decked up in their traditional
ornaments. The players would arrive with their instruments. The women who
dispensed medicines and who could cure illnesses caused by evil spirits would
now play a very important role. Only these women knew which rituals should be
performed to appease the goddess. Nothing should go wrong! Otherwise they
might invite the wrath of the goddess upon themselves. In the lilting tunes of the
shehnai and amidst the rhythmic beats of the drums and dimdi, men and women
would let themselves go. The potrajas would start their dance, and the women
and young girls joined the dance, their hair flying wild! The accompanists would
tire out, but the whirling women would not. Nor would they allow the players to
stop. Dancing non-stop, they would signal them to continue to play the music. If
someone did not listen, they would impel him with fierce stares to play on. While
dancing, they would be possessed by the spirit of the goddess. Then each dancing
goddess would predict what the future had in store for the village.
‘I have crossed the waters, the spaces, the seven nether worlds to meet my
children,’ they would declare. ‘I’ve come in answer to your call. I’ll
depart after bestowing happiness on all of you. Your simple devotion has pleased
me immensely. Therefore I give you a good omen. This land has my
blessings.’
Their speech would be punctuated with those terrible humming sounds,
‘unhun, unhun, unhun’. Then they would continue, ‘My children, there
is a monster...no rain this year....no crops will grow...all animals will die...no
mother will know her child, nor any child its mother...yet my children, i’ll help
you. But give me my due in time...don’t keep my followers, the ghosts, hungry
and dissatisfied. They take off at my command...if they don’t receive their
share, they will be furious; they’ll grind your houses to dust in their fury. So
children, don’t deprive me of my share...take this charm of good luck and tie it
to your ceiling. Be careful, protect sacred things from any kind of pollution. ’
‘Unhun, unhuun, unhuun...’ another would intone. ‘Come on, come
on my coachman, let me go, give me my favourite bhaji.’
Then the senior most karbhari would hand her a twig of neem leaves, which
she would chew and eat with evident relish. Since the neem leaves are extremely
bitter, onlookers would watch her in fascination, completely spellbound. This
was proof enough that it was actually the goddess possessing the woman’s
body. No ordinary mortal could eat something that tastes so bitter. Women
would burst out in wonder and amazement, ‘Oh my, look how she eats the
neem leaves! We can’t bite even one leaf, it’s so bitter! But she’s eaten a
whole bunch of them!’
While one possessed woman demonstrated her holiness so, another would let
out a piercing shriek and pick up a quarrel with the potraja himself. Grinding her
teeth fiercely, she would accuse him of ignoring her and shout at him, declaring
that she felt upset and would not dance. Then she would flounce away and start
wailing aloud. Then the potraja would dance all the way to her and smear her
forehead with haldi. He would blow his pipe into her ear, and holding her hand,
lead her back to join the crowd of dancing women. Yet another possessed
woman would dance in such a mad frenzy that everyone watching would begin
to feel scared. Then the karbhari would rush to pacify her, ‘Oh Mother, please
don’t torment the tree so.’ Then the woman would twist her body even
more, ‘Coachman, you’ve forgotten me. I won’t go back without taking
revenge on you. You know my wrath.’ This threat frightened the karbhari so
much that he would beg her with folded hands, O Mother, we are just ignorant
and foolish creatures. What do we know of anything? You live in the midst of the
seven seas. Yet, you have come all the way, especially for us, to take us under
your wings. Please forgive us our mistakes. We beg you to have mercy on us.’
Speaking thus, he would take off his turban and place it at her feet as a mark of
utmost humility. Then everybody would rush to touch her feet in supplication.
They would swear eternal loyalty to her, beg for her mercy and throw lemons
over her body. Then she would relent and say, Alright, my children, alright, I
forgive you. But my entourage of ghosts has been put to a lot of trouble. Give
them their due.’ The karbhari would agree immediately, ‘Yes, yes, Mother,
we are your humble servants. But we want good omens from you. Oh Mother, if
the child wets her mother’s lap, does she punish it? Yes, we have erred. But
please forgive us.’ The Mother would say, ‘Alright, coachman, spread your
hands and collect what I give you. I give you all my gold. Sprinkle it in all corners
and your people will lack nothing.’ Then somebody would bring the ash from
the chulha on which the buffalo had been cooked and would give it to her. This
she gave to the karbhari and declared that she was ready to depart. Then the
woman who had been possessed would become conscious as if she had been
woken up from a deep sleep. Meanwhile, another woman’s teeth would lock,
as did yet another’s arms. The day would end with thousands of such
happenings.
The entire community had sunk deep in the mire of such dreadful
superstitions. The upper castes had never allowed this lowly caste of ours to
acquire knowledge. Generations after generations, our people rotted and
perished by following such a superstitious way of life. Yet, we kept believing in
your Hindu religion and serving you faithfully.
We may be coarse and ignorant, yet you must admit that we have been the
most devoted children of Maharashtra, this land of our birth, and it is we who
are the true heirs of this great land. You played with our lives and enjoyed
yourselves at our expense. But remember, we may have lost everything, but never
the truth.
We never rebelled against you, did we? We did not perform namaj when you
worshipped, did we? You considered the cow holy; we never insulted her, did
we? We obeyed every diktat of your Hindu religion, we followed all your
traditions—why did you single us out for your contempt? We were the people
who lived in your house, yet we dared not drink even a drop of water there. We
never dared to cross your path. We dedicated ourselves to the service of the
civilisation and culture that was so precious to you, in spite of the fact that it was
always unkind and unjust to us. Why, we would even spread out our hands like
spittoons for you if you wanted to spit! Then why did you treat us with so much
contempt? Coarse we may have been, but we always remained so loyal to you!
You have always been treacherous to us but we never deceived our mother. We
ate dry husk and told ourselves we were eating rich food; we considered our huts
great mansions; we considered our terrible poverty as the golden peak of
affluence. We dreamt and floated among the clouds, waiting for one little ray of
hope to lace our dark dreams.
4
Once upon a time, there was a hut. Not a big one. Just a small makeshift
structure that stood on three sticks on the sides, with leaves arranged on the top
as roof. Inside the hut lay a makeshift chulha of three stones. All the wealth of the
family lay around this chulha. And what was this wealth? One big clay pot, one
mud bowl to eat from and a cracked coconut shell with a piece of wood nailed to
it which functioned as a spoon. A family used to live there with their children.
What did they all do? Well, everyday the children would go to the town to beg,
with a cloth bag on their shoulder and a tin pot in their hand. Their tin pots
would overflow with decaying food, and their bags with stale and dry jowar roti.
The children would then return home, happy with their booty. Then their aai
would put all the rotting food into the big clay pot, along with the pieces of dry
roti. She would collect twigs and sticks from the garbage heap to light the chulha
and bring the mixture to the boil. Since the spoilt food had a sour taste, the dish
was called ambura. After it was cooked, it became ukadala. Then the grub would
be poured into the mud bowl and everybody would feast on this. This was their
daily routine.
One day, however, they could bring home nothing. The man of the house
became very sad. He said to his wife, 'I'm sick of this life. We either have to
remain hungry or eat rotten food. I think I’ll go out to some place where I can
find work. You too try and find some work.’ The wife agreed. The next day he set
off in search of work. For two days and three nights he walked and walked. On
his way he begged for food. Food he got, but not work. He walked on and on in
search of work. But alas, he could find nothing. Feeling angry, he walked further.
He trudged on for one whole month. Finally, he reached another kingdom.
This kingdom was quite prosperous. It was full of well-to-do people. He
walked up to the main market. A diamond merchant's eyes fell on him. The
merchant's servant had quit the previous day. The merchant called out to him,
'Will you work for me?' The man accepted the offer with a glad heart as this was
exactly what he wanted. He started working at the merchant’s house as the
family’s manservant. The merchant gave him place to stay in his own house.
After two months, however, the man started missing his family. So he sent a
letter to his wife. When the letter reached them, his wife and children were very
happy because he had finally found work. The children immediately spread the
news among the neighbours. The wife promptly lost herself in daydreams.
Meanwhile, a pack of dogs entered the hut. They jumped on the pot that was on
the chulha and spilt the food. The dogs ate up all the food and then ran away
with the makeshift spoon. The commotion jolted the woman out of her fantasies.
She saw that the food had vanished, the bowl was broken and the spoon was
missing. Now, what was she to do? She started thinking.
Her husband’s letter had to be answered. But what could she write about?
Then an idea struck her. She called her son, sent him to buy a postcard and asked
him to write what she dictated; 'The army of Mr. Hound launched an attack.
There was great commotion in the royal hall. Sir Pot fell down; the squire, Mr.
Bowl, was severely wounded and Princess Spooneria was taken away.’
When the letter arrived, the man got someone to read it out to him. He
understood the message perfectly well. This coded language was not new to him.
It was an everyday affair. Everyday, they would use it. The woman would sit at
the door of their hut and say, 'Come on kids, it’s time for the king to dine. Let’s
serve him. Bring Sir Pot from the chulha. Also get Mr. Bowl and I hope you have
not forgotten Miss Spooneria?’
They all understood the language so well. The man started worrying, ‘There
was just one pot in the house. Now how will they cook? I had fixed a piece of
wood to the coconut shell and made a makeshift spoon. Now what will they stir
the mixture with?’
The moral of the story is that so far we have been calling our huts, royal
palaces; our poor husbands, kings; and the leftovers we got, rich dishes. We use
this language even today. We might say to a friend, ‘Come on, I’ve so much work
to do. I have to polish our royal hall with cow dung.’ We are very protective
about the kumkum on our foreheads. For the sake of the kumkum mark, we lay
our lives at the feet of our husbands. We believe that if a woman has her husband
she has the whole world; if she does not have a husband, then the world holds
nothing for her. It’s another thing that these masters of kumkum generally
bestow upon us nothing but grief and suffering. Still the kumkum that we apply
in their name is the only ornament for us. It is more precious than even the
Kohinoor diamond. But the most important thing is that we love to dream. For it
is in our dreams that all our hopes come true! When we were children, our hopes
breathed some life into our miserable existence. At the same time, the life of the
elder people in our community made a great impression on us. Their behaviour
and thoughts, and the customs they followed, shaped our young minds. We tried
to emulate them, to think and behave like them.
We used to keenly observe the behaviour of the elders in our community and
the customs followed by them, especially those practised during the month of
Ashadh. This festive month was over in no time, but it left a lasting impression.
All children love to imitate their elders. We were no exception. My grandparents’
house had a tall gabled roof on one side, which offered lovely shade. Since our
house was on the banks of a stream, there was open space around. We had all
that space to ourselves. We girls used to sit under the shade of this huge roof and
play our game of mimicking our elders. We would arrange clay pots around us.
One girl would go fetch water and another would collect firewood. A third one
would take two flat stones and putting some earth in between, pretend to grind
grain. Somebody would become a yeskar Mahar and go off to beg for stale bread.
Yet another would pretend to bathe herself or her children and make the same
sounds as her mother. When the boys saw us playing house, they would come
running to join us. Then they too would take on different roles. Some boys
would make small trumpets with leaves, some would hang broken tin pots
around their necks and would pretend to play the drum. Some would pluck
leaves off the banyan tree to produce musical notes. And some would become
potrajas. Then the boys would make small mud balls and grind some red tiles.
The mud balls rolled in the red powder from the tiles were our sacred offerings.
After all this was done, we would set out in search of a goat or a cock. Not real
ones, of course! We would collect the blood-red buds of the cactus which grew in
abundance around our homes. These were huge plants that were about ten feet
in height with a circumference of about seven feet. The ground around the cactus
would be layered with fallen cactus spines. In the hot sun, we would get into
thickets full of sharp spines. They would pierce our feet and we would walk
around with bloody feet. However, we had our own remedies for such wounds. If
the bleeding was profuse, we would take some soft soil from under the plant and
press it hard on the wound. Nobody took the thorns and wounds seriously in the
heady spirit of the game. If it became difficult to walk on our feet because of the
wounds, we would walk on our toes. The cactus had huge hood-like stems that
together formed a tall structure. Sharp spines, almost as long as our fingers, grew
on each stem. The stems were covered with lovely looking golden yellow spots.
They were actually deadly bunches of thorn, so small and light that they could
float in the wind. These were far more dangerous than the spines.
 Those tiny thorns ruined the lives of many young children. Sometimes they
would pierce the eyeballs or even the iris. Then the iris would lose colour and
become white. After sometime the eyeball would just pop out! At least one in ten
children would lose an eye in this manner. Even the slightest pressure was
enough to release the thorns from the stems, like bees from a hive, and then the
thorns would land on any part of the body. They would get lodged too deeply for
them to be pulled out.
But we too had our own ways of plucking the red buds. We would cut a long
slim twig from a tarwad tree, nail its end with a sharp thorn, and then with a flick
of the wrist, we would get the red bud off the cactus stem, without touching it.
When the bud fell down, we did not touch it with our fingers. It would be
gathered with tarwad leaves, placed on a piece of tile and then rolled in the grass
to remove the tiny but deadly thorns. Then we gathered all the red buds
and‘brought them to the place where we were playing house. There, one girl
would place the pile of mud cakes on another girls head. Someone else would
dress up another girl in neem leaves and yet another would carry the red buds on
her head. Another girl would smear all our foreheads with the red tile powder as
though it was kumkum. We distributed stones as nivad. All the boys would walk
in front, pretending to play the musical band. Our procession roamed all over
the place where people went to defecate.
The boys too plucked cactus flowers, with their red buds. All the girls wore
them as nose rings since the flowers looked like pearls. Then we would shake our
bodies to the beats of the drummers. We danced to the rhythm of the tin pots,
our hair flying in the wind. We even hummed like possessed women, running all
over the place. The ground would be covered with various creepers and thorns.
But we were completely oblivious to this. We danced as if drunk, sweat running
down our faces, our hair in tangles, and our bodies covered in dust. This was our
fair.
We would halt at some tall rock. Then all of us would jump on that rock. We
would decorate the rock by smearing it with the red powder and pat mud upon
it. Then we would cut open the red cactus pods we had gathered as if they were
goats and hens. The cactus was a boon to us poor people. It yielded us
everything, right from toys to firewood. When we went hungry, they supplied us
with food. They gave us our ornaments too, like the flowers we wore as nose
rings. Everything that we did was thus an exact imitation of the adults. Like
them, we even put small children at the feet of the rock god. The earth burnt our
feet. The silky thorns pierced our flesh.
We are the children of this mother earth; we have survived all the thorns, the
sun and the heat. We kept praying to god for a little comfort, which never came
our way. We smeared our foreheads with earth and finally die same earth took us
into her arms; in the end, we merged with mother earth.
Anyway, that is how we played, mimicking our elders. The play, of course,
would invariably end in fights. Then the defeated party would abandon the game
and run away. Play time would get over. Tired and hungry, we would saunter
homewards, and lustily attack the Stale and dry rod pieces kept in a basket.
5
There were about sixteen houses in our maharwada. All the people of the
maharwada were illiterate except for my aaja. He was an educated man. I had
three aajas from my mothers side and all of them spoke excellent English. They
had lived in cities like Pune and Mumbai and, interestingly, they had all worked
as butlers. It was because of their association with the European sahibs that they
could speak English so well. Whenever my aajas sahib got transferred to a
different city, my aaja moved along with him. His salary was sixteen rupees a
month. His butlers clothes used to look so elegant—the beautifully pressed white
uniform, the white coat, the turban on his head with a brass buckle pinned to it
that hung down on his forehead, the red sash around the waist and another red
sash wrapped from under the arm over the chest! The villagers would be so
impressed! He appeared no less than a minister to them. He did not have to
spend anything on his food and other necessities as almost everything was
available to him free of cost. As his salary of sixteen rupees remained unspent, he
used to send my grandmother a money order for ten rupees every month.
A man getting a salary of sixteen rupees every month was a unique
phenomenon in the village. The money order would be a heated topic for
discussion everywhere—both in the maharwada as well as in the locality of the
higher castes of the village. The day the money order was received would be
extremely eventful. The entire community would flock at the chawdi in a state of
palpable excitement. They would talk, talk and talk. When the postman came,
they would stare, agog. Everyone would take the postman aside and whisper
secretively, ‘How much?’ People would come to our house to escort my aaji
to the chawdi. When Aai, as we called our grandmother, arrived at the chawdi,
there would be hustle and bustle, everyone far more excited than any of us family
members. The discussion would continue long after she had collected the
amount and gone home.
‘Looks like Malari is in a far away land.’
‘Of course!’ another would explain, ‘He is educated, isn’t he?
That’s why he has found a job with the white sahib. And so Sitay Kaku gets a
money order of ten rupees every month. Ten rupees! Will you ever be able to
even see such a sum in your lifetime? Besides, wherever he goes, he sends her
saris, ornaments and what not. You know he can write very well too. And oh my,
the way he chats with his sahib! In the sahib’s own tongue, you know! He’s
a special one, I tell you, our Malari. And you know what? He has brought such
wonderful books from that place — what do you call it — Kashmir. They have
everything about gods and holy matters. You can even find out about medicines
and things of that sort in those books. If he ever visits our place, Veergaon, who
will be able to say that he’s a Mahar? He looks so smart, just like a king!’
Tulsa and Kasa used to live right in front of our house. They were sisters-in-
law. Both women were around fifty years of age. Their hair, never touched by a
comb, was completely white and lay tangled on their head like a basket turned
upside down. Their saris were rags and their blouses mere tatters. Poverty oozed
out of their house as it were. Everyday they would come and squat at our
doorstep in the tender morning sun. They would sit there for hours, enjoying the
sun, scratching their heads like mad with both hands and searching for lice
crawling about in their tattered clothing. Around ten o’clock, they would pick
up their baskets and brooms and set off towards the Maratha households where
they cleaned the animal pens. They would return in the afternoon with a couple
of baskets full of leftover food. These leftovers saw their family through till the
next morning, for that’s what they ate for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Their
family included Kasa’s husband Ganpat and their two children, Bapya and
Housi. The children were just like their parents, with the same couldn’t-care-
less attitude. When Tulsa was taken ill and had to lie in bed for a couple of weeks,
one day she felt a terrible craving for the bombil fish. But where was the money
to buy it? Now my aaji had just received her money order. When Tulsa heard
about this, she came to my aaji and said, ‘Sitayvahini, I'm dying to eat bombil,
but I have no money. Lend me a ginni, I’ll return it after I sell some
firewood.’
Aai immediately gave her an anna. Tulsa bought some bombil worth two
paise, a little oil and some chillies worth half a paise each. Since she had lost her
appetite, she also added a little channa, dhania seeds, some jaggery worth a
damdi and a little raw turmeric. With this she prepared a concoction to add a
little taste. By the time she returned after shopping, it was nearly evening. She
placed the bombil on the chulha to roast. When the children smelt the roasting
fish, they raised hell. They squatted down on the floor, thrashing their feet wildly,
demanding to eat the fish. Tulsa gave them a piece each, with some stale bhakri.
Delighted, the kids ran out, parked themselves on the heap of firewood and
started eating their favourite dish with relish. Housi ate her fish fast but Bapya
ate his sparingly, in fact he did not eat it at all. He just put it in his mouth along
with a piece of stale bhakri, pretended to chew it but actually brought it out again
because he wanted to eat it only after his sister had finished her s, so that he
could annoy her.
Soon after Housi finished her fish, he started teasing her. Wiping his sticky
nose with his wrists, he started to sing,
O silly monkey, sitting on the gate Fall at my feet, but this you won’t get.
The song, which called her a monkey, annoyed Housi. The angrier she
became, the more Bapya teased her. Amid all this commotion, the fish on
Bapya’s bhakri rolled down and disappeared somewhere in the wood heap.
When Bapya noticed that his fish was gone, he lost his head. Beating his fist
against his mouth, he climbed down from the heap of firewood. Then howling
and screaming madly, he started running around the heap in circles, trying to
retrieve his lost fish. Housi followed him. Their collective screaming brought out
their parents and they too started looking for the fish. Their voices added to the
racket and all the neighbours anxiously rushed out of their houses to find out
what was happening. They feared that something terrible had happened. They
kept calling out loudly to make themselves heard amid the din,‘What’s
wrong? Did something bite you or what?’ Finally their voices managed to
penetrate the din and Bapya told them what had happened. Everybody was so
amused that they burst out laughing.
The kids, of course, were a chip off the old block, as Ganpat dada was quite a
character! It was the Nagapanchami festival. Women would knead a snake out of
mud and keep it in the corner of the house where the gods were kept. They
would worship the snake, offer prayers and then immerse it in the stream before
they ate in the afternoon. That was the custom. On that day, Tulsa and Kasa had
collected leftover chapattis from various households and kept them in a small
cane basket. Tulsa told her brother, ‘Dada, I have kept the chapattis here and a
piece of jaggery in the alcove. You can mix the chapattis and jaggery for breakfast
and give some to the children as well.’
Tulsa and Kasa left for cleaning the pens. Ganpat dada took down the tagari,
poured two pots full of water into it and instead of jaggery, took out the mud
figure of nag narsoba and put it in the water. He kneaded it with his fingers till it
dissolved in the water. Next he took out the chapattis and breaking them into
small pieces, mixed them well in the mud. He gave a plateful of this mixture to
Bapya and Housi who gobbled it up in no time at all, with much relish, licking
not only their fingers but their elbows as well, where the muddy mixture had
trickled down. When Tulsa and Kasa returned, Kasa started groping in the
alcove, looking for the nag narsoba, which had to be immersed before they had
their food. But all that her groping fingers could find was the small piece of
jaggery. Where was the narsoba? Intrigued, she confronted her husband, ‘Tell
me, did you crush the narsoba instead of jaggery in the water?’
‘O my god, was it the narsoba?’
‘Of course, it was there in the alcove.’
Then I must have mixed the narsoba instead of jaggery with the chapattis. So
that’s why the chapattis didn’t taste sweet!’
Such was the condition of our people. We were just like animals, but without
tails. We could be called human only because we had two legs instead of four.
Otherwise there was no difference between us and the animals. But how had we
been reduced to this bestial state? Who was responsible? Who else, but people of
the high castes! They destroyed our reasoning, our ability to think. We were
reduced to a condition far worse than that of the bullocks kept in the courtyards
of the high castes. The bullocks were at least given some dry grass to eat. The
bullocks ate the grass and slogged for their masters. But we were merely given
leftovers. We ate the leftovers without complaining and laboured for others. The
only difference, however, was that the beasts could eat a bellyful and they could
stay in their masters’ courtyards. But our condition was far worse. Our place
was in the garbage pits outside the village, where everyone threw away their
waste. That was where we lived, in our poor huts, amidst all the filth! We were
masters only of the dead animals thrown into those pits by the high castes. We
had to fight with cats and dogs and kites and vultures to establish our right over
the carcasses, to tear off the flesh from the dead bodies. Our lives were governed
by various calamities. We were imprisoned in dark cells, our hands and feet
bound by the chain of slavery. Our reason was gagged. But it is because of us that
the world stands. We are the foundation. Shallow water makes a lot of noise, but
still water runs deep! Like the ocean that covers mountains of sin under its huge
expanse, we covered the sins of the high castes. That is why we, like the ocean,
deserve the admiration of the whole world.
Our people in these villages lived in abject poverty. They had absolutely no
power, and yet their hearts were full of kindness and love for each other. Women
would wake up at the crack of dawn. The grains would have been cleaned the
previous night and kept ready. At cock’s crow, the grinding stones in each
house would start whirring. When my aaji sat at the grinding stone, I would
crawl out of my covers and put my head on her lap. All children did so. The
women would pull down their pallav, cover the sleeping child and then, pouring
small quantities of grain into the opening of a small hole, they would start
grinding. In the quiet of the early hours, the sound of the grinding stones and the
sweet notes of the women singing would float all over the maharwada. Every
woman would sing a song to the child sleeping on her lap. The songs would be
full of love for their children and grandchildren, their brothers and sisters-in-
law, their fathers and their mothers. Through the songs, women would praise
them all, describing their good qualities. The songs expressed their hope and
conviction that their future was bright. Their aspirations and their dreams, which
would never materialise, blossomed through these songs and the melodious
notes issuing forth from the depth of the heart.
Baby, my daughter’s child Is lovely like a flower
Avert your evil eyes Oh you wicked neighbour /
It’s your evil eye That’s cast its spell on her
My tiny Baby has got Oh such a burning fever /
With salt and mustard seeds I’ll drive the spell away
Sleep soundly on my lap O my sweet Bebabai /
In these songs, women sang about their children. Like fountains, their love
sprung through these songs. Children bubbled with joy as the songs had their
names. I would sleep till Aaji finished her grinding. Then I would shake the sleep
off my eyes and get up. Aaji would collect the flour around the stone with a small
kuncha. It would be daybreak by this time.
Then, along with a couple of my friends, I would go to fetch water. We would
carry earthen pitchers on our heads. Other girls would join us. We would walk
by the banks of the stream up to the jutting rock from where it originated. This
rock was nearly thirty feet high. There was a cave inside this rock. A small stream
flowed from the rocks inside the cave and people had dug a channel to give it a
proper outlet. In the cave, we would dig into the bed of the stream with broken
coconut shells and then begin to collect the water that seeped through the sand
till our pitchers got filled. To get inside the cave, we had to climb the steep rocks
one by one and collect water by turns. Then we would wash our faces in the
stream. We would grind small pebbles with bigger stones into a fine powder and
clean our teeth white with it. After I returned home, Aaji would give me piping
hot tea in a glass, along with previous night s stale bhakri. The taste of that bhakri
still lingers on my tongue. The bhakri tasted far better than the orange biscuits
that we have today. It was only in our house that tea was made. No other house
prepared tea. After breakfast, Aaji would go with other women towards the
Veergaon dam to fetch firewood. They collected firewood in summer and grass
in winter. During the night, they would sharpen their axes on the stones, gather
strings and keep them in bundles and keep everything ready for the next day. In
the morning they would depart in a big group.
Children in maharwada would be left to fend for themselves while their
mothers were away, with nobody to discipline or take care of them. Nobody
knew whether they were alive or dead. Someone would carelessly hurl a stone at
someone else s head and blood would gush out. One of them would put black
soot from the tawa, on the wound. Finished! The child would wipe its running
nose and rush back to the game once again. Around one or two o’clock in the
afternoon the women would return, almost running in the scorching heat, with
bundles of firewood on their heads. The children would look for their own
mothers in the group and then, holding the pallav in their hands, follow them
home. The women would be drenched with sweat running down their bodies.
Their throats would be parched dry. They would find the shade of a tree, throw
their burdens down in the dust and squat down on the road. The children
fetched water in tin pots and the women would pour it down their throats in
great gulps. Then they would return to their houses and look for the basket of
bhakris. Most of the times these baskets would be empty as the children would
have finished the bhakris. Having had no breakfast in the morning, and with no
food in the house, hunger gnawed at their empty stomachs like wild fire. What
could they eat? They would go looking for some crumbs in their friends’
houses. Our house used to be a storehouse of food as there was no one else to eat
except for my aaji and me. The bhakris we received for our duties as yeskar
would be drying in the sun. Aaji generally dried these bhakris till they were crisp
and stored them in big containers. Anyone who did not have food came to Aaji.
She was a very kind soul. The women would keep their bundles of firewood at
home and come to our house one by one. Aaji would bring out the dried bhakris
and hand them over to the women who put them on wooden plates. Half a
basketful of onions would be brought out. Then all of us, my aaji, myself and the
women, ate the stone like dry bread with raw onions to our heart’s content.
The pieces would be so dry that our collective munching would sound as loud as
a machine thundering in some factory. The women ate the bhakris with two or
three big onions and washed it down with a jugful of water. Belching
contentedly, they returned home. Now they had to break the firewood into small
pieces. Once the big branches were cut into small pieces, they tied them up in
small bundles and carried them on their heads to the village to sell them. They
were not allowed to use the regular road that was used by the higher castes.
When somebody from these castes walked from the opposite direction, the
Mahars had to leave the road, climb down into the shrubbery and walk through
the thorny bushes on the roadside. They had to cover themselves hilly if they saw
any man from the higher castes coming down the road, and when he came close,
they had to say, ‘The humble Mahar women fall at your feet master.’ This
was like a chant, which they had to repeat innumerable times, even to a small
child if it belonged to a higher caste. We children followed the women, holding
their pallav. Sometimes there would be a young, newly wed girl in the group and
she would fail to join the chant out of sheer ignorance or awkwardness. All hell
would break loose then. The master would simply explode in rage. He would
march straight to the Mahar chawdi, summon all the Mahars there and kick up a
big fuss. ‘Who, just tell me, who the hell is that new girl? Doesn’t she know
that she has to bow down to the master? Shameless bitch! How dare she pass me
without showing due respect?’
Then the girl’s sasra and other elderly men from the community would fall
at the man’s feet in utter supplication, begging for mercy. ‘No, no kind
master! That girl is a new animal in the herd! Quite foolish and ignorant. If she
has erred, I, her sasra, fall at your feet, but please forgive us for this crime.’
‘No! You Mahars are transgressing your limits. It is all this food that you get
free of cost that has made you forget your place, isn’t it? But listen carefully.
Next time, if anybody passes by me without bowing, you’ve had it! No mercy
would be shown to you any longer. What do you take us for? Are we Mahars like
you or do you take us for naive children? Daring to pass by me without bowing!
Think twice before doing any such thing again!’
 At this, everyone would beg him again, ‘No, no, master, we will not let such
a thing happen again! Please forgive us this time.’
The master, fuming with rage, would walk away, grumbling and muttering to
himself, all the way back. The Mahar men would return to their huts. But the
matter did not end there. Everybody then vented their wrath on the poor young
girl, the daughter-in-law, and took her to task. For her sasu, this would be a fine
opportunity to abuse her! The sasra also joined forces with his wife, ‘You
bitch, Paru, will you allow us to stay in this village or not? Do you know what
havoc you’ve caused today? Do you know how terrible it was for me today?
The whole village has started spitting on my face. We eat their food, don’t we?
Should we pass by them without bowing? Do your parents belong to the Kolhati
caste?[1] Don’t they have this custom of bowing down before the masters of
their village?’
Immediately, the sasu would sarcastically add her own bit to the tirade, ‘Her
father must be a Patil, you know, that’s why she’s behaving so! What does
she know about our customs! Impudent bitch! They are our masters, do you
understand? We must behave according to our custom, that’s our religion!
Was your mother a she-donkey that you behave so? Didn’t she teach you
anything? Your sasra moves among respectable people and you have blackened
his face!’
Everybody, even the neighbours and relatives, would join in the fray, and
abuse the girl to their heart’s content.

We used to accompany the women to sell firewood. They would be wearing saris
—their sacred cloth stitched out of rags patched up together with the stitches as
thick as fingers. Even their rags were made of several patches put together. Their
pallav reached to their knees. A veil fell over their forehead. They wore the saris
in the traditional way, the front pleats taken through the legs and tucked behind.
There were caste rules even for how one tucked the pleats. Mahar women had to
tuck them in such a way that the borders remained hidden. Only high caste
women had the privilege of wearing their saris in such a way that the borders
could be seen. A Mahar woman was supposed to hide the borders under the
pleats; otherwise it was considered an offence to the high castes. Their foreheads
were smeared with huge kumkum marks. Their blouses were also made from
rags. The tired and dusty Mahar women walked on one side of the road with
utmost humility so as not to offend anyone. They tried to make themselves as
inconspicuous as possible, hiding themselves from all others. They would walk
through the lanes where people from other lower castes lived. The lanes were
known as dhangar lane, vinkar lane, mali lane, teli lane and so on. Finally, they
came to the Brahmin lane. All their firewood would be sold in this lane. Every
house in this lane had a chest-high platform, like a wall, to prohibit the Mahars
from directly reaching the door. The Mahar women would stand in the far off
corners of the platform and call out, ‘Kaki, firewood! The Mahar women are
here with firewood.’ The kaki would be sitting on the swing; slowly, she would
stop swinging and get down at a leisurely pace to bargain with them. She would
offer one and a half or two paise for one bundle. Finally the price would be
settled at five paise for two bundles, the actual price of which would be at least
three paise each. But what could the women do? Even god in trouble, they say,
has to fall at the feet of a donkey! Even after the price was agreed upon, the work
for the Mahar women was not over. The women had to carry the bundles to the
backyard or the inner courtyard of the house. Then they had to untie the bundles
and stack all the wood neatly. Thereafter, they had to pick up each stick and
check it for any strand of long hair, or thread from their saris that may have
stuck to the wood. The Brahmin kaki, sitting in the cool shade and supervising
this operation, would keep shouting instruction after instruction, ‘Listen
carefully, you dumb Mahar women, check the sticks well. If you overlook any of
the threads sticking to the wood, there will be a lot of trouble. But whats that to
you? Your carelessness will cost us heavily. Our house will get polluted. Then we
will have to polish the floor with cow dung and wash all our clothes, even the
rags in the house! Such trouble we’ll have to undergo for your foolishness!
And how will the gods tolerate this, tell me? They too will be polluted, won’t
they? That’s why I’m telling you, check the sticks well!
The Mahar women would check the bundles carefully, saying, ‘Kaki, we
have taken out every strand of hair and thread from the sticks. Each stick has
been checked. Have we gone mad that we will pollute your house? You are
god’s own people. Don’t we know even that?’
We children, curious about the various things lying in the kaki s courtyard,
would try to move about and touch them. But one step forward and the kaki
would shout, ‘These idiotic Mahar women! Hey you, why do you bring these
brats along? They’ll touch things and pollute everything. Tell them to sit
quietly.’
Then our Mahar women would shout at us, ‘You bastards, can’t you
keep quiet? Sit quietly in one place! Look Kaki, these brats just follow us when we
come here. Hey you there, don't touch anything. You make mischief and we are
kicked for no fault. But what’s that to you?’
Meanwhile, all the sticks would be checked and stacked properly. Then the
women would carefully gather whatever strands of hair and threads they had
found sticking to the wood, hold them carefully in their palms and again go to
the front of the house and stand away from the raised platforms, their palms
outstretched in utmost humility. Finally, the kaki would throw from above, to
avoid any contact, a couple of coins on each palm. The same process was
followed while selling grass as well. The kaki would get the women to carefully
check each blade of grass!
What a beastly thing this Hindu religion is! Let me tell you, its not prosperity
and wealth that you enjoy—it is the very life blood of the Mahars! Mahar
women's sweat would have soaked the firewood. Sometimes when thorns pricked
them, blood trickled and dripped on the sticks. Sometimes they cut their own
limbs instead of the wood and blood poured down, drenching the wood with
blood. Thus it was the very essence of the Mahar woman's life that was found
sticking to the wood. And yet the Brahmin woman objected to what they found
sticking there!
When the Mahar women labour in the fields, the corn gets wet with their
sweat. The same corn goes to make your pure, rich dishes. And you feast on
them with such evident relish! Your palaces are built with the soil soaked with
the sweat and blood of Mahars. But does it rot your skin? You drink their blood
and sleep comfortably on the bed of their misery. Doesn’t it pollute you then?
Just as the farmer pierces his bullock’s nose and inserts a string through the
nostrils to control it, you have pierced the Mahar nose with the string of
ignorance. And you have been flogging us with the whip of pollution. This is all
that your selfish religion has given to us. But now we have learnt how utterly
worthless your religion is. And the one who has taught us this, the one who has
transformed us from beasts into human beings, is the architect of our
Constitution—that shining jewel of sheel and satwa, Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar.

[1] Kolhati s are traditionally associated with tamasha, the folk art in which
Kolhati women dance.
6
Our women offer their entire lives to the service of mother earth. But when they
themselves become mothers, what do they get? After having given birth to their
children, they have to tie up their bellies and lie down helplessly. .
In those days, there would be no food in the house, not even the water leftover
from boiling rice, to satiate the fire of hunger raging inside the belly of the new
mother. After the baby comes out into the world, a terrible void is left inside. The
stomach needs soft and light food. But from where could Mahars get such food?
With the hunger gnawing her insides, the poor woman would just tie up her
stomach tightly and lie down on rags, her body a mass of aches and pain. Mahar
women would go out begging in the neighbourhood and try to collect at least a
handful of grains. Some woman would procure from somewhere a little jowar, tie
it carefully in her pallav and bring it to the house where the poor mother lay. She
would give the jowar to the women in the house, who would crush the grains on
the grinding stone and cook the coarse flour in water. The gruel would be poured
onto a wooden plate and mixed with a little oil, if there was any. Otherwise the
mother would eat it plain, to quench the raging hunger in her stomach.
There is a saying that a black cow can survive even on thorns. Our women
were like that proverbial black cow. Even on occasions when they had a right to
be indulged a bit, they had to fill their stomachs with thorns to stay alive.
Daughters usually went to their mother s house for their first delivery. Not
that there was a great deal of difference between the house of their parents and
that of their in-laws! Poverty and adversities were the same for Mahars
everywhere. The one thing that was found in abundance was firewood. And so
the girl, after her delivery, was given plenty of hot baths. And that used to be so
painful! Actually, the ordeal would begin from the time the labour pains set in. In
the first place, the girl generally would be very young as all girls were married off
at a very tender age. Obviously, they were physically quite underdeveloped at the
time of their first pregnancy. The labour pains would continue for quite a long
time, sometimes for even three or four days. The whole of the maharwada, in
fact, would gather around the house. Women in any case did not have much
work to do at home so they would simply flock to the house where a delivery was
taking place. The ignorant midwives would keep thrusting their hands into the
poor girls vagina to see how far the baby had progressed. Invariably, the vagina
would get swollen, obstructing the babys path. The girl could overcome all
obstacles and have a safe delivery only if her luck held strong! It was a battle with
death. Her parents would be in a petrified state till she delivered the baby. They
did whatever they could for her safety; that is, whatever did not cost any money.
The poor girl would keep screaming aloud in pain and their hearts would be rent
apart. The girls mother especially would be in a state of utter shock and
bewilderment. People would suggest a hundred different things to her. The
elderly women would come up with their own advice, ‘You should go to the
stream and take a bath. Keep the wet sari on. Then go and pay a visit to our
goddess Lakamai and pour water over her stone. Pray to her for an easy delivery.
Don’t forget to ask her to allow your daughter to return to her husband’s place
safe and sound along with the baby!’
Then the poor mother would hurry to the stream to bathe and then pour water
over all the saffron-coated stones of goddess Lakamai, worship them with haldi
and kumkum and pray for her daughter’s safe delivery. Her teeth would chatter
with cold and fear. When finally her daughter gave birth to the baby, the relief
that she felt would be so intense, that she would nearly faint. But the ordeal
would not yet be over for the poor girl. Helpless, she would lie completely at the
mercy of the women surrounding her. Her vagina would be swollen stiff as the
surrounding women kept thrusting their hands inside. There would be several
wounds and cuts inside, which throbbed with unbearable pain. For want of
cotton or cloth pads, blood continued to flow. Why, the girl would be fortunate if
her family could find even some dirty rags for her. This was the extent of their
poverty!
Then the girls mother would heat some water. In the meanwhile, her father
would dig a pit in one corner of the hut for her bath. The soil dug out from the
pit would be spread all over the hut. Once the pit was ready, they would spread
sticks on top of the pit, put the spade and other tools used for digging inside the
pit, and make the new mother sit upon the sticks. Then they would give her a
bath with scalding hot water. They would massage her as well, but of course,
without any oil. This went on till she started sweating profusely. Then they
would spread dry paddy upon the floor. That would be her bed for the next
twelve days. She was made to lie naked upon it, her sari spread over her as cover.
After the hot water bath, she was given the hot coal treatment, that is, pieces of
burning coal were kept around her to keep her warm. This made the poor girl
sweat even more, as if she was having another hot bath. Only after all this torture
was over, was she was allowed to sleep. Then the newborn baby would be given
bath with hot water. People lived in filth, yet no one told them about the use of
soap. Women would spit on their palms and clean the babys face with the saliva.
Then they bathed the baby till it became completely exhausted. Both water and
fuel were free of charge, anyway! So there might even be two baths a day.
The crushed jowar would be cooked till it was soft; some jaggery and a little oil
would be added to it before it’s given to the mother. It was believed that the baby
would not suffer from stomach aches if the mother was fed such soft gruel. The
hungry mother would quickly pour it down her throat, and feeling utterly
exhausted, throw herself down on her straw mattress and close her eyes. Sleep
would be instant and peaceful as her stomach was full. A neem twig would be
hung at the doorstep as a sign that the house had a new baby. A visitor had to
stop at the entrance for five minutes and spit three times before being allowed to
enter. This was supposed to ward off any evil spirit that might have accompanied
the visitor.
Of course, it was only the more fortunate who could enjoy the luxury of eating
cooked jowar, though this was the cheapest grain available. Many new mothers
had to go hungry. They would lie down, pining for a few morsels while hunger
gnawed their insides. Most women suffered this fate. Labour pains, mishandling
by the midwife, wounds inflicted by onlookers nails, ever-gnawing hunger,
infected wounds with pus oozing out, hot water baths, hot coals, profuse
sweating—everything caused the new mother’s condition to worsen and she
would end up getting a burning fever. On most occasions, it was tetanus. The
family would have to look after the infant on the one hand and the suffering
mother on the other! There would be neither food nor money! Only unlimited
grief and suffering! The fever was often called madanvayu. Heated discussions
would follow. Many remedies, which did not cost any money, would be freely
prescribed and followed.
Some women would become possessed and the spirit of some goddess would
speak out, ‘This girl is possessed by an evil spirit. The hadal from that place,
Shertati, possesses her. She has come into the house lodged in the feet of a
neighbour. The girl met the spirits eye exactly at twelve o’clock. Now I’ll tell you
what the remedy is. Take some oil, jowar, beaten jowar, kajal, kumkum in a bowl,
move the bowl over the girl’s body and then put it under the banyan tree at
midnight. That evil bitch ties a swing to the banyan tree and sits swinging there
to her heart’s content. She is evil, I tell you, evil! She’ll simply take away the body
she possesses.’
The suffering of the woman would be beyond endurance. Even the onlookers
found it difficult to watch her plight. Her family smeared her forehead with ash
from the chulha. Two or three days would pass like this. People around her
would try to soothe her with kind words. Life in that poor mother gradually
diminished and she would finally sink. Many young girls on the threshold of life
succumbed to death. One in every ten lost their lives during childbirth. Infants
died as well. The fear of death drove people to the goddess Satwai and they would
perform all the customary rituals.
On the fifth day, a ritual called the Pachvi would be performed. On this day,
there would be a lot of work in the house. If no dead animal could be found in
the village, an animal would be killed as sacrificial offering to the goddess. The
new mother, it was believed, needed to eat five particular organs of an animal on
this day. The elderly women in the house would wake up early and polish the
floor and the chulha with cow dung. The new mother would be given a hot water
bath. Four dry jowar sticks would be placed in the four corners of the house. The
women in the family went and stood in front of the queue if a dead animal was
being skinned, and staked their claim on the five organs required as offerings to
the goddess Satwai. The butchers would nod with understanding and give the
women the required organs—the kidney, the stomach, the liver and an organ
with several veins that looked like a slipper and the large intestine full of fat.
The women collected these in a big earthen pot and immediately carried the
pot home to cook the organs to a soft pulp. At sunset, the women would get
busy. First, they would take seven small stones, wash and arranged them on the
bath pit in a line and smear them with haldi and kumkum. A big earthen pot
would be kept on the bath pit and a lamp of kneaded flour was lighted inside.
Then the black soot from the flame was gathered and applied on the stones. The
cooked limbs were offered as the sacrifice. Then the mother was covered with a
blanket and the baby put at the feet of the goddess, that is, in front of the seven
stones. After this, the mother was given a large plate full of the cooked organs.
After the meal she was made to wipe her tongue with a tattered piece of jute
cloth. It was believed that by doing so she would prevent the baby from getting
stomach aches. Then the new mother and her mother had to keep vigil the whole
night without even a wink of sleep. No cat was to be allowed inside. It was
believed that the goddess Satwai and the god Barama visited the house at
midnight to write the baby s future on its forehead. Barama, it was believed, had
a pen with which he made Satwai write the fate of the baby. There is a saying that
Barama s words and Satwai s writing are indelible and can never be wiped off.
But didn’t all the babies in the Mahar community share the same fate? So what
was there to write on the forehead of each baby? Actually, both Barama and
Satwai probably give the Mahar household a miss. Or they must have made one
common stamp for all the Mahar children! In any case, what was so glorious in
the life of a Mahar that they could choose to write about? So one common stamp
was probably more than adequate for all Mahar babies!
Today, if we come across Barama and Satwai, we would like to give them both
a sound thrashing and ask, ‘Barama and Satwai, you ruined the lives of
generation after generation of the Mahars! You wrote our fates, didn’t you?
Religion must have bribed you quite well to do this. Otherwise why should you
have done this? Religion must have handed over a stamp to Barama instead of a
pen to Satwai, you kept sealing our fates with your writing! And yet, our simple
folks were so loyal to you and your religion! But now we are more than a match
for you, do you realise? Fine, you stamped a fate of misery on our foreheads ten
times and we suffered a thousand times more. But now we have vanquished you.
We have true power, because we have sheel, satwa and neeti, and they stand
supreme in the whole world.’
Thousands of our generations were sacrificed and their lives were utterly
ruined. Millions perished but their essence of truth and morality did not. This
endured, seeped into the soil, and enriched it. And then a small sapling grew out
of this enriched soil. It went on to become a huge tree of light and truth. It gave
shelter to millions who were suffering. The tree transformed beasts into human
beings. This tree was that ideal human being, our very own Buddha. From 1930
onwards, his name started reaching villages like a gentle breeze that brings
succour in the scorching sun. Our Bhimraja decided to awaken his people who
had sunk to the level of subhumans. He began to organise small meetings and
speaking to the people. But reaching out to millions of people was a stupendous
task. Then the senior leaders in Mumbai decided to organise meetings at the time
of jatras because that was the time when all the people in the community would
gather together. The leaders took up the job of enlightening ignorant people with
Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar’s thoughts and their words found a way right into
peoples hearts. The first meeting was organised on the Pournima night in the
month of Chaitra in Jejuri. God Khandoba of Jejuri had been the family deity of
the Mahars for generations. They flocked to this jatra from various places,
walking for several miles.
In Jejuri, a huge crowd of Mahars yellowed with haldi[1] flocked at the Mahar
chawdi for the meeting. Dr. Ambedkar was the topic of discussion among them
all. ‘Hey, have you heard? It seems there is a meeting of the Mahars in the
chawdi,’ one would say. Another would respond immediately, ‘Yes, yes. You
people from Veergaon, this is exactly what our relative from Saswad was saying
too. You know, they say this boy Ambedkar belongs to our Mahar community;
but he has been educated at a place far beyond the seven seas. Such great
education he has had, you know. Imagine, he returned to Mumbai in a ship! And
he can actually speak in the white sahib’s own tongue and hold his own.’ This
would be enough of an invitation for yet another to chip in, ‘This man is nothing
less than a miracle of god. That’s why he’s been able to cross the seven seas, you
know! Anyway, let’s sit down and listen to what he has to say.’
There were many, of course, who, after having eaten till their seams burst, just
wanted to lie down at some place and would have listened to anyone. But many
wanted to listen specifically to Ambedkar. Thus a lot of people gathered at the
chawdi, and in the moonlit night, camped on the large ground in front of the
chawdi.
My aaja from Mumbai had also come for this meeting. Even my grandaunt,
Bhikai Aaji, had come. They too were among the audience. When Dr. Ambedkar
arrived in his car, they could not believe their eyes. They had never expected
their own man to arrive in a car, dressed in European clothes. Open-mouthed,
they gaped at him in sheer amazement. It was difficult for Baba to reach the
chawdi through the milling crowds that surged forward to see him. Somehow he
made his way to the chawdi and began his speech.
‘My brothers and sisters, all you folks, including the old men, women and
children who have come to Jejuri from far off places. You walked barefoot for
eight to ten days to get here. While on the way, you were tired, your feet ached,
you had nothing but a few stale pieces of bhakri to eat, yet you kept on walking
and finally reached Jejuri. Why? Because you wanted to see your family deity
Khandoba. But tell me, did Khandoba see you? What did he say to you? Could he
see your condition? Did he see your suffering? Generation after generation, our
people have paid homage to this god. They did not mind the discomfort. You,
too, came after an arduous journey. But did your Khandoba see you? Could you
meet him really? Why have you come after having suffered so? You have no
clothes to wear. You have nothing to eat. You have no place to stay! And yet you
come here. Year after year! You walk barefoot for the sake of this god. Your god
should at least have inquired after you. Did he? Now, if he can’t do anything for
you, why do you take so much trouble for him?
‘The stone steps in front of the god’s temple have been worn away by hapless
people beating their heads against those steps in utter supplication. But has he
ever taken mercy on you? What good has this god ever done to you? Your people
have served the villages, the upper caste communities, for ages. You clean all
their filth. And what do they do for you? They feed you with their dead animals.
Even then this god does not take pity on you. Do you know something? You
don’t worship god; you worship your ignorance! Generations after generations of
Mahars have ruined themselves with such superstitions. And what have you got
in return from this god?
‘From now onwards you have to follow a different path. You must educate
your children. Divorce your children from god. Teach them good things. Send
them to schools. The result will be there for you to see. When your children
begin to be educated, your condition will start improving. Your family, your life
will improve. Your children will bring you out of this hell. We are humans. We,
too, have the right to live as human beings. Your children will make you aware of
this.
‘Our women have had a major role in being superstitious, but I’m sure they
will now give up these superstitions and take a lead in educating their children.
They will have the honour of being the first to take this step forward. I have full
faith in you, my sisters. Go ahead, educate your children. Let all our women take
this step. Discard all such customs that strengthen our ignorance. My poor dear
brothers and sisters, do not eat carcasses any more. Don’t clean the filth of the
village. Let those who make the filth clean it up themselves. Let us teach them
this lesson. This slavery, which has been imposed upon us, will not disappear
easily. For that we need to bring about a revolution. Let three-fourth of our
people die in this endeavour, then, at least the remaining one fourth will be able
to live their lives with dignity. At least, their future will be better. I appeal to you,
my mothers and sisters, be the first ones to step forward for reform.’
Babasaheb’s sturdy physique, his glowing youth, his fair complexion, his high
forehead, and his European attire, his suit and boots—all of these impressed
people to no end. They basked in the warmth and glory of his words; words that
were like elixir to them. It was as if all their suffering had finally earned them a
glorious reward. They left with his words echoing in the innermost core of their
hearts, feeling deliriously happy. The mirage of their aspirations and dreams had
taken a real form. His words and his defiant spirit had electrified the women.
Bhikai Aaji was born in Mumbai. She was used to addressing meetings and did
not experience stage fright. She climbed onto the stage and made a fiery,
resounding speech, addressing the huge crowd, in the presence of Babasaheb,
‘Let me assure you, my sisters, what Bhimrao Ambedkar says is absolutely right.
We must educate our children. We must not and will not eat dead animals. We
must reform our community. Let us resolve to fight along with Ambedkar. He
speaks nothing but the truth. Let’s follow him to the end. This is what I say.’
The meeting finally came to an end. Ambedkar had mesmerised everybody in
the huge crowd. My grandparents started repeating Ambedkar's words to every
person they met. They never got tired of repeating the things that he said. All the
people who came to our house had to listen to them. ‘My, my, that Ambedkar!
What a dynamic young man he is! He has returned from far beyond the seven
seas after getting educated there. Just like a white sahib. And he is so learned.
Like a sahib too! He is so tall, so big and so fair! And such a high forehead he has.
He dresses like a sahib and also looks like one. When he got down from his car,
we thought a governor was stepping out. What a speech he made! As if it was a
meeting attended by lord Indra in heaven. Ambedkar said, “Start educating all
Mahar children. Stop eating dead animals. We must reform ourselves. Don’t stay
ignorant anymore. Don’t believe in god and religion.” He said so many things.
How many, I cannot tell you! His words have rent my heart.’
My aaja spoke as if he was drunk with happiness. He would gather people in
the chawdi and repeat to them what Babasaheb had said in the meeting. Aaja said
to the karbhari, ‘We must now give up eating dead animals. Ambedkar knows
what he’s saying. He has been educated in the white man’s land. Is he mad to say
so without a reason? He says this because he knows something about it. It is time
to discard this maharness. Look at our people in the cities, how they have
progressed! Now put your children into schools first. Give up cleaning the filth
of others. Don’t eat dead animals. Look at that young man’s concern for us. Now,
we should listen to him and do as he says. Listen, he is our own, of our flesh and
blood. He has become a balister [barrister]! Now tell me, does he not know more
than us?’
 The karbhari did not like this. He was quite upset. Finally he got exasperated
with my aaja and gesticulating wildly, burst out, ‘What are you saying Malari?
Stop teaching us this padri knowledge of yours. How dare you ask us to give up
our custom of eating dead animals! You are asking us to revolt against the
village. I’ve been listening to you for too long. Suppose we give up all this as you
and your Ambedkar say, then how can we call ourselves true Mahars?
Aren’t we the children of this land? This duty of being the yeskar has been
earned by our forefathers. They worked so hard for it. They suffered a lot but
they never thought about giving it up. And you suddenly want us to give it all up!
You get these silly ideas stuffed in your head and then come and pour them
down on us. Stop preaching us this Christian knowledge. Why do you want us to
put our children in schools? Are they going to become teachers? Or are they
going to become Brahmins? Send them to school, indeed! That’s pure drivel!
Listen, you can’t make the river flow backwards. The village land is our mother.
We have to carry forward whatever order she has given us. Why do we need
foreign knowledge? The yeskar’s stick is the mark of the happiness of the land.
We have in us real Mahar flesh and blood. And you preach us this Christian
knowledge? You and your sister-in-law, both of you are nothing short of
troublemakers. That woman also keeps blabbering the same nonsense constantly.
‘You survived on the morsels of the army where you served! But we are the
real Mahars. We will last forever. God has drawn a line for us and you want us to
cross it? Listen, we are born for this work. That’s our sacred duty. Why should
we give up our religion, our duty? We are the real original and pure Mahars! We
aren’t any of those half-baked converts! Listen, that Ambedkar has turned your
head with his strange foreign knowledge! He has lived among foreigners. Then
isn’t he polluted? Probably he has become a Christian, that’s why he preaches
this padri knowledge! What else can he tell us, if not all this foreign Christian
knowledge? Now you and your sister-in-law come and pour that down our
heads.
‘Listen Malari, the yeskar’s staff is not just an ordinary stick with a bell. It is no
less than a royal staff! It is the mark of the real strength of the Mahar! The Mahar
is a very proud breed. You say, don’t offer women as murali or jogtin to god, you
don’t want to offer men as potraja in the service of the god. Then what is it that
you want? Tea and roti? Listen, a murali woman is the first fruit obtained by a
couple in their marriage. She has to be offered at the feet of our god Khanderaya.
We have been doing so for ages; that’s why we have his blessings and our
children are protected. And the jogtin? She is also a woman offered to our
goddess. And you don’t want to do any of this? You are all set to burn and
destroy a living tree. The string of beads and the sacred basket are the marks of
the mother goddess. You take these things as ordinary? Do you know that if the
goddess is displeased, she can ruin the entire house? She will burn our houses as
punishment. The potraja is supposed to be the servant of the goddess. Do you
think that this is an ordinary thing? It’s a great honour given to us. Stupid man
comes and tells us to forget our gods and gives us Christian gods instead! No, no.
For us what our ancestors did is the right thing.’
My aaja countered angrily, ‘Listen Tatya, if you want to worship those gods of
yours, you are free to do so. But why ruin the lives of young people?’
Then another man came forward with yet another set of arguments, ‘Listen
Malari, god Khaderaya is the deity of all Mahars. He blesses us with so many
fruits; what’s the harm in offering him one of ours? Why should we hesitate to do
so? The custom of murali is actually an honour given to our house. She is
supposed to be the god’s wife. A murali is married to god. This god has a fiery
temper. If we don’t do so, he will lose his temper and punish us. He can wreck
such havoc that we will be left: whimpering like dogs. You also ask us not to offer
our girls to goddess Ambabai as jogtin. But that too is wrong. Why, if we offer
one fruit to her, she will bless us with many more in return. The goddess
Ambabai specially favours the house that offers her a girl as jogtin. That house
becomes her favourite. Stop these idiotic arguments, Malari.’
There were innumerable such arguments and counter-arguments. The chawdi
resounded with people ceaselessly debating these issues. The wind of Ambedkar’s
thoughts had started blowing incessantly, though its force was not very strong
yet. Several activists in the movement, such as Ranpise, Madhale and Gaikwad,
along with many others, organised meeting after meeting during jatras,
addressing people and bringing about a change in their perception. It was as if
Dr. Ambedkar was the god people had come to pray to, for bringing about a
change in their lives.
And people began to change slowly but steadily. They began to be aware.
Parents now discarded the loincloth for their children and began dressing them
up in pajamas. Children also got used to the new attire. They began cutting the
hair of their young daughters. The style was called English bal. Parents began to
enroll their children in schools. Gradually, the wind of Ambedkar s thoughts
turned into a whirlwind. Everybody began to understand, argue and consider.
The dead cells in their blood were charged with a new life. Blood began to flow
through their veins with new vigour. People got charged with the spirit of
revolution. There was one name on every tongue— Dr. Bhimrao Ambedkar.
This included the young and the old with no exception. Each hut reverberated
with his name.
Young men began to argue about the custom of eating dead animals. They
were convinced that this custom had to be discarded. But old habits die hard,
especially among older people. However, they could not hold their own in the
arguments with the young men and found themselves completely outwitted. It
was the youth everywhere who brought about this radical change. Yet, there were
some families who would secretly obtain carcasses. The young men of the
community started excommunicating those families. They were not allowed to
come to any weddings. If they were found sitting for meals in a public function,
they were served food in the broken pieces of a clay pot. After such public
humiliation, people learnt their lesson and mended their ways. Once they gave
up such habits, the community again accepted them back into its fold.
Our village, Veergaon, also witnessed such changes. Generally the jatra at
Jejuri on the full moon night in Chaitra would be preceded by the jatra in
Veergaon on the full moon night in the month of Magh. The temple of god
Maskoba was very famous all over. People from far off places would come for
this jatra. But it was the daughters of Veergaon, girls who got married and had
gone away, who were very particular about attending this jatra. They never failed
to come for this jatra.
Once my mawshi had come from Mumbai for this jatra. As luck would have it,
some sick animal died the next morning. Now, my aaji was on the alert as my
mawshi loved to eat meat. The moment she heard that the animal would be
slaughtered and distributed among the community, my aaji went and stood first
in the queue. The animal was duly skinned, the putrid, decayed parts were
thrown away, and the flesh was cut into pieces to be distributed among the
people according to their share. My aaji’s share did not contain any liver, thigh
and other such coveted parts. So she started arguing with the karbhari who was
distributing the parts, ‘Look, my daughter has come all the way from Mumbai
and she has asked me to get her the liver, thigh and such portions. So give those
to me.’
 The karbhari did not agree. He said, ‘Why are you so keen on having only
those portions? Anyway, youcan’t have them. Take your share if you want.’
But my aaji was firm, she refused to listen and started arguing with the man
loudly. Everybody from the maharwada were there. They were waiting for their
turn, with their children crawling around the heaps of meat ready to be
distributed. None of them was willing to exchange their share with her. This
incensed my aaji so much that she shouted, ‘Anybody who eats a dead animal
today will eat a pig!’ Like the Muslims, the Mahars were prohibited from eating
pig meat. They could not even utter the word ‘pig. No sooner did my aaji utter
the word ‘pig, than people started spitting in disgust and horror. They threw
away their share of the meat back on the skin spread on the ground. Some
women got up to beat my aaji. Others started cursing her loudly for having
deprived them of their meat. But all the young men who had gathered around
were very happy. They congratulated my aaji. ‘Well done, Sitayvahini,’ they said.
‘You did a good thing. Today you have given the maharwada fresh insight. This
is exactly what Dr. Ambedkar has been saying and if we listen to Sitayvahini,
that’s what she is saying too. So let us make a resolution, that from now on, we
will not eat dead animals.’
Thus did our maharwada join the Ambedkar movement. Everybody took an
oath never to eat dead animals and the atmosphere resounded with the slogan,
‘Bhimrao ki jai!’ From that day onwards the Mahars of Veergaon stopped eating
dead animals. Even today when people come together, the memories of this
incident conies alive. Everybody admits that Sitayvahini was the first to stop the
eating of dead animals in Veergaon.

[1] A lot of turmeric is customarily used to worship this particular god and it is
literally showered on the worshippers. As a result, everybody gets coloured in
turmeric.
7
The Mahar of the sixteenth share held a prestigious position in the Mahar
community. He was accorded within his community, nearly the same kind of
prestige as a village gave to the Patil. To give one’s daughter in marriage to a
member of this Mahar’s family was considered a great honour as it meant
forging links with a wealthy and prestigious family. His status was so high that if
he attended a wedding, it was akin to a mill-owner attending it. A marriage
proposal from his family was considered a great honour. The moment such a
proposal came, people in the girls village would feel as if they were in seventh
heaven. There would be endless discussions about his wealth, prestige and status.
All those who had given away their daughters in marriage in the village where
the Mahar of the sixteenth share lived would not tire of praising him and his
family. ‘He is related to me in a way, you know. He is my distant aaja. What a
huge house they have. They even have a big storeroom! And would you believe,
they have built a separate shed for their animals in the backyard. And what a
huge backyard it is! They have five huge pyramids of earthen pots reaching up to
the roof. And all the pots are kept full. You won’t find any free space in the
backyard. They receive so many bhakris from the villagers in return for their
duties as a yeskar that you will find nothing but bhakris drying all over the place.
This, along with the meat of dead animals! And do you know, they have so many
people working for them. Whenever there is an epidemic in the village, you wont
believe me, as many as five dead animals are brought to their house at a time.
Your daughter will live in great comfort. She will live like the Patils wife! But let
me add, she will have her hands full. She will have so many people to look after
that even twenry-four hours will not be sufficient. And her sasu! She is so sharp
sharp, she can immediately make out the worth of a man. They even have a jatra
during every full moon and amawasya. They sacrifice a goat and a cock during
the jatra. People flock from all over, you know, especially from places where they
don’t have such jatras. They are very good as fortuneÂtellers and medicine
men. All that you have to do is offer something to the god and you get well. And
did I tell you about those bhakris they receive as yeskar? No? Oh they receive so
many of them! Do you think they eat them all? No, my dear, they don’t. They
just fill up their huge containers with them. The entire maharwada survives on
them. And you know, the sasu is sometimes possessed by the spirit of the
goddess. That’s a deadly spirit, and so exacting. The platform for the gods in
their house is so high! It should easily be upto the level of your waist. They have
got idols of gods from far off places such as Konkan and so many rituals need to
be performed for them! Earlier, the spirits used to possess the great-
grandmother. After her death, they have started possessing aaji. And if our girl,
their daughter-in-law, serves them well, then who knows, they might come to
possess her as well. I pray to goddess Lakamai for this marriage to happen.’
In those days, the Mahar of the sixteenth share enjoyed more prestige than
even a judge does today. Today, the girl’s future depends on her husband’s
education; in earlier times it was determined by the largesse of the share of dead
animals that the boy’s family was entitled to. Delicacies such as the liver,
kidney, etc. went to the Mahar of the sixteenth share. Naturally, getting a
daughter married into such a family was considered a matter of great honour
and privilege.
The daughter-in-law of that house was kept busy all twenty-four hours of the
day. The men folk would bring home loads of meat in big baskets on their heads.
The meat needed to be preserved. This was a very arduous task. And many a
time, the duty fell on the daughter-in-law. More often than not, she would be not
more than eight or nine years old. She had to sit down with a sharp knife, cut the
huge pieces of meat into smaller ones of about half a kilo each, and then stretch
these into long snake like strips. A couple of women from poor households were
also called to help in exchange for a potful of meat. They would work for an
entire day for a pot of meat. The women would finish cutting the huge heaps of
meat by the end of the day. Pieces of fat, and even the bones, had to be separated
and preserved. Nothing was allowed to go waste. The meat strips were then
rolled out into long ribbons called chanya. These were then hung out to dry on
the thorny babhul branches spread all over the courtyard to ward off birds.
The house of the Mahar of the sixteenth share buzzed with activity. The dried
meat strips were brought inside the house and stacked in heaps. The poor
daughter-in-law had to sit and beat them with wooden tongs and cut them into
small, finger-length pieces. The sasu stored these pieces in huge cane containers
and sealed their mouths. There would be two or three rows of such containers in
the house. Every morning, the son who was a wresder would be given the meat
pieces for breakfast to build his strength. The elderly women in the house would
take out a huge bowl full of meat pieces and roast them crisp in fat. This would
serve as breakfast for the whole family. The leftover fat would be cooked with a
little turmeric and oil and stored in big earthen pots. This would be given as a
tonic to the wrestlers in the family.
Women would spend the day drying the meat pieces. At noon they would take
a big plate of meat pieces, roast them well and eat them with ten or twelve big
onions and a handful of bhakri. The women crunching these pieces could easily
have outdone machines in a factory as far as noise was concerned. They loved
this food more than any kind of sumptous delicacy.

The yeskar Mahar had to wait upon the Patils chawdi for the whole day. The
yeskar s family would have to do any kind of work that the Patil assigned. This
could even be spread across various localities. The labour of the entire family was
paid for in the form of bhakris, which the yeskar had to go and collect from
house to house every evening. The yeskar Mahar had to carry with him a stick
fitted at one end with a small bell. The reason for this was simple. If the men
sitting down for their dinner heard the Mahar s voice, they would have to discard
their meal and get up. But if they heard just the sound of his bell, they could
finish their meal. His voice could pollute but not the sound of his bell!
When the Mahar set off in the evening on his begging round, he felt great
pride in the sheep-wool blanket on his shoulder and his belled stick. His chest
would swell with pride. He would twirl his moustache and clear his throat as if he
was a very important man. Then he would stride forward, beating his stick on the
ground with great flourish. The stick was like a royal staff and the blanket on his
shoulder, the black coat of a barrister. But the moment he entered the village, his
chest would deflate like a balloon and he would shuffle around as
inconspicuously as possible so as not to offend anyone from the higher castes.
When he stood at the door of any high caste house, he was forbidden to call
out. He had to sound the bell on his stick thrice. Then the leftover food in the
house would be thrown into the blanket that he spread as a makeshift bag. The
village would take every precaution against pollution. The chest-high platform in
front of the house was the place where the higher castes conducted all their
transactions with the Mahars. After having gone all over the village, his ghongadi
bag would be almost half-filled. Then he would stride homeward joyfully as if he
was carrying not leftovers of food, but some great catch. His entire family would
dine on this food. Then he would proceed to the chawdi with a sense of
achievement. Here, he would chat with the other people in the community well
into the night.
The marriage season was an especially busy time for the yeskar. The marriage
might take place in a high caste family but it was the yeskar from the lowly
Mahar caste who had to do most of the work. The yeskar would be summoned
eight days before the marriage and given orders, ‘Hey you, Ranya, listen,
Akkas marriage is taking place next week. We need dry firewood for cooking. Go
to the farm, cut down the big babhul tree and bring the wood home. Do it fast.
The branches must be dried well/
All lowly jobs, right from arranging fuel for cooking to making arrangements
for Akkas morning ablutions, would be thrust on the Mahars. Akka was not
allowed to go out to defecate after they had applied the ritualistic haldi on her,
for fear of evil spirits. Instead, she would defecate in the garbage pit. And it was
the Mahar who had to clean the shit. He had to sweep the house, clean all the shit
of a houseful of children, cut firewood and stack it neatly for cooking. All the
dirty and laborious jobs were the privilege of the Mahar!
On the occasion of marriage, sweet chapattis filled with jaggery and channa
dal were prepared. The chapattis would then be mixed with the sweet syrupy
gulawani made from jaggery and the mucky mixture would be served in large
plates. One adult and three to four children would eat from the same plate. Their
sweat, the dirt on their hands, the sticky stuff flowing from their nose and saliva
dripping from their mouths—everything would keep dropping into the plate.
The children would stuff themselves with the muck, including the sticky mixture
dripping down their hands, which they would keep licking. When they had had
their fill, they would get up, leaving behind a lot of food in the plates. But the
owner of the house would not like the food to be wasted. The sticky leftover
would be poured into one huge cane basket, already polished with cow dung and
kept ready in a corner. By the time all the guests finished eating, there would be
two such baskets filled with the leftover food. The owner would summon the
Mahar waiting near the garbage pits. After having worked for hours on end, he
would be feeling terribly hungry, but somehow he would try to satiate his hunger
with his own saliva. With utmost humility, he would bend before the master,
saying ‘Jee dhani, jee dhani.’[1] The master would then command him,
‘Look here Ghurya, the feast is over. First sweep the pandal clean. Then you
can take away those two baskets of leftover food.’
 Only after the Mahar had swept the pandal clean, could he carry the two
baskets of the grimy mixture to the chawdi for distribution among the Mahars
according to their status. Meanwhile, someone would go and make an
announcement in the maharwada, ‘Come on, folks, come and collect your
share of the leftovers...’
People would be waiting impatiently for the summons. They would rush to the
chawdi with whatever small plate, pot or bowl they could lay their hands on.
There would be a huge crowd at the chawdi. The karbhari would put his hand
into the basket and stir the contents. Then with a big German silver bowl called
khob, he would pour out portions onto the blanket, which the people would
collect in their pots and plates. Everyone received at least a small basket as their
share. Children fought over their share. They would fall over each other trying to
snatch food. Finally, the mothers would' pour a little into each persons bowl and
restore peace. It would be midnight by the time they reached home. People at
home would be still awake. Then all of them would eat the leftover food and go
to bed, savouring the sweet taste on their tongue.
In the morning, the Mahars would have to go once again to sweep the pandal
clean. Again the leftover food from the previous night’s meal would be given
to them. The dal, the sweet puran and othe^r things would have been spoilt by
this time. Yet, the Mahar women would carry this home in huge clay pots placed
over their heads and eat it somehow.
The higher castes had created an illusion among the Mahars that the yeskar s
stick was like a royal staff. Each yeskar considered this stick as a mark of honour
for his family. Each family had their turn. The family with the sixteenth share
became the yeskar Mahar for six months and the remaining months of the year
would be divided among other families. People would feel so excited when their
turn came, that they wouldn’t be able to sleep. The next man received the stick
with great pride. His wife would worship it with haldi and kumkum and pray to
it with folded hands.
The yeskar would get up at the crack of dawn, go to the stream, bathe and
gather wild flowers such as the white and pink kanher for
worshipping the stick. He would apply sandalwood paste to the stick as well as
on his forehead, and then make an offering of the flowers along with haldi and
kumkum. Then he would dress for the job, that is, he would put a blanket over
his shoulder, tie a tattered turban on his head and pick up the stick in his hand.
Now, he was ready to go to the village chawdi, which was the Patils office. He
would feel very proud, as if he were a barrister in a black suit with a royal staff in
his hand. He would march off to the village chawdi.
Once he reached the chawdi, he would be alloted a place, but not inside the
chawdi. His place was at a distance from the chawdi, out in the courtyard. There
he was made to stand for the whole day. He wasn’t even allowed to stand
straight. He had to stand with his back bent all the while and greet anybody who
happened to pass that way, including children! He had to bend down, till his
head touched his knees, join his palms together and say ‘Johar mai bap[2] three
times, and then touch his head with his palms joined in salutation.
He had to stand in the same manner before the Patil. Then the Patil would
order him, ‘ Yeskar, today the mamledar sahib is coming. His horse must be
properly looked after. Go home and tell your wife to fetch two bundles of fresh
grass. The sahib will be here any time now. So ask her to hurry up and fetch the
grass. The horse should be tied in the front yard. So clean the yard properly.’
The whole village would be on tenterhooks because the mamledar was
coming. A big fat hen was killed and cooked with eggs in the Patil’s house.
The Mahar had to toil ceaselessly. When the mamledar arrived on his horse, the
Mahar had to take hold of the horse’s reins and help the mamledar alight.
Next, he had to tie the horse to a peg, give it fresh green grass and water, and
brush the horse’s coat till his wrists ached. The horse was never satisfied, of
course! The Mahar also had to collect the horse droppings and clean the yard
again. He had to chop firewood for the preparation of the sahib’s food and
announce the news of the sahib’s arrival in other localities. He had to
give the sahibs messages to various people as well. But he was not sure of being
given any food. He would get food some times and at other times, he would have
to go hungry. A life without food, living space and clothes—it was a story of
permanent deprivation and suffering.
Just as the Mahar had a duty towards dead animals, he had a duty towards
dead people too. When someone died in the village, he had to reach the news to
the relatives. Scorching sun, heavy rains and biting cold—none of these
mattered. He had to run without food to distant places. Very often, he would not
be able to utter a single word for fear of the relatives’ wrath for having brought
bad news. As if he was responsible for the death! He would try to utter the words
that refused to come to his lips. The relatives would be furious at his stammering,
‘You bastard, tell us quickly! What happened? Why are you stammering, you
fool? Is your father dead or what?’
‘No, no, Master...’ frightened, the poor man would try to break the news,
‘Your your.. .er...taisaab.. .has passed away...’
The people in the house, men and women, would start wailing loudly but not
without having first poured their wrath on the Mahar! Carrying such messages
was really an ordeal for the Mahar. The relatives would be in a hurry to go to the
dead person’s house. They would immediately harness their bullocks to the
cart and set off. The poor Mahar had to trudge back on his w^eary feet. When he
was away on these errands, the people in his family had to do other things as part
of their duty. They had to collect firewood and take it to the cremation ground
and then wait at a distance. Once the body was placed on the funeral pyre, the
white sheet covering the corpse was taken off and thrown away. The Mahars
waited for this moment. They had a right to the white sheet and the bamboo bier
on which the corpse had been carried to the ghat. They could use the bamboo for
their house and the sheet would come in handy for stitching clothes. They would
happily carry these items back home.
They first took the sheet to the stream for washing. We children kept pouring
water on it every two hours. After two days of washing, it would become
absolutely white. Then it was brought home for making clothes. The yeskar s
family could have clothes made only from such cloth. A lengthy piece would be
given to the young daughter who would be elated to get it. She would drape it
around herself in various styles and perform a kind of fashion show. One
moment she would drape it around her shoulder like a Brahmin kaki and imitate
her accent, ‘Hey you, Mahar women, shoo, shoo, stand at a distance. Don’t
touch anything. You will pollute us and our gods and religion.’ The next
moment she would be a Gujar woman, draping the pallav in the Gujarati style,
and finally, a Mahar daughter-in-law, pulling the pallav from her head down to
her nose.
What other evidence does one need to know how the Mahar woman craved to
live like a Brahmin or a high caste Maratha or Patil woman? They, like anybody
else, aspired for a better life. But they were bound by the chains of slavery. It was
on the Mahars’ labour that these idle parasites lived. The condition of the
Mahars was no better than that of bullocks, those beasts of burden, who slogged
all their life for a handful of dry grass.
 The maharwada symbolised utter poverty and total destitution. Epidemics,
especially cholera and plague, were extremely fond of the Mahars; a couple of
Mahars would die like flies everyday. Today this family, tomorrow the next one!
Tetanus was another deadly disease that claimed women, especially during
childbirth. But the Mahars did not know about medicine. They used all kinds of
superstitious remedies. One of these was the godman. He would get possessed by
the spirits of various gods and goddesses. The spirits would declare that the
patient was actually possessed by a ghost. Then the poor patient would be
tortured in so many ways. The godman would repeatedly slap the patient in the
face with shoes. The poor man would scream like a dying animal. The more he
suffered, the more frenzied would be the godman’s thrashing.
When the patient had fits, ten strong men would sit on his chest and a couple
of others would pin his legs down. The onlookers would watch the scene in
horrified fascination. They would wonder aloud about the terrible strength of the
spirit possessing the man. ‘What a powerful spirit!’ they would exclaim.
‘Ten men cannot control him!
We have seen it with our own eyes.’ The entire village would be terrified.
Then finally the poor patient, unable to hold on any longer, would gradually
succumb to death. The godman would proudly declare, ‘Look, how I have
brought him under control! What a terrible evil spirit! But I managed to drive it
away! Now see how quietly hes lying down. You may drop him on a rock, he
wont make a sound!’ The godman would depart with these assuring words
and so would the onlookers, tired of having watched the whole episode. After
some time, of course, the sound of loud wailing arose from the dead persons
house.
Typhoid, too, was a regular visitor to the Maharwada. If anybody got malaria,
they would say, ‘Look, he is possessed.’ Somebody would spin a yarn,
‘This man was walking by the narrow lane at noon and a strange thorn pierced
his feet. When he told me about this, I immediately knew what it was! The hadal
of course! You remember that woman who had died during childbirth? She has
now turned into a hadal. She sits there on the tree, with her baby in her lap,
swinging her legs, and possesses anybody who passes that way. This man was
passing by the tree. She looked into his eye and that’s it! She cast her spell on
him! Now the poor thing is in her clutches. She won’t let go of him.’
 Then they would take a lemon, some haldi and kumkum, a handful of grains
ground with oil, a bajra bhakri and a bombil, and keep it all on the path he had
passed as an offering to the hadal, and run away in mortal fear lest she cast her
spell on them too. Anybody coming from the opposite direction would be scared
on seeing these offerings! Even a brief glance at these things was enough to cause
high fever.
The patient, however, would feel encouraged. He would feel that the offerings
were going to save his life. They gave him confidence. He would start talking. His
family would feel relieved that the evil threat was now averted and that he had
had a lucky escape.
Then some worldly-wise aunt would come forward to offer her advice,
‘Listen, you must apply the holy ash of our goddess Lakamai on his forehead.
He has had nothing to eat for the past three days—
I’ll get him some dry bhakri. In the meanwhile, you prepare some garlic
chutney and rub it on his tongud, then see how he revives!’ She would
virtually force the hot chutney and the dry bhakri down his throat. The man who
had not eaten anything for quite some time would feel reassured that he no
longer had to worry, for an offering had been made to the evil spirit! So he would
stuff himself with chutney and bhakri, and wash it down with jars of .cold water.
Needless to say, the fever would invariably return.
A Mahar woman would continue to give birth till she reached menopause.
Perhaps, this became possible because of the inner strength that she had. That is
probably why Mahar women could withstand all calamities. Hardly a few of the
babies would survive. Many a time, these too were given away in the service of
the village. But somehow the cycle of birth and death would go on.
Goddess Satwai had stamped hunger on our foreheads. How many days did
we have to go without food! But there is a limit to ones endurance. A hungry
person tries to get food from the most unlikely sources. For instance, from the
cactus shrubs! Huge cactus shrubs grew wild around most villages. In fact,
wherever there was any open space, around the house or on the banks of streams,
these shrubs would be sure to grow. Lovely pink pods, big and juicy, hung from
the thorny leaves. Near the stream, of course, they would be bigger and brighter.
They looked so lovely! When children were unable to endure the hunger pangs
any longer, the woman would beg her husband, ‘Listen, the kids are starving.
They haven’t eaten anything for the last three days. They look like living
corpses. For how long can they survive on water? Let’s go and collect some
cactus pods. At least we can eat that.’
‘Well, they taste fine, but later...’
‘We aren’t eating them for fun! We have to stay alive.’
The argument would end there. Both the husband and wife would go to the
stream to collect the pods. The husband would pull them down with a stick and
the wife would roll them in the soil to remove the thorns. Their cane basket
would soon overflow with cactus pods. The pods looked so beautiful; no other
fruit had ever appeared so
delicious! They would carry the basket home. Children would come out
running on hearing their parents arrive. The old people in the house would
remove the skin of the pods and pop the flesh into their mouths. Everybody
attacked the basket, ravenously gobbling the pods. When they had had enough,
they gulped water. With the pangs of hunger extinguished, they would go to
sleep, without giving a thought to the punishment awaiting them. The seeds
inside the cactus fruit are so hard that they cannot be broken open even with
pliers. Tiny as jowar grains, they went down the throat and then, through the
stomach, slid into the intestines where they became slabs of cement or concrete.
Life next day would be like hell. But at least for that one night they could sleep
peacefully! The next morning the family would feel terrified to attend natures
call. They tried to push as hard as they could but to no avail! Their eyes might
pop out but their stomachs would not empty.
After having tried out this alternative and suffered from the consequences,
men would get together to think, ‘Hey, Dadu, its four days now since the
chulha was lit. Eating the cactus pods is like killing oneself.’
‘Tatya, we are in the same boat. Let me tell you something. You know that
oil vendor? His wife’s buffalo comes to the stream every afternoon. Let’s do
our job, shall we? Well, it’s true that the husband often comes with the
buffalo. But so what? We’ll take care. Right? Let’s do it when he’s busy
eating his lunch.’
They would prepare a deadly potion for the buffalo. The moment the buffalo
consumed the potion, it would collapse, its tongue hanging out. The oil vendor
would send a message to the Mahars to carry the carcass away for disposal. The
Mahars would be waiting for this to happen. The carcass would be carried to
their chawdi and kept aside. Then everybody would come, ready with sharpened
knives. They would skin the beast, spread the skin on the ground, cut the flesh
into large pieces and place them on the skin. The distribution would be
according to each family’s rightful share. Some had a large share and the
others a little less. But everybody got at least a basket full of food. They would
then return home with their shares and sit in front of their chulhas. Then
everybody would get busy. Young girls with uncombed hair would coat huge
earthen pots with mud to cook the meat. Women would cut the meat, wash the
pieces and throw them into the earthen pots for cooking. But what could they
light the chulha with? Again, they would roam all over looking for pieces of coal.
Some woman, by now, was sure to have got her chulha burning. Others would
collect a small live coal or a smoking twig from her, wrap it carefully in a rag and
bring it home, all the while blowing on it to keep it burning. Their mouths would
be dry by the time they reached home. They would push the twig under the dry
sticks in the chulha; blow on it and finally the fire would be lit. Then the clay pot
would be placed on the chulha. Sometimes they did not even have salt in the
house. Again they would go from house to house to collect some salt and
sprinkle it in the pot.
Children would sit around the chulha, desperately waiting for the meat to get
cooked. When the meat started sizzling, they couldn’t wait for it to be
properly cooked. Pushing the ladle into the pot, they would take the half-cooked
pieces out and begin eating. The halfÂcooked meat would be hard on the teeth
but they did not mind that.
For the old people in the house, the daughter-in-law would pick out the tender
portions like the liver and the lungs, cut them into small pieces and cook them.
The old people sat licking the tender meat with relish. Children often choked
upon the meat in their hurry to eat. Then the old men would give them a hard
slap on the neck and the stuck piece would be spat out. After the hunger was
partially appeased, the women would begin to prepare another dish. They would
beg the Mahar of the sixteenth share to give them some bhakri or any kind of
bean that they would cook along with the meat. People who had the strength
would visit the cactus shrubs around which wild leafy vegetables could be found
growing in abundance. They would cook these along with the meat, and the dish
would be ready within no time. After eating, the men, now satiated, would go to
the chawdi to chat and gossip. There they would tell each other stories of kings
and queens, and princes and princesses. Lounging about in the chawdi, they
would describe the wealth and prosperity of the
kings and lose themselves in the fictitious world of their stories.
The house of the Mahar of the sixteenth share overflowed with meat. He
would get at least half the animal as his share. During an epidemic, his house
would be flooded with huge mounds of meat. The Mahars considered animal
epidemics like diphtheria or dysentery a boon. Every day at least four or five
animals would die. The internal organs of the dead animals would decay in
stages. In some animals, organs like the liver, for instance, would be as hard as
stones; whereas, in other animals, the organs would be nothing but mush, like
overcooked rice. The inside of some animals would be putrid, filled with puss
and infested with maggots. There would be a horrid, foul smell! It was worse
than hell! But we did not throw away even such animals. We cut off the infected
parts full of puss, and convinced ourselves that it was now safe to eat the meat.
In those days such epidemics were common. The entire region affected by the
epidemic would wear a deserted look without the grazing animals. But, for the
Mahars, this would mean plenty of food to last them for the next four months.
The meat would be stored in earthen pots arranged in rows. They did not have to
worry about food. No food? All right, take out the meat, roast it in a tawa and eat
it! Simple! If there was fat, it would be even better! Men could eat to their heart s
content and young children ran around all over the place, dancing in delight
with the roasted pieces.
During epidemics, there would be many animals lying dead in the pens all
over the various settlements and localities. The carcasses of these animals would
rot, giving out such a foul stench that people in the house found it difficult to
even drink water. They would ask the Mahars to carry the carcasses away. When
such summons came, the joy of the Mahars knew no bounds. Everybody shouted
out to share the good news with others. The Mahar men would gather in front of
the chawdi and set off with knives, leaving word for their wives to hurry after
them with huge baskets. All the women and children would rush there, armed
with baskets and cane containers. Women carried the large baskets on their
heads while the children carried the smaller ones. Everyone would rush to the
place, as did the vultures, kites and dogs that competed with the Mahars! The
Mahars had to pull out the rotting carcasses and carry them to a deserted spot at
a considerable distance from the village. Then they had to sweep the pens that
were full of rotten flesh, maggots, droppings and the bloody secretions of dying
animals. They had to wash the floor clean and drive out the flies. Once they had
finished this task, they would go to the place where the others would be cutting
open the carcasses. After one animal was cut, the meat was divided into portions
and the women would immediately begin to transport the food. They would put
their share of meat into the baskets and cover it with twigs and leaves. The
moment they saw their mothers filling up the baskets with meat, the kids would
bring branches from the tarwad trees and make long sticks. After a woman kept
the basket on her head, her children would give the stick to her. The woman
would balance the basket on her head with one hand, and with the other, she
would continuously ward off flies and birds, all the while loudly chanting ghar,
ghar, ghar’. The women started homewards, walking through the village,
warding the birds off with their shouts. Their heads would be drenched with
blood, puss and other putrid secretions oozing out of the meat. Rivulets of sweat
mixed with the blood and puss would run down their faces and onto their
bodies, already coated with grime and muck. With their arms waving sticks to
ward off birds, they would walk, singing the strange chant till their throats dried
up. Anybody who came across these women would have easily taken them for a
group of hadals.

[1]  ‘Jee’ is used in Marathi by lower castes to show their respect and
humility to the higher castes. ‘Dhani’ literally means master.
[2]Â Â A traditional greeting that a Mahar man had to utter to greet the
upper caste men.
8
The other world had bound us with chains of slavery. But we too were human
beings. And we too desired to dominate, to wield power. But who would let us do
that? So we made our own arrangements to find slaves—our very own
daughters-in-law! If nobody else, then we could at least enslave them.
Young girls, hardly eight or nine or ten years old, were brought home as
daughters-in-law. Girls, even younger, were married off; they were children who
could not even remember their marriages. A marriage meant chaos, a lot of
hustle and bustle, for eight days. People would go to the fields, cut trees and fetch
the trunks for erecting the pandal in front of the house. Once it was covered with
the leaves of neem and karanja, the pandal was ready for conducting the
marriage. The bride's family was given a bride price of around fifteen to
twentyfive rupees. The bride's father had to meet the expenses of the marriage.
The bride's family had to go to the groom's place for the event. They had to reach
a day earlier than the marriage. They were given a dinner of pithale and bhakri.
In the morning they would begin with the haldi ceremony, applying haldi to the
bride and groom. A small platform called bohole would be raised with bricks and
a blanket of sheep-wool spread on top of it. Then squares would be drawn on it
and filled with wheat grains. The bride and groom had to sit on this. Five
suwasinis with auspicious stars would be the first to apply the haldi. They would
then tie paper mundawalis around their heads. Then, shenai players would start
playing and people would be respectfully invited to attend the marriage. The
women who came to apply the haldi were given saltless ghugrya of jowar grains,
which they received in their pallavs. This was an important ritual. In fact, the
women would themselves bring the jowar. The seven-year-old bride would be
dressed up in a nine-yard sari, white with wide red border, and a thick blouse.
The women would put several things in her pallav which ended up weighing at
least two and a half kilos. The mundawali around her head would also be very
heavy, weighing at least half a kilo. On the first day, both the bride and groom
were bathed while the shenai played in the background. Then, their parents,
aunts and uncles would also undergo a ritual bath. Once they were bathed, the
bride and groom were made to sit on the bohole. Two large tubs of haldi mixed
with water would be kept ready. The women would come forward to pat
handfuls of wet haldi first on the head, followed by the face, and finally, the
hands and the feet of the bride and the groom. This ceremony would take one
whole day.
The group of girls, called karavalis, from both the bride and the groom's side,
would carry small purses full of betel leaves. They would prepare paan and keep
offering them to the bride and the groom. The karavalis too would keep chewing
paan. Once the ceremony was over the bride and groom were taken for a special
ritual meal along with the karavalis. The ritual meal comprised of a huge plateful
of rice topped with pieces of jaggery. The bride and the groom hardly got to eat
the food. The karavalis would finish most of the rice. All the while the shenai
would continue playing, providing a melodious background.
The haldi ceremony took place the day before the marriage. In the afternoon,
around four o’clock, a ritual bath was arranged for the bride and the groom.
Two wooden boards would be placed in the courtyard with two huge pots placed
on both sides. The pots would contain water that was boiling hot. Four small jugs
would be kept on the four sides and a cotton thread would be taken around the
jugs five times. The bride and the groom had to sit on the platforms without
touching the thread. The bride had to cover her face with a veil. She had to apply
oil on the groom's head with both her hands. The groom would rub some oil on
his ears using his fingers. Then the bride was made to pour five jugs of water on
his head. She had to stand up for this. But the groom would continue to sit when
he poured five jugs of water on his bride's head. All this would make the ground
quite muddy. Then the bride' s brothers would push the groom into the mud and
roll him around till he was fully covered with mud. Once the bath was over, the
karavalis on the groom's side would pick him up on their shoulders and the
bride's karavalis would do the same. The bride and groom were not allowed to
walk on their feet for five days.
On the day of the marriage, the bride would be given her bridal sari to wear.
The little girl would feel like she was drowning in that sari. The groom would be
dressed in a thick coarse dhoti and khadi jacket, with a huge turban on his head.
He would resemble a scarecrow perfectly. By the time the bride and the groom
were both ready, preparations for the marriage ceremony would be complete.
Two huge cane baskets would be kept facing each other. A stone slab used for
grinding condiments would be kept in each basket. The bride and the groom
were made to stand on these. Then, a khadi towel was held between the couple
and they would not be able to see each other. Their mamas would stand behind
them. The bride and the groom wore huge mundawalis and over those they wore
huge crowns called bashinga. Their foreheads were covered with kumkum. One
could not even catch a glimpse of the bride and the groom as the poor creatures
would be literally buried under all this weight. All guests would then be given
rice grains that were coloured with haldi, as akshata, to shower on the couple at
the time of the marriage.
A Brahmin priest would be invited to solemnise the marriage. He would stand
at a distance for fear of pollution, but he would never make any compromise on
his dakshina! That he took away without any fear of pollution. Apart from the
dakshina money, he was also required to be given about two kilos of channa dal,
one-and-a-half kilos of rice, three kilos of wheat and a huge plateful of jaggery.
This was called the dry grocery.
For the marriage feast, chapattis were prepared with cooked channa dal and
salt. The cooked dal was distributed among several households for grinding.
Children, with their noses running, would surround their mothers when they sat
down to grind the dal. They would keep snatching the mixture and devouring it.
There would be flies — hoards of them — flying around. Many would fall into
the dal. A minimum of ten flies would be crushed during every round of
grinding. The ground dal would be rolled out into huge balls. The children
would eat these all day long. The flies were terrible. One could not eat without at
least three of them falling into one's plate. People had to continuously ward them
off.
On the third day, such chapattis would be prepared once again. The bride and
the groom would be made to apply haldi on each other. The bride was then made
to wear a heavy brocade sari called shalu, with a design of coconut trees on its
pallav. She would be taken away and hidden among boys who had been dressed
and decorated like her. The groom had to find his hidden bride among the
crowd. This usually posed a problem since he had never seen her before. How
was he to recognise her? It was a tough job. The groom had to search for her all
over the place. The brothers would hide the bride by surrounding her. This
would make the search extremely difficult for the groom. Finally, he would bribe
the karavalis with coconuts and catch hold of his wife. He had to carry her on his
shoulder up to the ritual bathing platform. Once he put her down, the boys
would make him admit that he had lost to them and would take a khun blouse
piece from him.
 Once again, the bride was made to sit down for a bath next to the groom. Then
two brass plates full of haldi and kumkum would be kept before the couple. Two
betel nuts would be dropped in the plates. First, the groom had to hold a betel
nut tightly with two fingers of his left hand. The bride was supposed to prise the
betel nut out of his grip. This ritual was repeated three times. Then the act was
reversed. It was the bride's turn now to hold the betel nut. The way she held it
would be quite different from the groom's. She would lock her fingers, holding
the betel nut tightly in her palm. The groom had to take the betel nut using only
two fingers. He would have to work hard as it was difficult to prise the nut out of
her hand. He would soon come close to tears. The bride's karavalis would shout
in encouragement and she would tighten her hold on it. The entire maharwada
would be present to witness this game. The bride would not give in, though the
groom would be prepared to cut off her fingers. Finally, the groom's parents
would coax the girl to release the betel nut. This ritual was repeated for three
days.
After the ritual bath the girl was given another huge heavy sari with an equally
heavy blouse. The buttonless blouse would have to be tied up with knots. The
knot would come almost up to her chin. The little bride would be buried under
the mundawali and the bashinga, and weighed down by the pallav filled with
various things. This was called the sada ritual.
After the sada, there would be a procession called rukhwat. Crescent-shaped
puris filled with stuffing made from the canna plant, would be tied to a dry
branch. A comb and several toys made of wheat flour were also tied to this
branch, along with many broken sandals. People dressed up to represent
characters from mythology as well as real life, would follow this procession with
a cane basket filled with small ritual offerings. The shenai players would lead the
procession. Many people dressed as the father and mother of the groom would
walk along, their foreheads covered with wet kumkum. For half a day, this
procession would go all over maharwada. Everybody in the maharwada would
dance madly. Finally, it would arrive at the marriage pandal. People from both
sides would gather around. The rukhwat basket would be kept between the two
groups. Everybody would be eager to see what was inside. Generally, the groom's
brothers and sisters were given the honour of opening it. Meanwhile, the women
of the bride’s family would start singing naughty songs, which would be
parodies of the groom's mother. The songs called her Inibai and his father Iwan:
Here comes the rukhwat, come and watch,
 Our Inibai's got an itch in her crotch.
Give her a couch, she’s on heat,
Our brother is so mad, he says, ‘You know what?’
Get a he-buffalo from the jatra to fuck her,
That’s the only thing that can please her.
Get up, Iwan, take off her clothes,
Show her the house, give her a bath.
This song would make the groom’s mother burst into tears. She would
shriek and holler with rage. Then the women from the groom’s side would
pacify her and retort with another song that would mock the bride’s mother,
also addressed as Inibai: Here comes the rukhwat, covered with sugarcane leaves.
When our Inibai gets hot, you know what she needs.
Not less than fifty-six horses! That’s what she must have, So get them for
her for that’s what she wants!
Our Iwan runs around to catch hold of the horse,
Come friends and watch the farce!
Thus Inibai cools off her itch,
So the groom’s mother doles out sweets.
This would enrage the other side, so much so that a fight would erupt. ‘How
dare you invite us to your village and insult us?’ they would shriek. Both sides
would freely hurl abuses at each other. Tempers ran wild. If the bride’s side
proved to be too dominant, the in-laws would straightway attack the bride’s
mother and pull her hair. Then fierce quarrels would ensue again. Finally, saner
people from both sides would prevail and put an end to the fighting, and the
bride’s mother and the groom’s mother would make up with each other.
On the fourth day of the marriage rituals, the ceremony of taking off the bridal
crowns would be performed. This would always be done in the morning. People
from both families would gather for the occasion under the specially built
pandal. A brass plate would be placed on the head of the bride’s mother, and
the other women would hold the plate in place. Men would quietly sit on one
side. Women, with tears streaming down their eyes, would sing the Zalu song.
The song would soon have every person sobbing. The heavy crowns were then
taken off.
Zalubai zalu, in front of the house  Â
There was a lovely jujube tree.
Then came a thief, the son-in-law  Â
He carried it off, for all to see.
But the tree was his, that’s how it is,
My poor love, helpless, weeps!
Zalubai zalu, in front of the house
There was a jasmine vine.
Weep not, oh poor mother of mine.
Zalubai zalu, in front of the house
There was a champak white.
Weep not, oh poor father of mine.
Zalubai zalu, a flock of birds
Have flown away, out of sight.
Weep not, oh poor brother of mine.
Zalubai zalu, what's left behind
Is a reflection in the mirror.
Weep not, oh poor sister of mine.
However, for the girl, marriage meant nothing but calamity. After the
marriage, she was allowed to stay with her parents for a few days. But then her
sasra would go to fetch her. He would bring with him gram, rice and jaggery. The
bride’s mother would then prepare small sweetmeats with these. The girl
would carry the basket filled with these sweets to her new home.
Thus the girl would embark upon a new life that was harsh and arduous. She
was a young girl, a child really, still immature. Yet, the poor child had to break all
ties of love and go to her in-laws’ house to lead a married life, without even
knowing what a husband meant, or what it was to be given away. Besides, in
those days there were no vehicles. When the cock crowed early in the morning,
the sasra would start with his daughter-in-law on foot. It took two to three days
to reach his home. Even if the place was close by, they invariably would have to
walk for the entire day.
When the bride arrived at her in-laws’ home, she would be asked to make
bhakris. Two baskets full! The child would sit down to make them, but she would
not be able to pat the balls of dough into proper round shapes. They would
remain thick and small, no bigger than her palms. When she put them on the hot
tawa, it would invariably get burnt in some places and remain uncooked in some.
Then the sasu would call all her friends and neighbours and hold an open
exhibition of the tiny burnt bhakris, ‘Attyabai, come and see what’s
happening here. Didn’t you think that I’d brought the daughter of a good
woman into my house? Look at the bhakris this slut has prepared. She can’t
even make a few bhakris properly. Oh well, what can one expect of this daughter
of a dunce?’
The child was not even allowed to sleep. When the cock crowed at three in the
morning, the sasu would wake her, dragging her by her hair. She would make her
clean the grinding stones and would sit down to grind some jowar with her. But
almost immediately, the sasu’s newborn baby would wake up and start crying.
Then the sasra would yell, ‘Come here, you. This Dhondya is crying. Come
and stop his wailing. Leave the grinding to her. Otherwise, when will she learn?
’
The sasu would promptly get up from the mill and go back to sleep, nursing
her baby. The young girl had to continue with the work. Her tiny hands often
could not pull the heavy stones and she would have to stop frequently. Her palms
would get blisters. Later on they would harden. After the grinding was done, she
would be sent to the river with a small vessel to fetch water. When that was done,
she had to sit down to make bhakris. If the bhakris weren’t perfect, her sasu
would examine the kneaded flour and slap the girl on the face with the unbaked
bhakris, pinch her cheeks, and shower a million abuses on her, ‘What’s
your aai really? Tell me! Is she a good married woman at all? Or does she know
only how to run after the pot-maker’s donkeys? Didn’t she teach you
anything? I pamper you a little and you take advantage of that! Look what a nice
sasu I am! My own sasu was a spitfire. A burning coal! Holding a burning coal in
one’s palm was easier than living with her!’
 Then she would mourn her fate loudly and go on in a voice drenched in self-
pity, ‘We could not even dare to call a dog or a hen in our in-laws’ house by
any name whatsoever. We had to address these animals respectfully even while
we kicked them out. Where would you get a sasu as nice as me? You pampered
brat! Lift the plate on your lap and eat! You are like a beast gone mad, eating so!
Simply out of control, that’s what you are! That’s why you’re being such
a pest!’ The sasu would continue to rant.
The poor girl had to endure the abuses of everybody in the household,
including her haughty sisters-in-law and her lousy brothers-in-law. By the time
she finished all the house work, it would be half past one in the afternoon. By
then, all the bhakris would have been eaten up. All that was left for her would be
the half-burnt, half-baked bhakris that she herself had made. But what could she
eat them with? She would steal some salt from the kitchen when her sasu was not
looking, and hide it in her sari. The Mahar daughters-in-law experienced one
comfort, however. There were no pots in the house to clean and no clothes to
wash, because there were not even enough rags to wear. When the sasu’s
monthly period started, she would go straight to the river to bathe, as she had no
spare sari. There she would take off half her sari, wrapping herself in the other
half. She would wash one half of the sari first. When that portion was dry, she
would wrap it around herself, and wash the other half. And that half too would
be patched up in several places. It would be afternoon by the time she returned
home. Till then, the daughter-in-law had to do everything by herself.
This rigorous punishment at a young age, however, was far preferable to what
she had to endure once she reached maturity. When the daughter-in-law got her
menstrual period for the first time, the sasu would become terribly agitated and
keep a close watch on her daughter-in-law and her son. She would watch them
with the eyes of a hawk, and would not let them even glance at each other. The
husband of the bride would keep hovering around, yearning to talk to his wife.
But the sasu was far too clever for him. She would not let them meet. She stayed
awake at night for fear of their coming together. She would be terribly scared that
her son would be snatched away from her and that he would forget his parents
and begin to pamper his wife.
Immediately after they went to bed, she would wake her daughter-in-law up to
grind the grain. Other women would add fat to the fire, ‘You are so stupid!
How can you allow their coming together? Don’t you let her sleep with your
son! Beware, the delicate bud will break! Beware of her!’ The sasu would
believe such malicious talk and poison her son’s mind against his wife. She
would be worried all the time about his falling in love with his wife. Her
daughter-in-law was her enemy! She would feel terribly jealous of her youth. She
would constantly keep complaining to her son about his wife.
When her daughter-in-law finished grinding the jowar, the sasu would send
her to fetch water. The sasu would whisper into her son’s ear, ‘Watch her,
you fool! Look how she goes out all the time! That Sirangya follows her to the
river and whistles at her. Keep her under your thumb. Otherwise you will be
disgraced in public.’ And while she was away, the sasu would grind some glass
bangles and mix the glass powder with the flour.[1] When the daughter-in-law
returned, she would be asked to make bhakris with that flour. The sasu would
put a piece of the bhakri into her mouth and spit it out. Then she would go from
house to house with that bhakri, ‘Just taste this bhakri! It feels as if glass is
mixed in it.’
The neigbourhood women simply loved such conspiracies. This provided
some excitement to their otherwise uneventful lives. The whole village would
gather in front of the tortured girl’s door. ‘The witch! Wanted to kill the
whole family! Oh, she shouldn’t have attempted to stab her own family in the
back.’ Then the sasu would wail loudly, beating her breasts. She would
complain to every passerby, ‘Look, master, how this witch tried to do away
with my family and the kids as well.’
To make things worse, a woman would become possessed. Then she would
start chanting, ‘Ahhhh, it’s because of my blessing that you were saved
from this woman. This woman is an evil presence in your house. Don’t ever
trust her. But you too forgot your god. Give your son’s firstborn to
Madmalu.’
This pronouncement chilled the hearts of the women and made them tremble
with fear. They would hastily apply kumkum and haldi on the possessed
woman’s forehead and fall at her feet. Amidst this chaos, the poor daughter-
in-law would tremble like a leaf. Petrified and unable to utter a single word, she
would watch the people around her with a sinking heart. The furious husband
would beat her to a pulp with a stick and drive her out of the house. She was an
easy prey. Anybody could torture her as they wished.

[1] It was not unusual for glass bangles to break while grinding. If a bangle
broke, a woman had to take care to pick all the pieces out. A careful worker kept
her bangles intact and mentioned with pride that she kept them from one Diwali
festival to the next, when the old bangles were replaced with new.
9
In those days, at least one woman in a hundred would have her nose chopped off.
You may well ask why. It s because of the sasu, who would poison her sons mind.
These sasus ruined the lives of innocent women forever. Everyday the
maharwada would resound with the cries of hapless women in some house or the
other. Husbands, flogging their wives as if they were beasts, would do so until the
sticks broke with the effort. The heads of these women would break open, their
backbones would be crushed, and some would collapse unconscious. But there
was nobody to care for them. They had no food to eat, no proper clothing to
cover their bodies; their hair would remain uncombed and tangled, dry from lack
of oil. Women led the most miserable existence. The entire day, the poor
daughter-in-law would serve the entire household like a slave. The sasu, sasra,
brothers and sisters-in-law, the neighbours—she had to serve one and all. The
household chores were no less torturous. Many daughters-in-law would try to
run away to escape this torture. Once night fell, darkness would descend
everywhere, at home, in the village, on the roads. When everybody was fast
asleep, the harassed daughter-in-law would pick up a couple of rags and run
away under the cover of darkness. It was not at all an easy thing to do. There
were no vehicles in those days to take her quickly to her mother s home. The
young girl had to be entirely on her own. She had to be extremely careful, and
watch each step she took. She had to find her way in pitch darkness, through hills
and valleys and thick forests; she had to cross streams and rivers. Her escape
would take place in mortal fear lest people who knew her in-laws were watching
her. It would take her at least two days to reach her mothers home. Immediately
on her heels would follow her brother-in-law or sasra or her husband! Nobody,
neither her inlaws nor any of the others, had any sympathy for the poor tortured
girl. The husband or the in-laws would beat her to a pulp. Even her brother and
father would flog her mercilessly and ask the in-laws to take her back. The poor
girl, numb with pain and hunger, was forced to return to her husband s home.
Once she was brought back to her in-laws’ house, an even worse fate awaited
her. Her in-laws would take a huge square piece of wood—weighing around five
kilos — to the carpenter to have stocks made for her. The carpenter would drill a
hole in the wood, big enough for her foot to go through. After this, they would
put an iron bar through the sides so as to make it impossible for her to pull her
foot out. The wood itself would be as huge and heavy as a large iron tub. She
would have to drag this heavy burden each time she tried to move. She was
forced to work with this device around her leg. Her leg would get wounded and
blood would ooze out every time she tried to move her leg. She was not a human
being for her in-laws, but just another piece of wood. Her hair would be all
tangled and spread around her head in complete disarray. She would be made to
wear her younger brother-in-law s copper anklets as bangles. Those copper
bangles were a sign that she was a Mahar.
Besides, she had to constantly listen to the abuses of her sasu and sasra, whose
tongues would never tire of lashing out at her. The sasu would pinch her cheeks
black and blue; her sasra would thrash her day and night. The poor girl would
endure this torture for as long as she could. When it became unbearable, she
would run away with the stocks around her bloodied foot. When such girls
managed to reach the maharwada, people crowded around to see them. We kids
found the entire scene extremely curious.
The sasu would pour poison in her son s ears against his hapless wife. She
would whisper into his ears, ‘Dhondya, what good is such a runaway wife to you?
Some bastard must have made her leave you. She must be having an affair. You
are her husband, but obviously the bitch prefers someone else. I suspect that this
somebody is from our own community. This bitch will bring nothing but
disgrace to us. No, no! I don’t want such a slut in my house. She wants to ruin
your life. Don’t let her off so easily. Dhondya, cut off the tip of her nose; only
then will my mother’s heart breathe easy! Don’t bring shame on your father’s
name. And don’t you worry, I’ll get you as many wives as you want. I’ll get you
remarried in just a couple of days. I have already chosen a girl for you. She has a
son from her previous marriage. But do not keep this wife of yours! She is not at
all good for you. Otherwise, you will suffer like that woman who bought a farm
at an inconspicuous corner so that she could till her land in peace, but on the
way, she met a Musalmaan and he chopped off her nose and breasts too! We
don’t want such a string of problems in our house.’
This speech was followed by a drama of shedding false tears, which the sasu
pretended to wipe off with her sari. She would then hide her face in it and after a
suitable pause, she would continue, ‘What would this slut have done if she had to
suffer like us? Probably, she would have committed suicide. God! We did not
even dare to speak to the dog and hen in our in-laws house disrespectfully. Even
when we had to shoo them away, we had to address them with respect. We did
not get food to eat for four days at a stretch. We had to stealthily pluck some
leafy vegetables from the fields, cook them and gobble them down without any
salt. Even these would be difficult to get. We had to suffer so much! Oh, how we
suffered! Just like Sita suffered during her exile.’
Torrential tears would follow this outburst. Then the sasra would take over.
He would urge his son to be a brave hero, ‘You are a man. You must behave like
one! You must be proud and firm. You must walk tall. Twirl your moustache and
show us that you are a man. Are you wearing bangles like a woman? Then? Do
you know about that Aaja of yours? He was a distant relative, of course! Let me
tell you, he was a real hero among men! He could fell down any wild beast,
however ferocious, at one stroke! He used to carry an axe with him at all times.
Once his wife smiled at his cousin. Finished! He lured her with sweet words, took
her to a field and just axed her down. Cut her into pieces then and there! The
entire maharwada trembled on hearing his name. Such is your lineage,
remember! Never mind if you have to go to prison for six months! You must
chop off your wife’s nose and present it to her brother and father. They mustn’t
have any respect left to sit with the members of the panch.’
This speech would go to the son’s head. His ego would inflate like a balloon.
Then both father and son would make a plan for chopping off the girl’s nose. The
sasra would go to her mother’s place and with sweet words, bring her back.
Meanwhile, the son would keep ready a razor sharpened to an edge. At night, he
would sit on her chest and taking his own time, cut off her nose. Then they
would drive the poor girl out of the house, with blood pouring from the
mutilation. None of her relatives would give her shelter. She was called mudy
and was refused entry in the so-called good’ homes. Then her sasu would happily
arrange a second marriage for her son with some divorced woman with a couple
of children. She would feel elated that the harassment she had suffered was being
finally compensated for. An innocent girl would thus be sacrificed to atone for
the sasu’s suffering. Such inhuman practices were quite rampant almost till the
1940s.
The poor girls were ill-starred, as it were! Mahar women were supposed to
draw their pallav forward from the forehead down to the nose. Now, if a
innocent child bride was found to have neglected this and if anybody saw her
pallav drawn back even a little, it was provocation enough for all the sasus
around to pounce upon her. Immediately, they would taunt her, ‘Hey, from
where have you obtained such a daughter-in-law? Her mother must be a slut!
Why, her pallav just doesn’t stay on her forehead! Whenever we look at her, it is
always up, on her head!’
Then the sasu would add fuel to this fire, ‘Now see for yourself! Otherwise you
will blame me for not being able to stand her. What should I tell you, my friend!
You asked me about her mother, right? What shall I tell you? Such a slut she is!
God knows what she does. And this one here is her child, isn’t she? What else
can you expect then? Like mother, like daughter! A slut’s daughter will be a slut!
A good woman’s daughter will be good. Fix her pallav on her head with a nail!
That’s the only way to make it stay there. The bitch, her mother, deceived us! She
has tied a kalwatin around our neck! Tell me Attyabai, what will happen to my
son? How will he survive with this woman? He is simpleminded as lord Shiva.’
Again, tearful talk would follow, ‘Kaki, its all right till were alive. But what will
happen after us? This bitch will twist him around her little finger!’ Then the sasu
would begin to wail loudly. Her companions would gladly join the wailing.
Such was the life of our poor hapless daughters-in-law! The life of the women
in the lower castes was thus shaped by the fire of calamities. This made their
bodies strong, but their minds cried out against this oppression. A woman is
satwa and sheel incarnate. She can put even her creator to shame. Just as the
chaturvarna system created castes and sanctioned discriminatory practices, the
cunning creator of the world established the practice of making women
dependent on men. Men have therefore dominated women ever since. But a
woman is goddess Amba on the earth who gives birth to man and sustains that
unjust creature with her very life-blood. After having undergone the ordeal of
fire for ages, she finally gave birth to a divine flame. This flame showed the world
what true love and affection is. Then it tore off the net in which men had trapped
women for ages, and rescued them. This was what is known as the Hindu (code
Bill. 'The man who gave birth to the Hindu Code Bill was my king Bhim, the son
of Morality, saviour of the world. It is because of him that my pen can scribble
out some thoughts. It is because of him that I have understood truth; that I can
now see how morality is being trampled upon. It is because of him that I got the
inspiration to join the struggle against oppression and contribute my small might
to it.
In a sense, I am grateful to Veergaon and the people there who nurtured me
with their love. In fact, Veergaon has a lion’s share in helping me perceive Truth.
I will never forget the love they bestowed upon me since my birth. I could enter
any house that I wanted to. I was completely engulfed in the relationships I had
formed with the men, women and children in each house. I would move among
them calling them mama and mami.
The woman of the house would bring out plates full of dried pieces of meat
from a storage jar. There would be maggots in some of the bones. She would
brush them off in the hot sun. Once the meat pieces were clean enough, she
would put them to cook in a big earthen pot. She would roast some onions over
the chulha, along with some chillies and haldi, roast some dhania seeds on a
piece of burning coal, and grind them all to a powder on the grinding stone.
Then she would put a piece of coal in this mixture of spices to make it green.
Once the meat pieces were cooked, she would add the spices to it with some
jowar flour to thicken the dish. Then other women would make big jowar
bhakris. The sasu would first serve the food to the menfolk and the children.
Each of the men would get a big plateful of the meat dish, along with some six
bhakris and some raw onions. Children usually shared the plates with the men.
Bhakris would be mixed with the meat and the children would eat with lusty
appetite. All of us children would look for delicacies like liver. Everybody would
invite me to have a share from their plate. The taste of that food is still fresh on
my tongue. Even great dishes from so-called posh hotels fade in comparison to
the food we had.
In those days, there was no distinction between breakfast and lunch. Breakfast
itself would be like lunch. Nobody knew about tea. It was made only in my aaji's
house. My aaja was a butler and hence he was used to having tea. So we too got
into the habit of drinking tea. Just the two of us, aaji and I, lived in the house in
Veergaon. Aaji used to prepare tea in the morning. We would eat the stale
bhakri, leftover from last nights meal, with the tea. Then aaji would go to collect
firewood with the other women, and I would roam all over the place, visiting any
house I wanted to. I would sit down to eat with anybody who had finished
cooking. Dry meat pieces would be available only with the Mahars of the
sixteenth share. The other houses did not have anything to eat. Those people
were like insects crawling around in hunger. With no food to eat, at least a
couple of people would be ill in each house, lying down in rags. They would be
almost lifeless with hunger since even ordinary food was scarce.
In their desperate search for solutions, they clung to the belief that a sick man
could become well with simple remedies. Then they would come to my aaji’s
house and say, ‘Sita, everybody in my house is sick. They are all down. So I
thought your tea would help them. Tea is the real remedy. People get well
immediately. You know, once Malhari also gave me a bowlful of tea and my
sickness just disappeared. So, I thought may be I should give all my people bowls
of tea.’
My aaji would advise, ‘Attyabai, get sugar worth three quarters of a paisa, get
tea powder worth a damdi. Then boil a jar of water in a pan. Put sugar and tea
powder in it and bring it to a boil. Your entire household will be able to drink
tea.’
‘Oh, but there is no pan in my house.’
‘All right! Then heat the water in a tawa and once it starts boiling, remove it
from fire and strain it. Your tea will be ready.’
The woman would follow Aaji’s advice and give everybody some tea to drink
and they would all feel better after drinking the tea. They believed that tea was a
good medicine. In those days, the tawas were not flat like the modern ones. They
would be deep, like a flattish bowl. The whole family could drink tea in one paisa.
Yet, they could not afford to drink tea because they could not afford even that
one paisa. They breathed, therefore they were supposed to be alive. Each
generation left their children to serve their oppressors and quietly got wiped off
from the face of the earth. Poor people had a lifespan of hardly thirty or forty
years. One generation perished but the next generation would be ready to serve
mother earth and the monsters ruling over it. On the one side, there was the
entire society, arrogant and insolent, enjoying wealth and comfort; and on the
other side, there were people dying without food, like fish out of water. But
character, truth and morality among the oppressed did not die. The three
qualities merged and were realised in the form of Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar. He
was our Baliraja who gave away his kingdom for Truth. He was like Rawan who
squandered away his kingdom for character. He was our Buddha who taught
love, brotherhood and equality unto all. He was our Bhim, our king and our
saviour, who blessed the blind with sight. He was the weapon forged out of the
perfect blend of the three qualities of character, truth and morality, to fight
injustice and to break the chains of slavery that shackled our feet.
10
Finally, I lost the shelter of my aaji's love. One day, my aaji brought me to
Phaltan and handed me over to my parents. Then she went off to Mumbai to stay
with my atya. I must have been just eight or nine years old then. Our house in
Phaltan's maharwada was just a courtyard away from the chawdi. It was a small
hut, with not more than ten square feet of floor space. For walls, it had stones
piled in rows. My father was an established contractor. He was the one who had
demolished the hill of Mhamadevi in Mumbai to construct new buildings. He
had built the bridge at Curry Road. The milk dairy at Pune was also his project.
He had earned a lot of money, but he had not been able to save any of it.
Whatever he earned, he gave it all away as if he were the direct descendent of
saint Tukaram who was famous for his generosity.
There was a terrible outbreak of some epidemic fever that claimed many lives
during the time when my father undertook the Pune dairy project. The epidemic
spread far and wide, and there was no work or food for people. Whole
households were being wiped out. People wandered from place to place in search
of food, leaving behind all that they had. When news reached that Pandharinath
Mistry from their own village had undertaken a large contract in Pune, the entire
maharwada of Phaltan set off to Pune. Many were burning with fever. Many had
had absolutely no food to eat. Yet, they walked all the way to Pune. My father
had got a bungalow for himself and there was no dearth of servants either. When
he saw all his people starving and sick, my father bought two huge pots, two bags
of rice and half a bag of toor dal. His servants built two makeshift chulhas in the
large courtyard and began to cook pots of rice and dal.
People s health began to improve gradually once they started getting food.
Thus death was defeated. The news spread like wild fire. Many more groups of
people flocked to the site to work for food and camped around the bungalow. My
father had obtained the contract only to save his people from hunger. Whenever
he bagged contracts and made some money, he tried to protect peoples lives. He
was also greatly influenced by the message of education that was being spread by
Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar. He resolved to educate both of us, my brother and me,
and came to Phaltan to enroll us in school.
 There was a huge tamarind tree in front of our hut. People who came to the
chawdi often sat under its cool shade. During the year 1938-39, the courtyard
and the ground under the tree would overflow with people. In those days, Dr.
Ambedkar was the most favoured topic for discussion among the Mahars. They
would not tire of praising him. They would endlessly reiterate Baba's qualities.
The chawdi started getting a newspaper and reports of Baba's public meetings
and speeches began to be read out to the public. There were constant discussions
about the public meetings that had been planned, and those that Baba would
attend. There was no other talk besides this. People were mesmerised by Baba.
They would constandy speak about him, his personality and his qualities. Our
young minds were absorbed. Baba's various names - Dr. Ambedkar, Bhimrao,
Babasaheb - became holy chants for us.
Young activists, under the influence of Babasaheb's ideas, started enrolling
their children in schools en masse. My father enrolled me in School no. 2. His
friends enrolled their children in the same school. We were about ten girls in the
elementary school—Susheela, Hausa, Shanta Bagad, Begum, Savu, Ulka,
Gulbakavali, Shaku, Asha and I. Quite a big group! After school, we all used to
rush to the chawdi to listen to the discussions there. One newspaper or the other
would invariably carry a report of Babas speech in some public meeting. My
father read out the report and people would listen attentively. None of us had
seen Baba but his words were like elixir to our ears. The revolutionary fervour of
his words set our blood coursing through the veins. We felt as if we should go
and shake the orthodox by the scruff of their neck. By the time we reached the
fourth standard, we had sort of become grown-ups. We were then transferred
from School no. 2 to School no. 5. This school was known as Bahulichi Shala.[1]
Now, there were about thirty to forty children from the maharwada ready to go
to Mudhoji High School. The first to go to the high-school was my uncle
Narahari Junglu Kakade. My brother, Babu Pandharinath Kakade, Digambar
Junglu Kakade and around forty other boys followed in his footsteps. But the
boys had a problem. They did not have enough space for studying together. Then
my brother and my uncle took all the boys and met Dr. Bhadkamkar of the royal
family to discuss their problems. Dr. Bhadkamkar was very sympathetic. He
visited the school and was convinced that the problems faced by the boys were
genuine. He handed over half of the backyard of School no. 2 for their use. There
was a building there with some rooms. My brother named the building Harijan
Boarding. This turned all the boys into staunch supporters and soldiers of Baba.
Students from other villages also started living in this boarding school. They
started studying Baba's philosophy and his writings. Baba's thinking influenced
them greatly and all of them became his dedicated followers. Their unity gave
them an identity and strength for the first time in their life.
Later, my brother joined politics. The constant discussion in the chawdi had a
deep impact on young minds. The young were simply electrified. My father
could not think of anything else except Baba. He gave up his work and we often
had to go hungry. Yet, he forbade my aai to go out and work. My brother was
also mesmerised by Baba. This ended in huge fights between my father and aai.
My aai drove my father up the wall. She would nag him constantly. Then my
father would lose his temper. Bolting the door from inside, he used to give Aai a
terrible thrashing. This was almost a daily routine. We began to live in a
perpetual state of hunger. My uncle Bapurao Mahadeo Kakade had got a job in
the irrigation department and was transferred to Shinde Wadi, close to Phaltan.
He was very proud of my brother and me because we were going to school. Since
he was in charge of water, big landowners would keep their produce at his place.
Our family of four was virtually starving. My paternal aaji, Thakubai, and aaja,
Mhadu, naturally felt very sorry for us. Both of them loaded a horse with various
necessities and brought them to our house at Phaltan. They brought so much
with them that we did not have place to store all of it. Our small hut overflowed
with the food and other things. Aaja and Aaji stayed with us for a couple of days
and then left. Though the house was filled with what Aaja and Aaji had brought,
we did not have any money. So my father sold off everything and spent the
money. After a week or so, another load arrived. Gradually, my father gave up
work altogether. Day and night he would be found sitting in the chawdi, talking
about Baba.
Girls too felt thrilled that our caste consciousness, which had been dormant so
far, was now awakened. Our school was predominantly high caste. A majority of
girls in our class belonged to the higher castes. For the first time in their lives,
they had girls like us — who could pollute them — studying with them. They
treated us like lepers, as if our bodies dripped with dirty blood or as if pus oozed
out of our rotten flesh. If they had to pass by us, they would cover their nose,
mutter ‘chee, chee’, and run as if their lives were in mortal danger. The teacher
had allotted us a place in a corner near the door from where we could not move
till school was over for the day. The blackboard would be in another corner. We
could neither see what the teacher was writing on the board, nor could we raise
our doubts, in the classroom. If we went to drink at the school tap, the other girls
would raise hell. But we never listened to them. We were greatly emboldened by
Baba's brave spirit. We, seven or eight friends, would move together as one
person. The higher caste girls would hurl taunts and abuses at us, ‘These Mahar
girls put on such airs. They have even touched the taps! Now where should we
drink water from? Stupid things!’
Another one would come up with, ‘You know, I have to bathe again after I go
home from school. My mother has come to know that Mahar girls sit in our class
and she doesn’t allow me to enter the house unless I have a bath. We have to go
to the Ram temple. What to do now? Where do we drink water from?’
They would hurl stones at us and throw dust into our eyes. Then we would get
angry and attack them. Tucking up our long skirts, we would just barge into their
groups like battering rams and scatter them. They would run away and those left
behind would be prey in our hands. We would attack them furiously, pull their
long plaits, push them to the ground, pinch their cheeks and hands, and torture
them as much as we could. But we would get back all of this and more, once we
entered the classroom. Then the teacher would hurl insults at us, to hit us with a
long ruler, and make us bend down and hold our toes till school was over. We
would bend down, touch our toes and smile at each other. But when school was
over for the day, it would be our turn again. When the bell rang, the hearts of
these higher caste girls would turn to water. Some of them escaped our wrath by
quickly running away, but we managed to catch quite a few of these girls. We,
seven or eight girls from different grades, would get together in a group and start
roughing up any girl whom we happened to catch.
The higher caste girls also got together to surround us. They would hurl
insults at us, ‘That Ambedkar has educated himself, that’s why these dirty
Mahars are showing off! That filthy Mahar, Ambedkar, eats dead animals but
look at the airs he gives himself!’
In retaliation, we said, ‘You shaven widows, how dare you take our
Ambedkar’s name! You have your own baldy, that stupid Gandhi! He has neither
a shirt on his body, nor teeth in his mouth! That toothless old bugger hasn’t any
teeth! Ha ha ha!’
Then we would sing a song from our jalsa:
Where’s Gandhi’s spinning wheel gone?
 Bhim has shaved Gandhi’s head off.
Our quarrels were nothing more than the hurling of insults at the two leaders.
Finally, we would chase those girls away and walk back home, laughing and
repeating to each other the things that we had said to them. These skirmishes
were not short-lived. These fights continued till we finally left the school.
In the morning, the higher caste girls hurled all kinds of insults and abuses at
us in front of the teachers, ‘Its really too much, that filthy Mahar educated
himself! Ambedkar is so vain! Who does he think he is?’ They would go on and
on like this. Then we would respond, ‘Our Ambedkar looks like a sahib. You
know why your Gandhi is toothless? Because our Ambedkar kicked him in his
teeth! Ha ha…That’s why your Gandhi has no teeth! And do you know why
Gandhi has no hair? Because our Ambedkar shaved it off! That’s the kind of man
our Ambedkar is!’ They could not counter us with anything. They would tell one
among them, ‘Hey Athawale, come on. Don’t you talk to these filthy Mahars.
They say such obscene things. They call our Gandhi ‘Gandi’.[2] Come on, don’t
even talk to them. If our Gandhi just utters a curse, that Ambedkar will burn to
ashes in a second.’ How could we tolerate this? ‘Bah!’ we would say. ‘Do you take
our Ambedkar to be an oldie like your Gandhi? He will snatch your Gandhi’s
cane and beat him to a pulp with it.’ They would shout at us in chorus, ‘Filthy
Mahars!’ and we would intone in unison:
Oh this Brahmin caste has no shame
Women squat before the barber for a shave.
We did not do exercises from our textbooks, but this recital was our daily
routine! On the road to the school, in Mangalwar Peth, we would come across
Gujar women going to the temple. The moment they lay eyes on us, they would
make a detour to avoid us. At least one of us would then run towards them,
touch them from behind and come back running. Touching them would make
us feel as if we were in the seventh heaven.
My brother had taught us yet another reformist trick. Inspired by Dr.
Ambedkar, he had started composing songs. In Phaltan, each square would
celebrate Ganeshotsav by having their own idol of Ganesh in their own squares.
The boys in the Harijan Boarding also started celebrating the festival. They took
sixty long sticks, fitted bells at one end of those sticks, and took out a procession
singing fiery songs of revolt through the town at night. They would finally arrive
at the chawdi at around ten or eleven in the night. Then the entire maharwada
would gather at the chawdi, drawn by their bells and songs. People listened to the
songs with great pride. Eventually everyone would join in the singing. The boys
sang these songs with such spirit, force and vigour, that our blood would be on
fire. The singing continued throughout the night with people lavishing praise on
the boys. Lemons and coconut were smashed to ward off evil spirits. The Harijan
Boarding’s mela was so good that the entire town would listen to the songs and
praise the performance.
Thus the new wind of Ambedkar's thoughts started to blow. The end of the
long night was in sight. In the chawdi, Ambedkar’s ideas were constantly
discussed and these discussions generated more ideas. One such idea was to
celebrate Babas birth anniversary on 14th April. Everyone heartily welcomed and
supported the idea. People started collecting subscriptions to gather a fund.
Activists like Nana Member, Keshav Member, Kala Dadu, Laxman Dalai,
Dajiram, Shrirang Appa, Ramchandra Shankar, Herum and others worked hard.
Since this was the first time Baba's birth anniversary was being celebrated, the
entire maharwada joined in the planning. New clothes were bought for the
occasion by each family for the women and children. Padva, the new year festival
of the Hindus, fell a couple of weeks before 14th April. People decided not to
celebrate this festival. ‘Our New Year’, they said, ‘will be on the 14th of April. We
will raise our gudhi on this day, hang banners, wear new clothes, cook sweet
chapatis in each house.’ Since it was the first celebration, leaders decided that all
the young men of maharwada would wear the uniform of scouts. So they all got
dressed in khaki shorts and half-sleeved khaki shirts, wore a whistle around their
necks and put on white canvas shoes and socks. All of them had their hair cut
short and some had even gone to the extent of buying English hats.
Four days before the event, the womenfolk got busy. They polished their
houses with cow dung, washed all the dirty clothes and sheets clean, and swept
their courtyards. Invitations were sent to people in eighty-four villages to arrive
at Phaltan a couple of days before the main event and camp at their relatives’
places. In those days people had to walk all the way. Every house overflowed with
guests, as if it was a jatra. The guests were impressed with all the preparations
and were all praise for the young activists of Phaltan.
Finally, the day arrived. It was the dawn of 14th April. People had not slept a
wink the previous night. They had worked throughout the night erecting the
pandal and helping with other preparations. The activists bathed at three in the
morning and thereafter raised gudhis on all roof tops. Women bathed their
children, arranged for their guests’ baths and began to make sweet chapatis. The
children gathered at the pandal, with their combed hair and new clothes. Various
groups had been invited from the adjoining villages to play musical instruments
like the halgi, lezim and ghumki. The activists had decorated a bullock-cart and
placed Baba’s photograph in front of the cart. Thus the preparations for the
procession were in place.
A band — the halgi, lezim and ghumki troupes — walked in front of the cart
with the khaki-clad boys following behind. The visitors followed them. The
procession passed through the town and people watched it in stunned surprise.
All the important people from the town had been invited for the meeting.
Around six o’clock in the evening, the meeting began. The pandal overflowed
with people. Kala Dadu summoned us — Hausa, Sushila and me — to sing a
song. We were just kids! What songs did we know? No one was worried about
that! They just called out, ‘Girls, come on, sing a song.’ We felt confused for a
minute. Then I began and my two friends joined me:
What a shameless god! How I’m fed up with him!
The stink of abir and gulal, friend, has made me lose my appetite
The sounds of the taal and mridung, make any head ache so!
Why should I see this Vithoba? He is nothing but a black stone!
Somehow we managed to sing these four lines. And how badly we sang! Each
one of us sang in a different pitch. Our voices trembled; we gulped words in
between, but we sang! Our listeners were thrilled! Especially so when we sang the
last line, calling Vithoba a black stone. Kala Dadu became so excited that he
started to jump up and down. He picked us up, danced around and showered
praise on us.
Kala Dadu was my aaja’s cousin. He must have been around thirty or thirty-
five years of age. He looked like the film star Master Bhagwan, but his
complexion was coal black. He had quite a humorous disposition. He was
completely illiterate and he would have laid down his life for Baba. They were all
like children of the same mother. When somebody proposed something, all
agreed to it. Wise men were not a dime a dozen then, as they are today. Nobody
would say, ‘Who’s he? Why should we listen to him? Why should we do what he
says? No, we won’t do it, he’s wrong.’ One person suggested something and ten
people carried it out without a fuss. They all worked with one voice and in one
mind. That is why the entire community grew in strength. One body with one
soul! Every programme was carried out well, with everybody participating
wholeheartedly. The whole world marvelled at this union. Parents gave
everything away to get their children educated.
But now, the so-called wise men from every house act like dynamite to ruin
this union. Even in routine meetings, if one says something, another opposes it
tooth and nail. The third, acting superior, points out mistakes and criticises
everything that the others do! What work can be done in such a situation?
Meetings end in chaos. Every person wants to brag about their own greatness
and wisdom. People have started breaking the community for their own selfish
ends. This has led to the disintegration of the community. Our strength has
dissipated. There is no strong leadership among us anymore. A small community
shook the whole world in the 1940s under Baba’s leadership. Today, the
community is huge but has become completely ineffective and feeble. However,
it is not late even now. Time marches onward and we cannot afford to slacken
our speed. We have to snatch the right moment. We have to forge unity in the
Boudhdha community.[3] We have to join forces to give life to the helpless, to
fight the whole world as Baba's heirs, to allow Baba's suffering soul to rest in
peace. We may be like rivers, streams, canals or even gutters; but all of us have to
finally merge in the ocean. Our ocean is the community. We have to make it
stronger. I may be an illiterate woman, but I speak the truth which I have learnt
from Baba. Yesterday we were only a handful, yet we could shake the very
foundations of the system; today we number thousands and yet we are dispersed.
One man and ten hermaphrodites! That is what we have been reduced to. The
gigantic strength of one man yesterday and the stupid helplessness of ten timid
men today! But remember, we are the heir of that unique man who could take on
the whole world. Discard your cowardice and unite in the spirit of brotherhood
that Baba desired.

[1] Literally a dolls school.

[2] ‘Gandi from gand’, which means buttocks in coarse Marathi.
[3] The reference appears to be to the huge number of Mahar people who
converted to Buddhism; they are scattered and need to be organised. This
appears to be the import.
11
I made a firm resolve, at a young age, to lead my life according the path sketched
by Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar, the light of my life. His principles have exercised a
strong influence on me. However, there were other things that influenced me as
well. Cinema, for instance. A man called Gabu Kothari set up the first cinema
hall in Phaltan. The first film he screened was Sant Tukaram based on the life of
the famous Marathi saint, Tukaram.[1]
A ticket cost one anna. The hall was nothing but an enclosure, with bamboo
walls. People had to squat down on the sand since there were no chairs. As
nobody had ever seen a film before, they were all extremely eager to see it. The
students staying at the boarding school also went to see it. My brother took me
along. I was completely mesmerised by what I saw. Tukaram's integrity, the
threats posed to the virtuous by malicious people, and finally, the victory of
truth—all of these greatly impressed me and left a deep imprint on my mind. I
think that this was another very formative influence on me. All the illiterate
people who watched the film were simply mesmerised. In the morning, people
flocked to the chawdi, talking about the wonderful experience that evoked
admiration, amazement and awe, ‘Oh my, what a fantastic thing this cinema
is! Do you know, pictures walk and talk and sing on the screen! And they are just
pictures, mind you, on a cloth screen! But they are for real! The chulha burns,
Jijabai pats bhakris! And when Attyakka weeps, you can see tears streaming
down her face, just like it is in reality! Fantastic! It's simply fantastic! The man
who made that film is simply great!’
They would not get tired of praising the film. Sant Tukaram was followed by
yet another film, Sati Savitri. Now we were no longer children. We were young
girls on the threshold of youth and of marriageable age. When we saw Sati
Savitri on screen, some of the strength and will power lying dormant within us
were awakened. There was now a new determination in our hearts. Events in
Savitri's life left a deep impact on my mind—such as Savitri pulling her
husband’s cart, braving the storms, stopping the sun from shining, the sheer
grit with which she challenged her destiny, and above all, her ability to face
life’s adversities. I wanted to be as strong as Savitri. Let people say what they
want, this movie was one of the main factors that changed my life.
 Though my aai used to teach me many things, I was basically my father’s
daughter. I must have had more of my father in me. My father’s words were
always like elixir to me. Even today, his words are treasured in the innermost
depths of my heart. He always used to tell me, ‘Never accumulate wealth. How
long will it last? It is the earth that gives us everything and it is the earth that
takes it all back. There’s nothing you can claim as your own. God has given us
a great gift: our mind. It is your duty to make this mind generous. Real wealth
doesn’t come from money lying in the coffers. Dignity is far more important
than wealth. That’s what makes you a self-respecting human being. Real self-
respect doesn’t come from wealth. You must work but not for gathering
wealth. Work for survival, for dignity. No animal craves for more than what is
needed for its survival. And how much does one need for survival any way? If
one gets a bellyful, it’s enough.’
My father believed very strongly that our children should not become lawyers,
because he felt that lawyers would do anything for money. His words echo in my
heart to this day. When my eldest son passed his matriculation examination, all
of us sat together to discuss the field in which he should choose to make his
career. My husband immediately said he wanted our son to be a lawyer. I was
shocked. In front of my son, I reminded him what my father had always felt
about lawyers, police officers and commission agents, and how we had decided
not to make our children lawyers. When we began to discuss other options, my
son suddenly said that he wanted to go to an agricultural college. Both my
husband and I agreed immediately and we enrolled him in an agricultural
college.
I have never worshipped Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar with sandalwood paste,
flowers and dhoop sticks. I have never made a public display of my reverence for
him. I worshipped, instead, the principles he stood for. I have had to face several
adversities in my life and I fought these bravely with the weapons of sheel and
satwa.
I have remained happy in my poverty because I managed to keep my family on
the true path. Everybody in my family follows the path of righteousness. My
household is untouched by the corrupt ways of the world. This gives me a sense
of fulfillment. It is wrong to say that young minds are shaped well only if their
environment is good. Many people believe that culture can be imbibed only from
educated, rich and intelligent people. I can confidently tell you from my
experience that it is not true. My house is located in an environment where all
kinds of awful things happen all the time. But that does not affect us at all. It is
not necessary to live in a distinguished environment for one to be cultured and
civilised. These are qualities you must have in your blood.
Why did Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar convert to Buddhism? Buddhism means
good character. The person who preaches Buddhism has to be morally upright
and lead a virtuous and uncorrupted life. Advice from a pure tongue such as the
Dalit saint Chokha Mela,[2] will transform millions of followers of Bhim into
pure beings. The aim is to serve Mother India well. That is why Dr. Ambedkar
introduced Buddhist philosophy as the path of truth and righteousness. Before
him, millions of our people had broken their heads against the stone steps of
temples, trying to reach their voices to gods who would not hear them.
Generation after generation gave Birth to children, only to see them turn to dust.
The creator gave us a human form and sent us down to earth, and abandoned us.
He was least bothered about what was happening to us. He turned a blind eye to
the goings on of our world. It was our Bhim who finally breathed life into lifeless
statues, that is, the people of our community. It was he who lighted a lamp in
each heart and brought light to our dark lives. He is far greater to us than the
maker of the universe. Was there anything that he did not do for us? First he
gave us life; then he made us human beings. The first need of a human being is
education. He made it possible for us to receive education; he even spent his own
money for that. He encouraged us to be graduates. He helped us obtain
prestigious jobs. He made our households rich. He empowered us to obtain
wealth and power. He demonstrated to the whole world that we had the ability to
reach the highest position; that we could even be ministers. He strived hard and
brought comfort to our doorstep. Obviously, since he made all this possible, he is
our god. Nay, he is even better; he is the god of gods for it is because of him that
the age-old suffering of millions of people could be wiped out within fifty years.
He is certainly superior to god. He achieved what even god has not been able to
do.
But look at yourself! Though Baba did so much for all of you, you, who call
yourselves intelligent, have just discarded his thoughts. Your children have not
even the foggiest idea of who Dr. Ambedkar was, and who Buddha was! You are
teaching your children to believe in god! There is an explosion of ritual fasts in
your families on days of Sankashti Chaturthi, Saturdays, Thursdays— you
observe fasts on so many days! Bhima made you, and you rub your noses before
the very gods that he taught us to discard. Ganesh, Lakshmi—how many gods
and goddesses do you introduce your children to? That is precisely what your
ancestors did too; they wasted their lives rubbing their noses on those stone steps
outside the temples! Which god ever took mercy upon them? And yet, once
again, you have chosen to become slaves of the same gods. You are inculcating
the same culture in your children! You have simply wiped off Baba's name. All
the educated amongst us have forgotten Baba because they are basking in the
false glory of their so-called greatness.
You are the children of our blood, but you have forgotten the blood
relationship. We had never imagined that our children would be so crass and
undeserving. We had never thought there would be so much regression. Our
hearts bleed. Words choke. ‘Finally, it is parasites that we have given birth
to.’ From village lanes to the high thrones of Delhi, everybody is dying to be a
leader. There is cutÂthroat competition among the climbers, each plotting
against the other.
Your real world is the world of the glorious sacrifice of Bhima. We owe our
happy lives to his sacrifice. That king among men gave his life for the oppressed
like us. The real leader is known by his intense desire and power to transform
everyone in his own image. He wants every life to be bright, every home full of
light. He wants that light to seep into every nook and corner of society. He wants
the entire edifice of society to be built on the foundations of sheel, satwa and
neeti for the glory of our country, Mother India. Among all the countries, it is
Mother India who gave birth to these principles. We are fortunate to be born
here as her children. Life does not mean wealth or comforts. It is a state of pure
being. Baba could easily have earned mountains of wealth had he so desired. But
he did not. Why? Because wealth would have destroyed all sense of duty. Man is
born with a duty assigned to him—to work for others. This was Baba's principle.
He gave his entire life in the service of his poor and helpless Dalit brethren. He
lived for the Dalits, each droplet of his blood was meant for their well-being. He
poured life into every fibre of our being. His life was like a piece of sandalwood.
The wood loses itself as it is ground into paste but the fragrance lingers. Likewise,
Baba's mortal body died but his work lives on. And it will remain forever. His
spirit, too, will last forever. His name will continue to live as long as the sun and
the moon are in the sky. His words are eternal; they have conquered death.
The one lesson that we must learn from Baba's life is that we must serve
others. Baba was like the sun, we can at least try to be like the fireflies. We too
can shine and give some light to others, can we not?
 We may not be able to work for twenty-four hours a day, but a little time out
of our busy schedules is not too much to expect, is it? Friends, you may be busy
for six days a week with your own work; what about giving half a day each week
for the poor? Believe me, you will achieve a lot. If all educated people show a
little sympathy for the weak, it will be a great service to society. Those weaklings
will receive a new breath of life; they will be able to take at least a few faltering
steps ahead. All they need is a little support. What we need therefore is a group of
intellectuals dedicated to the task of pulling out these helpless people from the
mire of poverty. It is our duty to ignite a new spark in the community that is
bereft of all life. Today you live in bungalows. You have wives who are educated.
Your children are graduates. You have occupied high positions in society. You
are going to continue the tradition of fighting for human values and rights of the
downtrodden. Your life is of the same quality as a life lead in heaven. Did our
people even enjoy such a life?
You must remember that it was one man who achieved the impossible task of
transforming beasts into human beings. That glorious ray filled millions of lives
with brightness. That pure stream managed to wash away the sins of all people.
He was the only man who made it possible for millions to taste a drop of elixir.
There are so many intellectuals today, millions of them crawling around. Why is
it that none of them are able to provide leadership even to a small section?
Don’t you understand that ignorant people like us can see through your
games? Isn’t it a shame that millions of people are unable to achieve what one
person could achieve? How did millions of illiterate people follow one man? He
was a man who believed in himself. He had courage and fortitude; he was neither
a defeatist nor an escapist. His words had the sharp edge of a vajra. Nobody
could seal his lips with bribes. He had fire coursing through his veins. He had
iron in his soul. He never changed his positions; nor did he ever compromise his
principles for selfish gain. Money, prosperity, fame— nothing could tempt him.
He understood the times. Whims and fancies did not sway him. His heart was
soft and tender, full of love for the downtrodden. He never sacrificed helpless
people for his own selfish motives. His character was spotlessly clean, without
any blemish.
But what about us? Our dark settlements do not have even an iota of clean
space. There is a world of difference between him and us. Wherever one goes,
one sees needless interference—bribery, selfish motives, self-aggrandisement,
relentless and shameless thirst for wealth and fame. What is the true value of a
bungalow or a car? Are they more significant than human beings? Are material
things like gold, diamonds and gems more important than living beings?
Everybody seems to be preoccupied only with one's own family, one's own
wealth. Nobody seems to have any concern for others. Shall I tell you how these
self-centered, selfish people think? They say, ‘Where is the need to think about
the world? What do we have to gain by thinking about the poor? What do we
have to do with the beggars out there? We are people far superior to them. Why
should we have concern for them? That would be nothing but degradation for us.
Why should we demean ourselves? Those people are slum-dwellers, they speak a
dirty language and they eat leftovers. There is a world of difference between their
culture and ours. We live in beautiful mansions and high-rise buildings, we move
around in cars, paint our faces, and our children call us papa and mummy. We
have relations with the high castes and high class. We have assimilated ourselves
into their high culture. We worship the idols of Ram and Sita, pray to Maruti and
Ganapati, apply a black mark between the eyebrows like the high castes and
make our children recite evening prayers like “Shubham karotiâ€.[3] We teach
our children how to sing praises of Hindu gods and goddesses and how to
worship them. In short, we claim that we have reached the pinnacle of culture!
But you parasites of the high castes, you have received the Boudhdha religion
from Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar that teaches one to exercise one’s right to
humanity. Generations after generations of our ancestors wasted themselves in
the service of the high castes who are like cunning thieves. But still some of us
will not give it up! Shouldn’t we be ashamed of ourselves? Do you think our
struggle was worthless?
Baba gave away his whole life for us. Is even that worthless? Some of us have
chosen to discard our sight and be deliberately blind. I ask you, do you want to
again get into the habit of groping in the dark with a stick just like your
ancestors? You narrate stories of gods as if it is true history. The high castes
strive very hard to keep alive the stories from the Ramayana and the
Mahabharata in the minds of their young generation. They impress the young
minds of children with stories from the Puranas. But look at yourself. You have
forgotten real history. It is hardly thirty years since Baba passed away, but you
have already wiped your memories clean of his teachings. Tell me, do your
children know anything about Baba Ambedkar? Do they know the teachings of
the Buddha? Do you have the guts to sing in praise of your religion, your Baba?
No. You are simply intoxicated with the power of your wealth. Today’s
generation is not ignorant like us! We were too scared to give up old customs.
There was tremendous pressure upon us. Suddenly, the times changed. We had
never ever imagined that the country would progress so much. We did not listen
to the footsteps of time. We never imagined that our children would scale such
heights of success. We were not human beings then. We were alive only because
our eyes moved in their sockets. Otherwise, we were merely skeletons, without
any life in us! But when Baba came, a new spark enlivened us. The flame of Bhim
started burning in our hearts. We began to walk and talk. We became conscious
that we too are human beings. Our eyes began to see and our ears to listen. Blood
started coursing through our veins. We got ready to fight as Bhim’s soldiers.
The struggle yielded us three jewels— humanity, education and the religion of
the Buddha. By giving us this religion, Baba led us back into the lap of our real
mother from whom we had been estranged for so long. What more could a
father give to his children? What more do you want? Whatever wealth he had, he
left it to us. We have to cherish this treasure. We have to use it well. Today, many
of our daughters and daughters-in-law are graduates. They are a hundred times
more superior to ignorant women like us. Even if their husbands forget the
Father in the glory of their own so-called greatness, it is their duty to reprimand
their husbands. They should tell them, ‘Remember, what you are today is
solely because of Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar. This life of luxury has been possible
for you because of him. But for him, you would have had to spend your life in
some hut with earthen pots. You would have been begging around for food,
biting carcasses to fight the pangs of hunger. And what would have been the state
of our children? Dressed in rags, they would be lying in some dark corner of a
hut, crying with hunger. They would have served the high castes day and night,
been flogged for small mistakes; they would have to survive on flogging than on
food. The monopoly over leftovers from high caste houses would be yours. It was
our Bhim who rescued you from such a terrible fate. He showed us this golden
day. You must fold your hands to this great man, this self-sacrificing soul, and
introduce him to our children. He has made us what we are now. He has made
this new life for us. It is to him that we owe our present prosperity.’
It is the duty of educated women to impress this upon their young children.
They should portray this in poems and teach them to their children. Through all
our programmes, we must portray the lives of Bhim and the Buddha. We must
see to it that our children imbibe the principles of the Buddhist religion. Then
alone shall we be able to call ourselves the children of Bhim. Character, truth and
morality are the essence of our constitution. Character is the pillar of this
constitution, truth is its roof, and morality, its the foundation. This is the home
of humanity. This is our house, decorated with these three jewels. Baba wanted it
to be the residence for the entire human race. If the whole of the human race
treads on the path of these principles, only the sky would be the limit for Mother
India.
What do I have Bhima? What can I offer to you…/
Except for flowers? You gave voice to our suffering souls.//
Each flower that I offer is nothing but a burning grief/
With tears flowing from my eyes, I wash your feet.//
The fire raging in my heart has ignited this flame/
Through the flickering of these flames, all I see is Buddha and Bhim.

[1] A seventeenth-century Marathi saint, Tukaram was born in the Kunbi caste

and belonged to the Warkari sect. He is known for his radical critique of the
oppressive brahminical tradition.
[2] Chokha Mela was a 14th century saint poet from the Mahar caste. A devotee

of God Viththal at Pandharpur, he was greatly influenced by Namdeo, the

Warkari poet from the tailor caste. He has composed many 'abhangas' and he
may be described as the first Dalit poet.
[3] Shubham haroti is a Sansluit shloka sung in Brahmin households as Part of the

evening prayers: Shubham karoti kalyanam, aarogyam dhanassampada.

Shatrubdhdhi vinashaya, deepajyoti namostute. It means 'Oh god, please bless us
with health and wealth. Ve light a lamp and pray to it that it may destroy dl evil
intelligence of our enemies.'
12
I am a product of the Ambedkar movement. I came in contact with the
movement when I was a child of hardly seven or eight years of age. Our hut was
right in front of the chawdi and both shared a courtyard. Activists like my father
Pandharinath Kakade, Nana Ahiwale, Laxman Kakade were all educated. They
used to bring two newspapers - Daily Kesari and Daily Sakai - to the chawdi and
read them aloud to the people sitting in the courtyard. Baba published a
newspaper called Bahishkrut[1] in which his speeches were reproduced. These
were also read out aloud. Men from both the Mahar lanes gathered to listen to
them. There would be complete silence. The readers explained the issues to the
people. The entire community was beginning to be aware. I grew up in that
charged atmosphere. Ambedkar taught us that character is the foundation of this
edifice called the human society. When compassion and morality follow
character, society achieves its real strength. He wanted to transform society in
the light of this philosophy.
My young mind absorbed a few drops from that ocean of knowledge. I have
already stated how a teacher called Bhadkamkar had provided hostel facilities to
the young boys of our community. Gradually, the number of students in this
hostel increased to thirty to thirty-five students. They came from Mangalwar
Peth as well as from the surrounding villages. My brother, the eldest student
among them, became their leader. He used to compose radical songs, many of
which used to be sung in the cultural programmes held during the Ganeshotsav.
I too participated in them.
Messages would be circulated about the programmes being organised. Once,
Baba sent a telegram asking us to exert our rights as the sons of the soil, by
forcibly seeking entry into temples and hotels. The hostel students discussed this
all through the night. They made a plan for the campaign. They planned as to
who would enter which temple. They chose the Viththal temple in the Shimpi
lane, which was next to the Brahmin lane. The Brahmins came to know of this
plan. With fire in their blood, the young activists from the Harijan Boarding set
off to forcibly enter the Viththal temple. They were shouting slogans of
Ambedkar’s victory. Some young girls like me, of about ten to twelve years of
age, ran by their side. In the temple, the Brahmins had surrounded the idol of
Viththal to protect it from the polluting touch of the Mahars. Many wielded
lathis. They wanted to stop the Mahar boys from entering the temple at any cost.
The fiery young soldiers of Ambedkar were equally adamant. The tallest among
them was a boy called Anand Ahiwale who was the son of a wrestler. He dashed
through the ring of the Brahmins and managed to touch the idol. This caused a
furor. There was great commotion everywhere. The Brahmins scattered and
started chasing the Mahar boys with lathis. But the boys were too smart for them.
They somehow managed to escape and reached the chawdi in Mangalwar Peth.
We, too, dashed into the house of a fish-vendor woman whom we knew. We
used to buy fish from her. Her house was exactly in front of the temple.
The Brahmin priests in the temple announced that the Mahars had polluted
the temple. They also declared that god Viththal’s face had become contorted
and that tears were flowing from goddess Rukmayis eyes. Soon the news of the
Mahars having polluted the divine couple Viththal and Rukmayi spread all over
Phaltan. In fact, it reached all the eighty-four villages in the state of Phaltan.[2]
Priests organised the chanting of scriptures and purificatory rituals to wash away
the pollution with milk and gomutra. Finally, after one and a half months of
incessant chanting, ceaseless worship, and of course, substantial grants from the
king, the Brahmin priests managed to cleanse the gods of the pollution, restored
the original expression on lord Viththal s face and stemmed the flow of tears
from Rukmayi s eyes.
Babas word has become law for me since then. Social work became an
alternative source of sustenance. A new fire began to burn in my heart.
Meanwhile, the movement marched ahead. A new wind had started to blow all
over the country. A new sun was rising on the horizon.
I still remember the celebration of Ambedkar’s birth anniversary in 1938. I
was just nine years old then. The activists in Mangalwar Peth such as Nana
Member, Shrirang Appa, Govind Thombre, Black Dadu, Pandharinath Kakade,
Laxman Master, Laxman Dalal, Dajiram Kakade, Baburao Ahiwale and Papa
Ahiwale got together to celebrate Baba’s birth anniversary. They declared that
they would not celebrate Gudhi Padva, the traditional Hindu new year, but
instead they resolved to celebrate 14th April as the day of their new year. They
decided that on this day they would do everything that high caste people did on
the occasion of Gudhi Padva. They would raise gudhis, buy new clothes, clean
their houses, decorate their courtyards with rangoli, cook puran poli and invite
people from all the eighty-four villages for a festive lunch. The day symbolised
the celebration of the spirit of Bhim. Thus, the people of Phaltan started the
tradition of celebrating Ambedkar Jayanti.
All houses in Mangalwar Peth were cleaned. Gudhis were raised in front of
each house. People bought new clothes. Women got busy. Children got up early,
bathed and gathered in front of the chawdi, parading their new clothes, singing
and dancing. The activists erected a huge pandal in front of the chawdi. I was so
excited that I kept running back and forth, from the chawdi to our hut. I could
not sleep at all. The men had worked through the night, making preparations.
Nobody had had even a moment’s rest. Each one bathed and returned to the
pandal in snow-white dhoti and kameej, and a blue turban with some shiny
powder sprinkled on it. Some men even wore coats. The boys from the boarding,
thirty to thirty-five in number, were immaculately dressed in white. My brother
was also among them. They put Dr. Ambedkar’s photograph on a chair, draped a
garland around it and sang their radical songs. The atmosphere was simply
electric. This was certainly the first moment in my life when I experienced pure,
unadulterated happiness. I felt as though I was bursting with life. Everybody was
deliriously happy.
Dadu, our aaja, was an extremely cheerful, fiin-loving man who had acquired
the nickname of Doctor because he pretended to check the pulse of young
children and made them cry. His complexion was virtually coal black. On this
occasion, he was dressed in khaki half-shirt and khaki shorts, with white canvas
shoes and white socks. He also wore a hat on his head and a tie around his neck
like an Englishman. And like all other soldiers of Bhim, he had also shaved off
his moustache. He was in his element that day. He caught hold of some child to
check his pulse and made him cry; he praised the new clothes of another; and
then he teased yet another, saying that his clothes were not new at all and that his
parents had cheated him.
From ten o’clock in the morning, people from the neighbouring villages
started arriving. The visiting villagers were also in brand new clothes. They had
come in bullock carts that were nicely painted and decorated with bells. They
camped in the chawdi. The activists had made arrangements for their meals.
Every house was to invite five people as guests and feed them.
Around three o’clock in the afternoon, the boys started decorating the
bullock cart in which Babasaheb’s photograph would be placed and taken in
procession. They tied the tender trunks of plantain around the cart. They had
invited a band as well, the Chand Tara Band. The band began to play and the
procession started. Slogans such as ‘Babasaheb Zindabad’, ‘Schedule
Caste Party Zindabad’, ‘Down with Capitalism’, ‘Long live
Ambedkar’, reverberated through the streets. Nobody minded the burning
sun. The sweat running down the bodies felt like the first drops of rain. The spirit
of rebellion was in the air. We wanted to trample the high caste villagers under
our feet. Finally, the procession reached the chawdi around five in the evening.
Women came forward with the ceremonial plate of tiny, lighted lamps and
performed an aarti. Guests sat down to rest.Volunteers brought drinking water
from each house. A chulha was ignited outside the chawdi to make tea.
Preparations began for the public meeting in the evening. Several prestigious
people from the village came for the meeting, including Dr. Bhadkamkar and
Sachin Godbole, the king’s secretary. Dadu knew that I could sing a little. My
brother had prepared a jalsa for this programme that tried to educate people on
the futility of worship and urged them to give up stupid old customs. The actors
- Bhanudas Kakade, Anna Mama, Shankar Ahiwale and Viththal Ahiwale - were
about to begin the jalsa when suddenly my aaja got a brainwave. He called for me
loudly, ‘Hey you, Pandharinath’s brat, start singing the Ithuba song! We
will start the programme after your song.’ Catching hold of my hand, he just
dragged me on to the stage in front of all the people. I felt terribly confused. My
throat went dry and my heart started to race. But I gathered all the courage in my
heart and started to sing. People clapped, there was a thunderous applause. Dadu
placed me on his shoulders and started dancing. Then the programme began.
This was how we celebrated the first birth anniversary of Dr. Ambedkar. Since
then, Baba has been enshrined in our hearts. The programme set me thinking.
What was the purpose of Babas life? For whom was Baba born? I realised that the
purpose of his life was to empower the oppressed and to restore to them their
human rights. Once I realised this, I understood that even my life was meant for
the service of the society. I realised I had to be one with my people.
We, the daughters of the activists in the movement, were enrolled in School
no. 5 for girls. It was basically a school for Brahmin girls, with a few girls from
other high castes. There were some ten or twelve Mahar girls spread over in
various classes. So each class had only a sprinkling of the polluting Mahars. All
the girls in the class had benches to sit except us Mahar girls. We had to sit on
the floor in one corner of the classroom like diseased puppies. The school was
located in Shankar Market, in front of the Ram temple. During the short recess,
Brahmin girls used to visit the temple. Dressed in nice long skirts and blouses,
with flowers in their hair and their fair skins glowing, to us they looked very
beautiful, flitting around like colourful butterflies. We were like fiery gadflies
burning for vengeance.
Behind Ram’s temple, there was a big tree, with a round platform built
around it. We used to park ourselves on this platform, each lost in her own
thoughts. My friend Begum would say, ‘How come these Brahmin and
Maratha girls are able to go and see the god’s idol? We should see him at least
once.’ Then another friend, Gulbakawali, would vehemently object, ‘No!
Never! How can you pollute god? If we do, the god will set monsters after us.
Monsters are ferocious creatures, you know. Huge and terrible! They will simply
devour us. Do you know that? If the god doesn’t set monsters after us, he is
sure to send a cobra with five hoods. Or, even huge drones. He will simply do
anything to punish us. His wrath is terrible. Let me tell you, my brother is a
bhagat of the spirit Dhawji Patil that often possesses him. You don’t know
how that spirit hates things that pollute. Even women are polluting for this spirit
god. And he often warns people not to challenge gods.’
Then yet another girl, Ulka, would retort, ‘Stop it! That’s rubbish. Had
these gods been real, do you think our Ambedkar would have challenged them?
’ Ulka was the daughter of Shankar Kakade who had thrown away all his gods.
Another girl, Bagad, would assert, ‘Come what may, we must see what this
god Ram looks like.’ I supported her enthusiastically, ‘Yes, let’s face
whatever happens. Let’s pollute Ram at least once. Even, at the cost of
death.’ Satu exclaimed, ‘Yes, let us do it. Baby is right!’
Two years passed in such talk. Finally, we decided to carry out our plan on a
particular day. We systematically planned our strategy to enter the Ram temple.
We divided ourselves into two groups of six girls each. The group of elder girls
was to enter the temple and the other group was to keep vigil outside. At nine
o’clock, the recess bell rang. This was our time of action. We all ran towards
the Ram temple. We reached our usual place under the umber tree in the
courtyard and sat there. We decided to enter the temple once the Brahmin girls
had returned to school. Our minds were thrilled that finally we were going to see
Ram, but at the same time, we were also scared that the god would punish us for
our transgression. Slowly, the high caste girls arrived, put the black bukka mark
between their eyebrows, went into the temple, came out and returned to the
school, laughing merrily.
Now was the time for us to make our move. We stealthily walked to the front
of the temple. We senior girls warned our juniors, ‘Be vigilant. If a Brahmin
couple comes, sound a warning by calling out “Ram Ramâ€. We will run
out.’ Having said this, we valiantly entered the temple to pollute Ram.
Our eyes constantly flitting back and forth, our hearts beating against our ribs,
hands tightly held together, we crossed the first hall. The second hall was dark
and unfamiliar, like a cave inside a rock. There was no electricity in those days.
Groping around in the dark, we stumbled forward. Our hearts thundering and
mouths dry, we forgot even to breathe. Finally, we reached the end of the hall.
We huddled together, wondering how far away we were from the god. Then we
looked up, glancing at both sides. Suddenly we saw white eyes, like large wood-
apples, and huge bodies towering above us. Scared to the innermost core of our
beings, we began to yell, all six in one voice. Our legs buckled and we fell at the
feet of those demons. The huge white eyes, giant noses with big holes, hands as
big as the legs of an elephant holding colossal clubs, jumbo bellies—the six of us
would have easily fitted there like cockroaches in a corner. These were the god’s
guards. We lay screaming at their feet. Meanwhile, our guards outside took to
their heels. Howling loudly for dear life, they waited for us at a distance. Then
they thought that Ram must have sent the five-hooded cobra after us because we
had polluted him. Or he must have set demons on us. They gave up all hope of
our return. In the meanwhile, we kept screaming at the top of our voice.
The priest in the neighbouring Radha Krishna temple heard us and got quite
perplexed. He had never heard such a racket before. He came into the sanctum
sanctorum to find out who was screaming and why. We told him, ‘We are
Mahar girls and the god has sent demons after us because we have polluted
him.’
On hearing this, the priest threw us out and abused us but we felt as if the
Brahmin was a god who had come to save us. How we ran to Shankar Market!
Our juniors were waiting for us there, worried to death about what had
happened to us. We threw ourselves into their arms and holding each other
tightly, began to sob. Finally, the tears stopped. ‘Why did you scream like that?
’ they asked. ‘You know, it was only because of the Brahmin that we were
saved,’ we told them. ‘Otherwise the two monsters would have devoured
us!’
Immediately, Gulbakawali ticked us off. ‘I warned you, didn’t I? Never
challenge the gods.’ Begum supported her, ‘Yes, you did. But this Baby is
mad! She wanted to see the god for herself! Are you satisfied now, Baby? You
have seen what gods can do, haven t you?
I replied, ‘Yes, I will never ever think of that god again in my life. Nor will I
ever climb the steps of a temple again. I can very well do without gods thank you
very much!’ Satu said, ‘We went to the temple for the bukka. That we never
got! And on top of that those monsters were going to eat us!’ I became angry,
‘Forget all that—the bukka, the gods and everything else! We don’t want
that god any more. No haldi, no kumkum and none of that bukka. Let him keep
all those things for himself. We’ll have nothing to do with them.’
Bagad exclaimed, ‘And don’t talk about this at home. Our mothers will
beat us to a pulp because we polluted god.’
Then I said, ‘Come on, why bother about the haldi and kumkum?
Remember those Christian women who come to teach us every Sunday? They
never wear any kumkum and haldi! Are they widows? No, their husbands are
alive. I will die but never again will I think about this horrid god. I will stay away
from him forever. I swear. Otherwise, I will change my name. I won’t be called
Baby any more!
That was my first active participation in Babas movement. This was followed
by many other such incidents. Rani Lakshmibai had established the first
women’s club, Mahila Mandal, in Phaltan. She was very young them. It was
only Brahmin women who occupied all the positions in this mandal. The rani
sahiba decided to allow Mahar women into this mandal. She called Shrirang
Appa, Nana Member and my father for a meeting. After the meeting, all these
male activists enrolled women from our locality as members in this mandal.
Invitations for all the meetings conducted by the rani sahib would be sent to our
women in Mangalwar Peth. Women leaders like Thakubai Kakade, Mathubai
More, Fattabai Kakade and Vithabai Kakade used to take women from all the
houses to these meetings. All these leaders were impressive young women, sturdy
and well-built, with deep resonant voices. They were excellent speakers. They
would wear white saris, nine yards long, with Dr. Ambedkar’s photograph
pinned in front. They were revolutionary women, indeed.
 Since my aai had never ever crossed the threshold of our house, I would go in
her place to the meetings. I remember a very interesting episode. This must have
been my second meeting. The meeting was organised in the dining hall. All the
Brahmin and Maratha women had occupied the chairs. They would not allow
the Mahar women to sit on the chairs. Helpless, our women stood on one side.
At the same time, the rani sahib started to move towards the stage, accompanied
by her other followers Godbole, Velankar and Bhadkamkar. Our Thakubai
rushed forward. She shook the rani by her shoulder and told her, ‘Your
women are not allowing our women to sit on the chairs. Our Ambedkar has told
us to demand our rights. I am going to forcefully remove your women from the
chairs and seat my women there.’ The rani sahib was taken aback for a
moment. But she immediately arranged chairs in the front for all of us.
Attending meetings was a new activity for our women. By now they had
become more aware because of Babasaheb Ambedkar. With such meetings their
knowledge began to increase. They began to take firm steps ahead. I used to poke
my nose into everything that was happening. I was married at the age of thirteen.
My in-laws were also from Phaltan, so I was closely involved in the politics there.
Ulka got married too. However, she stayed in Phaltan at her parents’ house
because of some problems with her in-laws. My uncle built a room in front of the
chawdi and we set up a shop there.
Baba would exhort us in public meetings, ‘We should learn to do business.
The high caste in the village will not buy milk from us. In fact, they will not buy
anything from us. Undeterred, we should practise business in our own locality.
We should not allow the village to earn at our expense.’
Therefore, my husband and I started this grocery store. It started doing good
business and earning money for us, and we felt more and more enthused. We
became determined to work harder. I used to get up at three in the morning.
After I finished the cooking and other household chores, I would work in the
shop till ten o’ clock in the night. At least once a month, the leaders would
visit our locality. They would come to meet us first, as our shop was in front of
the chawdi. We organised their tea and meals and also made arrangements for
the public meetings. Forgetting our dinner, we used to keep the shop open till the
meeting got over around two or three o’clock in the morning. We also had to
see the guests off. At the time of elections, we canvassed for our party candidates.
We also participated wholeheartedly in the demonstrations.
 We were never out of Ambedkar s movement. I had devoted myself totally to
the movement. As long as Baba lived, the community at Phaltan remained
united. He was our sole protector. Without him, the world was nothing, a big
zero. Nobody in the community was big or small. All were children of Bhimaai.
[3] There was no tug of war to occupy a high position. Even in municipal

elections, nobody would volunteer their candidature. The whole community

would propose the name of a candidate and the word of the panch committee
would be final. Nobody would dare to cross the Bhimrekha[4] set by them.
Inspired by Ambedkar’s thoughts, I sent my children to school. My eldest
son, Sham, has done M.Sc. in Agriculture and has an L.L.M. He has become a
regional manager in the Bank of India. My second son, Umakant, has done his
B.A. and is a clerk in the Bank of India. His wife, Manda, is a teacher. Our third
son, Chandan, is an officer in the government dairy. Vandana, his wife, is also a
teacher. My daughter, Kanta, is a block development officer at Baramati. And my
daughter Mangal s husband is a supervisor in the ordinance factory in Dchu
Road, Pune. Our third daughter, Purna, is married to a rich farmer at Sonori
near Saswad. My fourth daughter, Kundan, is in Nashik. Her husband, Kiran, is a
doctor at the government press in Delhi.
In his public meetings, Baba used to tell us, ‘Educate your children. They, in
turn, should spend one per cent of their salary in improving the lot of poor
children. Only then will their education benefit the community and the
generation next to theirs will be educated. Once they are educated, they can
organise themselves and find out various ways of directing the struggle. And I
am sure my sisters and mothers will carry out this task with an iron resolve.’
Baba’s words showed me the way. I decided to begin my struggle through my
writing. I followed Baba’s advice verbatim, to the best of my ability. When
Shashikant Daithankar was secretary in the Maharashtra government, he granted
me permission to start an ashram shala for orphans from the backward castes.
Today, I am the president of Mahatma Phule Dnyan Vikas Prasarak Sanstha and
I serve the community in this capacity. Two hundred children study in this
school. I ask my children to donate money whenever the school is under
financial strain. We have classes up to the seventh standard. Children are happy
to learn in this school. The secretary Bapu Jagtap is a hardworking person and
has been a strong source of support. He calls me mawshi. Even Shashikant
Daithankar calls me mawshi. He has given me a great opportunity to serve the
community by giving me permission to start this school. The vice president of
the school, Ramesh Adhav, has also been very supportive. All of these people
have been a great help to me in my old age as well as in my social work.
Sheel, pradnya and karuna have been the founding principles of my life. What
else does this humble servant of Bhim want when she has these three jewels in
her possession? When one has this wealth, what does the ordinary world matter?

[1] Bahishkrut Bharat was the name of this newspaper.

[2] Phaltan at that time was a small kingdom under the Nimbalkar family.

[3] railing the entity (a person or a god) that one worships ‘aai’ is a

tradition in Marathi. The god Viththal is also called Vithai.

[4] Here Baby Kamble creates a new word, similar to Lakshmanrekha—a line

you cannot cross. '

 An interview with Baby Kamble
by Maya Pandit

In your autobiography, there are very few references to your personal life.
Can you tell us a little more about yourself?
Well, I wrote about what my community experienced. The suffering of my
people became my own suffering. Their experiences became mine. So I really
find it very difficult to think of myself outside of my community. Let me tell you,
there were so many women around us. They were determined to get their
children educated because their Baba had told them to do so. So our women
enrolled their children in schools. Now, they were ordinary agricultural
labourers. Where could they get the money for paying fees to the English school?
In those days, there were no concessions for the backward castes; schools did not
receive any grants from the government. But our women used to find ways of
overcoming this hurdle.
One woman had to pay ninety rupees as admission fee for her two sons in
secondary school. Where was she to get this money? It was the rainy season.
There was no work even in the fields. So there was no money! She couldn’t
talk about this to her husband. He was a construction worker. He would have put
an end to their sons’ education and turned them into labourers working for a
contractor. Her relatives too were poor, there was no way she could borrow any
money from them. Then she got a brainwave. They had saved some jowar for the
rainy season in a big cane container. When her husband left for work, she called
her sons,took out all the jowar with their help and quietly sold it to a merchant.
The money was adequate for paying the fees. When her husband came to know
of this, he, of course, thrashed her. Besides, they had to starve throughout the
rainy season. But she did not allow her sons’ education to suffer. They passed
their matriculation examination and later on even went to college.
 Then, there was another woman who faced a similar problem. She too needed
money to pay the fees for her sons’ education. But there was nothing in the
house. Then she remembered an upper caste Maratha girl, the Patil’s
daughter-in-law, whom she had known since her childhood. Both belonged to
the same village. She thought of a plan. She went to her friend and said, ‘I have
a problem, can you help me? I have to go to my niece’s wedding. But I do not
have even a broken bead to wear. How can I go to the marriage without wearing
any ornament?’ Now her friend was quite kind. She said, ‘Oh, that’s not
a problem! Don’t you worry! Here, take this gold necklace. Wear it for the
wedding. You can return it to me afterwards.’ The Patil girl took off her
necklace and threw it into the woman’s hand from above because she could
not touch her Mahar friend for fear of pollution! Anyway, this woman took the
necklace and straightway went to a pawnbroker. She got a tidy amount for it.
That took care of the fees. But now there was the problem of returning the
necklace. She thought and thought about it without sleeping a wink the whole
night. Finally, she remembered an old aunt of hers who had recently returned
from Mumbai after having worked there for many years. Generally, such women
were known to buy gold with whatever extra money they earned. She was bound
to have a few gold ornaments. This aunt, who was a widow without any children
of her own except for one nephew, stayed all by herself in her small hut. She went
to her aunt and, after having chatted with her on this and that, said, ‘Mawshi,
I’ve come to see you because I feel quite worried for you. You know that
nephew of yours! He is a rascal. He knows you have some money, a few
ornaments! Do you think you are safe from him? You know what I mean?
Suppose he decides to do away with you one night? Whom can you call for help?
’ It was evening. And the house was situated in an isolated corner. There was
no one around for miles together. The old woman realised that it was really
foolish of her to keep her gold with her. She was quite overwhelmed by this
display of affection on part of her niece. She continued, Mawshi, you are the only
one we have got. Why keep your gold ornaments with you? Give them to me for
safe-keeping! And don’t you worry; you will be much safer without them.’
The old woman gave all her gold to her niece. Next morning, the woman
returned to Phaltan, went to the same pawnbroker, pawned her aunt’s gold
and retrieved her friend’s necklace from him. Then she went to the friend and
returned the valuable necklace to her with much gratitude. Such were our
women! So clever and committed! They listened to Babasaheb and did whatever
he asked them to do.
Were women different from men in this respect? And why did they believe in
Baba so much?
It was only because of women that education became possible for us. Generally
men would say, ‘Why put our son into school? As if he is going to become a
teacher or a clerk! It’s better if he starts working as a labourer like me. At least
he will earn a little money! You will ruin us with this madness! Sending children
to school indeed!’
But women paid no heed to such talk. Dr. Ambedkar had said, ‘You
believed in god. You gave away generations to him. Now give me a chance. Give
me this generation! Make sacrifices for twenty years. Enroll your children in
schools. Go hungry if you must! But educate your children. After twenty years,
you yourselves will come and tell me what is better—god or education?’
These words of Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar touched the hearts of our women.
All the highly educated men that you see today are from that generation. They
are all placed in high positions. But their children have not done so well! May be
it’s because of the new affluence. They are engrossed in that.
What was the contribution of women to the Dalit political movement then?
How did women participate in it?
Well, more than half of the people in the movement were women.
And how did the men respond to this? What was their reaction?
Let me tell you. It so happened that on most occasions, activists who came for
public meetings in the chawdi were from Mumbai. The entire community
gathered to listen to them. These activists used to publicly say, ‘Look, it is
women who are in charge of homes. And therefore it is they who have
contributed to the superstitious ‘god culture’. They are always leaders in such
things. It is always women who become possessed by spirits. They have played a
big role in making superstitions so powerful. It is the woman who is the real
doer. So if women can bring darkness, they can also bring light into our lives.’
And men agreed with this. ‘This man, Ambedkar,’ they said, ‘has come
from beyond the seven seas. He is so well-educated. He understands things better
than any of us. There is a point in what he says.’ So then women began to
attend meetings even at far off places. They would carry bhakris to last them for
four or five days.
And who looked after their homes?
Older women, of course. Their mothers and mothers-in law took education
extremely seriously. And they participated in all the programmes as well. They
would just leave their children and homes behind and participate in various
programmes, such as morchas, forcible entry into temples, hotels and such other
places. They got a lot of encouragement from their men folk as well. And both
their young and old family members staunchly stood by them. Baba sent
telegrams and asked people to do something. Immediately preparations got
underway. My brother was in boarding. He was in the ninth standard and I was
in the sixth standard. I must have been eleven or twelve years of age then.
Because of my brother, I always got a chance to participate in these programmes.
What was the experience like?
That was a great struggle. There was constant confrontation with the upper
castes. They would say, ‘These Mahars are rising above themselves. We won’t
allow them to enter the village.’ Everything was out of bounds for us. We
couldn’t even go to the flour mill. They tried to make life difficult for us. It
was slightly different in my own house, though. My father used to manage things
somehow. My mother was not allowed to go out of the house. It was he and my
brother, both of them activists, who used to get provisions and other household
stuff.
What about school?
All our leaders used to accompany us to school. Babasaheb’s words -
Education is your right, you must go to school — were stamped on our hearts.
So there was no question of our not going to school. But once we were in school,
we were given a different treatment. We were made to sit in a corner on one side.
Ours was a girls’ school. It was actually a Brahmin school since all the teachers
and a majority of the students were Brahmins. The teachers used to be awfully
worried about our polluting them and harassed us a lot as if we were their
enemies. They treated us like lepers, really. They wouldn’t even look at us.
Our classmates were all upper caste girls and they too used to be afraid of us,
constantly worried about our touching and polluting them. They used to scorn
us as if we were some kind of despicable creatures. We had no friends among the
Brahmin girls. When we went for excursions, they used to offer us food from
their lunch boxes but they would never accept anything from us. This must have
been around 1945.
When did you get married? There are hardly any references to your personal
life in the autobiography.
Well, I was just thirteen when I got married and I was considered too old! I had
passed my fourth standard. My husband’s name was Kondiba Kamble and he
was a student in my brother’s school and stayed in the same hostel. My
husband’s family saw me and gave their approval. His family was actually
related to our family. They belonged to Nimbure village, near Phaltan. Now
Babasaheb had told people that marriages should be performed according to the
gandharva ritual that was quite different from the traditional way of marriage.
He told us that there was no need to invite a Brahmin priest. The bride and the
groom did not have to tie the bashinga and the mundawali. In fact, Babasaheb
said, ‘Don’t waste four days on the wedding. Save time and money as well.
Just one sari for the bride and one pair of new clothes for the groom are good
enough. Don’t invite the Brahmin priest to perform the marriage rites. Let
somebody from among your own people do it. And let the marriage be
performed at your own chawdi.’ Mine was one of the first marriages to be
performed in the new manner. After the deeksha ceremony, marriages began to
be performed according to the Buddhist way. Till then we followed the practice
of gandharva vivaha that Babasaheb laid down for us. Anyway, for my marriage,
my brother wrote the mangalashtakas that were in praise of Dr. Babasaheb
Ambedkar’s work.
After my marriage, we stayed in Phaltan. Now, there were some fifteen to
sixteen people living in my husband’s house. It was a house that really did not
have too much space. Yet, they all stayed together. We too stayed there for some
time. Poverty was common to my husband’s house and mine. Getting a job
was next to impossible. Who would give work to a person who had been
educated only up to the fourth or the seventh standard? It was difficult to
survive.
Now Dr. Ambedkar used to say, ‘Don’t get into jobs. Try to start some
small business which you can successfully run in your locality. Don’t start
with the business of milk. Who will buy that from you? Your people don’t
drink milk, and the upper castes won’t buy milk from you. Start with
something which you can manage to sell in your own community.’
Then I had an idea. Both my husband and I were jobless. So, I thought, why
not begin with something like grapes? There were plenty of farms around and
the rate at the time was five rupees per kilogram. But you could get one kilogram
of loose grapes for eight annas. Poor people who could not afford to buy grapes
in bunches, would buy these. So we decided to sell loose grapes. I used to go to
the farms and buy a basketful of loose grapes. My capital of eight annas would
fetch me one rupee or sometimes even more in a day. That was more than one
hundred percent of profit. I saved all of it. Gradually, my savings swelled and
reached the huge sum of forty-eight rupees. Then we added vegetables to our
merchandise. Gradually, along with vegetables, we added provisions like oil, salt,
and such other stuff to our list. This also fetched us a tidy profit. So we decided to
expand our business. I told my brother and husband to stock our house with
grocery items. In those days, we did not stay in a separate house but with my
husband’s family. We used to sell these things from my mother’s house as
it was right in front of the chawdi. We did not spend any of the money that we
earned on food or household expenses. My in-laws helped me a lot. They allowed
us to stay in their house and shared whatever meagre food they had. In the next
three months we bought provisions worth three hundred and fifty rupees. The
quantity was so large that the house literally overflowed with the stuff. There
were many Mahar households in Mangalwar Peth. They all became our
customers.
Our business picked up very well. Then we decided to live independently, but
in the same house. That meant a great deal of additional work for me, like
cooking and fetching water. I used to get up at three o’ clock in the morning
and fetch water from the public tap in Mangalwar Peth. By this time I had two
children. There was a canal near our house. I used to wash all our clothes there.
Next I would do the cooking! I used to finish everything by nine in the morning
and then go to the shop. Till then my husband would sit at the counter.
Thereafter, I attended to the customers and he went off to the market to buy
provisions.
Did you have any problem in getting provisions?
We never had any problems in buying anything. They wouldn’t admit us
inside the shop but they did supply us with whatever we wanted. We sort of
flourished. I gave birth to ten children of whom three died during childhood. I
never went to a hospital. All my babies were born at home. My mother and my
mother-in-law would come and help me.
What was your mother-in-law’s attitude towards all this?
Oh, she was always very supportive! All this was happening for the first time in
our community, but she understood this. We used to go to many public
meetings, morchas and other agitations. So we used to be away from home,
children and the shop. But everyone helped. Besides, we did not allow ourselves
to be obligated to anyone. We were quite independent. So we could do whatever
we wanted. Both my husband and I were greatly involved in Dr. Babasaheb’s
movement. Our not having a job was really beneficial for our work because if you
have a job, you are tied down. We would simply lock our door and go to attend
meetings, participate in agitations and visit various places.
Since our shop was in front of the chawdi, people who came to the chawdi
would pay a visit to the shop as well. Many a times, people sat in groups there to
discuss things. The entire community used to gather at the chawdi at night. Their
discussions created more awareness in me.
Did you instinctively become a leader then?
Not really. But I used to do a lot of political and social work outside.
You were quite young then, weren’t you? You were developing as an
activist. Did you have any aspirations to leadership? Did you contest
elections?
Well, about elections.. .yes, there was the municipality and there used to be some
seats for the backward castes. So people did come with those offers. But then I
said, ‘No, I don’t want to get involved with that kind of politics. I have to
look after my shop, my house and my children.’ Besides, I was an activist in
the movement as well. The municipality was a den of goons and musclemen.
People urged me several times to contest the municipality elections, but I
didn’t want to. Both my husband and I felt that working with those people
was not a risk worth taking. Because once you are there, you get involved in
many things and I didn’t want anybody to cast aspersions on me.
Were there any other women activists at that time who worked along with
you? Women who addressed public meetings, organised people?
Not really. Women started participating much later, when they became educated.
There were very few that worked along with me. We used to address meetings,
give speeches. My grandmother was from Mumbai. She had worked with the
workers’ unions. Then gradually more women began to participate. I must tell
you about the women in the Mahila Mandal that Raja Malojiraje Nimbalkar and
his wife Lakshmibai had started in Phaltan. The raja had taken the initiative and
told the rani that at least one woman from every Mahar household in Mangalwar
Peth was to be made a member of the Mahila Mandal. Since my father never
allowed my mother to go, I became a member. There were quite a few militant
women from our community who became members. They would not hesitate to
fight for their rights. They demanded chairs to sit and participated in the
deliberations.
Your father had no objection to your going out? Then why did he not allow
your mother to participate in these activities?
Well, I was a school-going girl at that time. But the hold of patriarchy was so
strong! In fact, not sending the women out was considered to be a mark of real
manhood. A man who didn’t allow his wife to go out earned respect from the
people. ‘You can’t see even the finger nail of his wife!’ they would say
reverentially. My father never sent my mother out for work. But fortunately, he
made an exception with me. I always used to be with my brother.
How did women from other communities react when you worked with them
in the Mahila Mandal?
Oh they welcomed us! When there were programmes, they came in a group and
made me close the shop. There were a lot of Brahmin, Maratha, Gujarati women
in the mandal. But they never opposed me.
Why? Is it because you had the backing of the royal family?
Well, not really. You see, times were changing fast. Because of Dr. Ambedkar,
many new norms were coming into force. People had to accept them. That made
a great difference. Besides, the raja had told them that they must have our
women in the mandal. Obviously, because of our shop, our contacts and
activism, they considered us leaders. This was a great change. So both my
husband and I started doing a lot of social work. That became my life.
How did you think of writing your autobiography?
(Laughs.) It so happened that I used to sit in the shop at the counter. I used to
have plenty of time on my hands. There were books that came along with the old
newspapers we bought for packing. Some of them were storybooks and I began
to read them. Many contained stories about gods and their great deeds. But
gradually I started feeling very angry because the stories were all wrong.
Consider for instance, the story of Vrinda, a Shudra princess.
What about this story?
One day Narad, Lord Vishnu’s celestial follower, paid a visit to Vrinda. He knew
that she was going to be the mother of very strong sons. In those days, there was
great enmity between the Shudras and the gods. The Shudras never accepted the
authority of the gods. They did not even utter their names. So Narad came to
Vrinda and praised Lord Vishnu’s prowess. She was a young child and she
accepted Lord Vishnu as a great god. She wanted to see Vishnu. So Narad gave
her a small image of Vishnu and asked her to worship it. She kept the idol in her
room. Her father got very angry with her. But Vrinda did not give up her prayers
to Vishnu. Her father tried very hard to convince her that Vishnu was not what
she thought him to be. But she wouldn’t give up. She grew up and her father
got her married off to Jalandar, the son of another Shudra king, Sagar. She did
not leave her idol of Vishnu behind. She took it along with her and worshipped it
as usual. Sagar also appealed to her not to worship Vishnu but she did not listen
to him either. She continued her worship of Vishnu. She was an extremely
virtuous woman and that was her strength. Now, because of her virtue, her
husband never suffered defeat at the hands of the gods. When he was at war, she
would not eat or even drink water till he came back. And Jalandar always
returned victorious. The gods were at their wit’s end. They just couldn’t
defeat Jalandar. Then Narad realised that it was Vrinda’s virtue that gave
Jalandar such great protection and that the Shudra king would rule as long as her
virtue remained intact. So he went to Vishnu and told him about this. Then
when the battle started again, Vishnu came in the form of her husband Jalandar
and took her to bed. The moment her virtue was lost, her husband was killed, his
severed head came and fell on her lap and Vishnu stood before her in his real
form. Then Vrinda realised how horribly she had been tricked, she accused
Vishnu of treachery and deceit. Vishnu patted her and said, ‘Now let bygones
be bygones. I’ll give you a boon. You will eternally be a sowbhagyawati. You
will get married to your husband Jalandar every year. People will marry you to a
round nut representing your husband. Nobody will call you a widow.’ Since
then the custom of performing tulsi vivaha came into being, you know! Vrinda is
Tulsi. And you have to keep a shaligram to represent Jalandar in the ritual. But
since Tulsi is a Shudra, she can’t enter the house. So the marriage of Tulsi has
to be performed outside the house and Tulsi Vrindawan has to be kept outside
the house. No one will place it inside their house.
 When I read this story, I was furious. The story clearly represented how the
upper castes had mythologised the repression of Shudra men and women. So I
started writing about these women who were repressed. Then I also got some
books on women like Pandita Ramabai. Attending Baba’s meetings and reading
these books gave me an acute sense of the agony many people, especially women,
have suffered. Then I thought, I have to express this anger, give vent to my sense
of outrage. But merely talking about it will not suffice. How many people can I
reach that way? I must write about it. I must proclaim to the world what we have
suffered.
But how did you begin to write? And when did you get time to write—you
had to sit at the counter and take care of things?
Oh, that’s a long story indeed! Look, I reached the shop at nine in the
morning, after which my husband would leave the shop and go to buy things
that we required. He used to return only around four o’clock. That gave me
plenty of time. I began to write, putting into words the suffering of my
community. I also joined a library and started borrowing books. Whenever I had
a little time, I would furiously make notes. I filled many such notebooks. Writing
was a difficult task. I had to take great care that nobody saw me writing. I used to
hide the papers under old newspapers. I used to keep my notebooks hidden in
places that nobody bothered about, like the uppermost corner of an alcove where
all useless things were thrown together.
Why did you have to hide your writing?
Firstly, because of my husband. He was a good man but like all the men of his
time and generation, he considered a woman to be an inferior being. He would
not have tolerated the idea that I had taken to writing. I used to be scared of him.
So I had to hide my writing.
You started writing when you were thirty or so, but by the time you
published, twenty years had gone by. Did you keep your writing hidden for
twenty years?
(Smiles) Well, I had to. So I hid everything I wrote in the most ignored and dusty
corners. My son had started going to school when I started to write. So for me he
was a knowledgeable, learned man. I used to be scared of both my son and my
husband, scared of their reaction. My husband always called me an ignorant
woman! I was afraid of his response. So I kept everything hidden away from their
eyes for almost twenty years.
 Then it so happened that Maxine Berntson came to stay in Phaltan. Since she
was a sociologist working on the scheduled castes, she came to see me for her
data collection. I began to go with her on her field visits. In the course of our
discussions I told her about the constructive work I was involved in. I used to
invite her for programmes like Ambedkar’s birth anniversary. Then one day she
said, ‘You have been doing so much work, why don’t you write about it?’
So I told her that I had done a lot of writing but hadn’t shown it to anyone.
She invited me to her bungalow with my files. I showed her my notebooks. She
was working on her doctoral thesis then. She made me read the files everyday.
She liked what I had written. Then she talked to Vidya Bal who was working as
the editor of the women’s magazine Stree. And so finally, it was serially
printed in Stree.
Now my son’s in-laws were in Pune. His father-in-law happened to see
Stree and he was amazed to find my writing in it. He came and congratulated me.
I felt very embarrassed. Then some people in my family came to know of this.
Even then I was not ready to tell them more about it. Then Mr Kulkarni, of
Mansanman Publishing House, offered to bring it out as a book and I had to
regularly go and visit him in Pune. Fortunately, my son was then living in Pune
and I used to go under the pretext of visiting him. It was only when the book was
published that everybody at home came to know that I was a writer as well. That
is the story of my book.
What was the reaction of the people from your community when they read it?
Oh, they all liked it. No adverse reactions! Not like Daya Pawar’s
autobiography Baluta in which he wrote about issues like sex that are not to be
openly talked about. Anyway, I even received letters about the book from college
students, both boys and girls, who liked it immensely.
Did they feel that the memories of oppression were too painful, such as what
young girls had to endure when they gave birth to babies? Incidentally, the
Mang girl in Mahatma Phule’s school, Muktabai, wrote about similar
happenings one hundred and fifty years ago!
Yes, she did. That was the life of our women—unchanged for hundreds of years.
So young people welcomed what I had written.
Let us turn to the major question of the political participation of women in
the Dalit movement and the subsequent developments. Women joined Dr.
Ambedkar’s movement in such large numbers. What do you think about their
participation in the post-Ambedkar Dalit movement? One finds very few
women emerging as leaders. Why?
You are right. Women played a major role in Dr. Ambedkar’s movement. But
that doesn’t seem to have happened later. Babasaheb passed away in 1956.
After his time, there was a great tug of war among the leaders. Everybody wanted
to prove himself to be another Ambedkar. This had an adverse impact. People
were confused. Who was Baba’s heir? The people were left far behind in the
ensuing power struggles. Leaders went and camped in Mumbai. Every person
had his own camp of sycophants around him. Every person was busy blowing his
own trumpet. Let me give you an example. Ramdas Athawale was a young man
then, bright and intelligent. He was from the Dalit Panther, the organisation that
represented the anger of the young men against the established post-Ambedkar
Dalit leadership. People were really impressed and many accepted him as their
leader. They thought that only he could implement Baba’s agenda. Many
Dalits became his followers. They trusted the Dalit Panther more than the leaders
of the Republican Party. People felt that old times had been revived. But the
upper castes such as the Brahmins, the Marathas and their parties could not
tolerate this. They were worried that they would lose their power if the new
leadership and the Dalit community became strong. So they played the usual
game. Their leaders lured Ramdas away with promises of making him a minister.
Dalit Panther became considerably weak. The Republican Party was divided into
factions that kept fighting with each other. There was no one left to think about
the people and to provide any kind of leadership to the masses.
So the same politics continues, doesn’t it? Keep the Dalits down by hook or
by crook!
Absolutely. In those days, it happened because the Dalits were uneducated.
Today this happens because the Dalits are educated. In those days, the whole
village kept us down with tactics like refusing to give us water, keeping us at a
distance, and through oppression and injustice. Now the educated Dalits are
behaving exactly as the upper caste villagers used to behave then. Educated Dalits
occupy top positions in the government. Their children enjoy the good life. They
are not bothered about what’s happening to poor people. Whatever they do, they
do only for themselves. The poor Dalits are left where they were. At least
that’s what I feel.
But don’t you think the situation is rather different now? Now many Dalit
castes, as well as the other marginalized castes have become conscious of their
oppression, their rights, their identities. The traditional hierarchies among
castes are being challenged and new alliances are being formed. Dr.
Ambedkar had said that the caste system is not only a division of labour but
of labourers as well. There seems to be a new awakening about this division
among the labourers.
Well, that is happening and yet the cruelty and inhumanness of the same
oppressive system is crossing all bounds! Let me explain. In 1956 Babasaheb
embraced Buddhism. The entire Mahar community followed him and became
Buddhist. But in this process, other communities were left out. We gave up
Hindu religion, the Hindu gods, their worship, etc. But what about the other
twelve Balutedars? They remained what they were, that is, Hindus. The
Chambhars, Dhors, Mangs and many such castes did not change their religion.
They do not want to do so. The Buddhists are isolated. So now it is the Buddhists
versus the entire village, the entire town, the entire country.
What is the solution?
I feel that we have to spread the Buddhist religion everywhere. But they will not
allow us to do so. It is indeed a very difficult situation. We have been isolated.
We will have to fight even if we have to die in this struggle. That seems to be our
future. The Hindu religion has become more aggressive and dominant since we
became Buddhists. Revivalist tendencies are becoming stronger than ever. There
never used to take place so many Satyanarayana pujas before, you know. Now
just look at the proliferating religious programmes. The Hindus really became
more conscious of their religion after Dr. Babasaheb became a Buddhist. Now
the Buddhists are deliberately isolated. The media is in the hands of the Hindu
fundamentalists. They use it systematically for their own campaigns. We have to
face this challenge now.
How did the twelve Balutedars behave in those days? What was their attitude?
All of them had to coexist. We were all together. There were many castes such as
the Chambhar, Dhor, Koshti and others who had been exploited by the upper
castes for their selfish ends. We were outside the village, they were inside it. But
we were all Shudras. Actually even the Marathas were Shudras. But the Brahmins
were so clever, they took all these castes inside the village according to their own
needs and very systematically built a hierarchy amongst them. And the bravest
caste of the Mahars, who were the original inhabitants of this land, was yoked to
their cart. Because they were most scared of this caste, they wanted to keep them
permanently oppressed to avert the possibility of their becoming strong again.
Except for the Matang caste, all were allowed to stay in the village. They also
created a sense of hierarchy amongst us. The Chambhars used to scorn us. We
considered the Dhors to be beneath us. And the Matangas were considered to be
beneath us. That was how we were taught to think. We kept on treating them like
that and they remained distant.
Why didn’t the Matangas join you and convert to Buddhism?
For many reasons. Firstly, they didn’t question the Hindu religion. Secondly,
they were far less in number. There would only be a couple of houses of the
Matangas in the village. They didn’t have the power to refute Hinduism. So
they sought safety in sticking close to the Hindu religion, by remaining within
the fold. That is why we find ourselves alone now in spite of the fact that we are
one of the largest communities.
What other things did you write about? In Dr. Babasaheb’s movement, jalsa
was a popular form of cultural and political action, wasn’t it? Did you write
any jalsa?
(Laughs.) No, not really. I used to write songs though. But not for the jalsas. It
was mostly men who used to participate in the jalsas. Women came together for
celebrating festivals like Nagapanchami in the Buddhawada but the songs would
be about the movement and about Dr. Babasaheb. Those were the times of bitter
feud between the followers of Gandhiji and us. But they used to come for our
programmes. Some of them also came for programmes like basti safai. At the
time of the Round Table Conference, Gandhiji had claimed that he was the
leader of the Dalits. But then Ambedkar challenged him and appealed to all his
people to send telegrams which we all did. It rained telegrams at that time and
Gandhiji and his followers had to eat their words and accept that only Dr.
Ambedkar was the true leader of the Dalits.
Did you ever participate in the programmes organised by the Congress?
Never! Dr. Babasaheb had told us that the Congress party was a burning house;
entering that house would not help our community. Then we started looking at
them as our enemies. But now the situation has changed a lot in the post-
Ambedkar period. Our militancy is gone. Our leaders are hankering after money.
There is no talk of any struggle now. People have become disorganised. They are
divided into so many groups: Gavai group, Athawale group, so on and so forth.
But people did come together at the time of the Riddles controversy[1],
didn’t they?
Yes, only something like that will bring all these groups together.
What do you see today as the major problems of Dalits?
Consider migration of Dalits from villages to cities. Many people migrate in
search of work to the cities from the villages. Yet, quite a sizeable number are left
in villages as well. If there are only seven to eight houses of the Buddhists, the
village can pressurise them, but when there are twenty-five to thirty houses, then
generally there is far less pressure. Of course, in cities like Pune, Mumbai, even
Phaltan, there is no question of anybody trying to apply pressure on them. But
then, how many have access to education? How many have jobs?
Basically our people are still quite poor. And now there are so many divisions.
Big versus small, Ambedkarites versus non-Ambedkarites, high culture versus
low culture. But there is one thing I must say. Today, untouchability is not so big
a problem as reservation is. That’s a major problem. But any struggle requires
a good leader. Dr Ambedkar, it is true, had said, ‘Don’t run behind jobs, get
into business.’ But in spite of so many banks and loan facilities, how many of
these things reach the poor? Take government schemes for instance, they
don’t reach us. We have to face problems of superstitions, corruption, liquor,
addictions like that. There is no control on these.
Do you think women suffer more?
Yes I think so. Now take for instance, reservation. Many illiterate women from
communities like Dhanagar, Ramoshi, etc., have the opportunity to become
village sarpanchs. But how many women are allowed to function meaningfully?
The upper caste goons will never allow them to work. They control everything.
Women are still slaves. And it is not just Dalit women; I see around me many
women from both upper and lower castes. All women are facing problems.
Especially, women from the villages! Their oppression doesn’t come to light.
All cases of rape are suppressed for fear of family honour, pressures from the
dominant communities and political parties. Women work very hard and yet
face so many problems in spite of a slight improvement in the financial position.
You have done so much work in your life; contributed to the social and
educational development of people from many oppressed communities; you
are running an ashramshala in Nimbure for them. You are trying to reduce
their suffering...
Well, the school in Nimbure is a real achievement; there are two hundred and
fifty students now in my school. That’s what Dr. Ambedkar used to tell us to
do. Suffering has been a constant companion for us.
Did you suffer in your personal life as well?
In my personal life, I had to suffer like many other women. But how do you go
and talk about it when everyone is suffering? In my personal life there were some
issues. In those days, men always wanted to control women. It was quite
common for a husband to beat his wife because he doubted her faithfulness. And
I wasn’t an exception. Once we went to Mumbai to attend a meeting, we
travelled in a general compartment that was very crowded and some young men
happened to stare at me. My husband immediately suspected me and hit me so
hard that my nose started bleeding profusely. But people do look at you in the
train, don’t they? How do you stop them from doing so? But there was no
point in explaining this to him. He wouldn’t listen. We did not stay for the
programme either. The same evening we returned and he was so angry that he
kept hitting me in the train. Such things were so common. All my life I had to
face this violence.
How did you endure it? Where did you get the strength?
He would beat me up for some flimsy reason. Actually he used to be very
suspicious. I tried very hard to prove my innocence. I used to cry, explain, plead
with him. Then for a few days everything would be normal. Then again after a
week or so, something would happen and suspicion would raise its head once
again. I had to pass through a series of such things constantly. In fact this was the
life most women led. Every woman knew it by heart. Every woman tried to
negotiate her way out of these hardships. Giving up one’s husband and
marrying another wouldn’t solve the problem because the ‘husbandness’
would be the same in every man. So I decided that I won’t leave. I wanted to
do something constructive and that I would, come what may! I never retaliated. I
used to say, ‘Let him say whatever he wants; nobody else says it except him!
It’s okay.’ All the others in the society had good words for me. And I had
the support of all our men and women. That was very precious for me. That was
my strength, really.
Do you feel it was the fear of this violence, the fear of the suspicion in the
husband’s mind, that kept women away from staking claims to political
leadership?
Absolutely. Women used to be afraid of even looking up at their husbands.
Fortunately I was from Phaltan, people here knew me, I had the backing of
everybody—my father, my brother, people in the community. So I could
achieve something.
Did you ever tell your father or brother or friends about this?
No, never! I never discussed my suffering with anybody. I bore it all alone.
Sometimes, I used to feel desperate. I used to feel like giving up everything. I had
an old uncle. He was blind in one eye. He used to tell us stories of pativrata
women from mythology. May be those stories influenced me a lot. I think that
they also gave me strength to go through all this. My mother-in-law, sister-in-
law, they were all so good to me. Except for my husband, no one else behaved
like this. It is the man who suppresses the woman in our society. This was not
just a relic of the past. Even-after-independence anything would cause the
husband to suspect his wife. Now suppose a woman was cleaning pots and pans
at the front door because there was no other place where she could do it, the
direction in which she threw the dirty water might be taken as a signal of some
sort to a lover. Then the husband would attack his wife, ‘Why did you throw
water in that particular direction? Who was standing there? Who was the signal
for? Where will you meet your lover?’ The poor woman would lose her power
of speech. She would be too scared to even utter a word in self-defence. When
she carried two or three pitchers of water on her head, she had to support them
with her hand. Even that raised suspicion, ‘Right hand or left hand? Was that
a signal? Why did you bend your hand in that way?’ It was an impossible
question. How could she answer this? Can you imagine how women must have
suffered? But they faced all this and did so much!
Didn’t you ever feel like writing about all this?
Well, he was my husband after all! I spent so many years of married life with
him. Besides I had my community to consider, our lack of education, progress. It
would be so demeaning. Besides this was the fate of most women; I wasn’t an
exception. So why write about it, I felt. Besides, the root cause of this was the
male ego. Look, husbands then didn’t have anything else to do. No education,
no jobs, even food they had to beg for. Their male ego gave them some sense of
identity, ‘I am a man, I am superior to women, I am somebody. If the whole
village tortures us, we will torture our women.’ Fathers used to teach their
sons to treat their wives as footwear! A wife’s place was near her husband’s
feet. That was their way of asserting that they too were somebody! Now of
course, things are changing. Because of education, jobs, there is a sense of
achievement. Their ego is sustained by that success.
Anyway, for me, the suffering of my community has always been more
important than my own individual suffering. I have identified myself completely
with my people. And therefore Jina Amucha was the autobiography of my entire
community

[1] The 'Riddles controversy' was generated with the publication of an essay
written by Dr. Ambedkar entitled 'Riddles of Rama and krishna' where Dr.
Ambedkar has severely criticised the Hindu gods Rama and Krishna. This essay
was published as a chapter in the fourth volume of Dr. Ambedkar’s collected
writings published by the Government of Maharashtra in 1987. Madhav Gadkari,
the then editor of a Marathi Daily called Loksatta wrote in his column 'Chaufer'
that Dr. Ambedkar had maligned Hindu gods and had hurt the feelings of the
Hindus. Bal Thackrey, chief of the Shiv Sena, a Hindu fundarnentalist
organisation, demanded that the controversial chapter be deleted from the fourth
volume of Ambedkar's writings. Dalit masses, the left and other progressive
sections in the society, joined hands to counter the attack of the Hindutwa forces.
Huge protest marches were taken out all over Maharashtra. The Congress
government had to retain the chapter and the controversy died after a while. It is
interesting to note that this controversy took place against the backdrop of the
Government of India's ban on Salman Rushdie’s Satanic Verses and the
Ramjanmabhoomi Andolan started in 1986 by the Vishwa Hindu Parishad.
 Afterword

In one of his important works, Colonialism, Tradition and Reform, Professor

Bhiku Parekh has argued that writing autobiographies require certain conditions
which according to him were present in the West one thousand years ago, but
were absent in India. He attributes this phenomenon to the limited value on
individuality ordained by the Hindu metaphysic. He thus rightly suggests that
individuality forms a precondition for writing autobiographies. In Indian
philosophy there is not much scope for celebrating the self, as it is morally
constituted by the tradition of renunciation. This self does not like to brandish its
achievements but rather aspires towards self-effacing moral qualities. At least till
the arrival of bourgeois society with a strong sense of glamour, it did not long for
recognition. On the other hand, the western self is driven by the need to demand
recognition from others; this urge to extract recognition has its roots in the
Hegelian master-slave relationship. Thus, material self in the West is driven by
the cultural need for self-affirmation while the Indian self is defined by its moral
capacity to refrain from claiming credit for achievement. Thus, autobiography as
a practice is linked to individualism that articulates itself in the conditions of
modernity. In India, writing autobiography therefore is a modern phenomenon.
However, it is interesting to note that Gandhi, who belongs to the tradition of
self-effacement and not self-affirmation, has written his autobiography.
In India, one comes across some early attempts by women to write
autobiography, particularly from the upper castes. In Maharashtra there are
several women who wrote their own story. In fact, in Maharashtra there are more
autobiographies written by women than men from the upper castes. This
tradition of writing the self-story probably starts with Ramabai Ranade in 1910.
The most illustrious among them all is the autobiography by Laxmibai Tilak,
published in 1930. This tradition among the upper caste women of writing the
self-story, also existed elsewhere in the country, particularly in Bengal. Tanika
Sarkar, commenting on Amur Jiban by Rashsundari, observes,
“Autobiographies as genre confuses the boundaries between the word and
world†(Sarkar 2001). However, she further goes on to say that, personal
narratives of the upper caste women do not appear in the form of a direct speech.
It is, on the contrary, narrated in an indirect form of a Bhakti or devotional song.
It is here that die dalit women's autobiographies differ from the life-stories of the
upper caste. The writing of autobiographies by dalit women is a much recent
phenomenon, probably dating back to a mere twenty years. Dalit women from
Maharashtra, and later from Tamil Nadu, have taken the lead in writing their
own story without fictionalizing it. These autobiographies reduced the difference
between the word and the world. These self-stories are written in a speech that is
embodied in them. However, scholars have used a varied vocabulary for naming
the story-telling act by dalit women.
Sharmila Rege (2006) has used testimonies as the substitute term for
autobiographies written by dalit women from Maharashtra. Is it possible to
defend the usage? In one sense it would be difficult to defend this usage. If one
chooses to use testimonies, particularly in the context of a legal discourse, then
this usage is hardly available for radical reading of the stories. In the legal
discourse, testimonies are provided in the court by the victim, with the intention
to provide supporting evidence to enable the judge to deliver judgment
impartially, perhaps in favour of the victim. The use in this sense could be
objectionable for two reasons: first, it puts onus on the victim to provide
evidence for innocence; second, it puts the judge in the privileged position. If we
use testimonies as a substitute for dalit womens autobiographies then such form
of representation puts them in to pleading mode, thus denying them an initiative
to interrogate the judge himself. In fact it leaves the initiative with the dalit male
who often act as judge to deliver the judgment. In the language of court
testimonies, it acts as certification from the male. However, one can defend the
use of testimonies if it is understood in another rather radical sense. Testimonies
can be interpreted as a powerful moral medium to protest against the adversaries
both from within and outside. Dalit women's testimonies could be seen as the
political imitative to engage with the dalit patriarchy and social patriarchy. Dalit
women's personal narratives are a kind of protest against the exploitation by the
state on the one hand and market on the other. Dalit women's autobiographies
are also the statement of protest against their exclusion from the dalit public
sphere— literary gatherings, academic gatherings, publishing sphere and other
spheres of recognition, like political parties. Dalit women make only a guest
appearance in the autobiographies written by dalit male. I believe Rege is using
testimonies in the second and not first sense.
In fact, it is possible to use testimonies and autobiographies in an
interchangeable manner, in as much as both these genre involve the conception
of the narrative self. This self, like the self in the West, is not disembodied and is
deeply rooted in the mores of community. This self is partly constituted by the
life-story and acquires larger meaning only in the context of the narrative of the
community. Thus it not only represents a promising future for the individual but
also for the community. This self is both the individual and also the collective.
This self in the dalit women's autobiographies is historically located and
sociologically constituted. It is this normative link between the individual and
the community that empowers dalit women to offer dispassionate criticism of
community practices. Dalit women's stories, unlike the dalit male
autobiographies, are more inward looking as they tend to interrogate the evil
practices of dalit community. Although this internal critique is the common
feature of almost all the autobiographies written by dalit women from
Maharashtra, it is particularly prominent in Baby Kamble’s autobiography. Of
course, these autobiographies also question the larger social system for its anti-
dalit stance. As is the case, the dalit women flow freely in their autobiographies.
This is because they are relatively free from the colonization of their body by the
dalit patriarchy.
The cultural life of dalit women is thinly anchored in Hinduism, which is a
thick bed of ritual practices. Rituals tend to govern the time and space of women,
particularly from the upper echelon of society. Arguably, an upper caste woman's
daily routine is imbued with an heavy dose of rituals, right from early morning to
late evening. She is also consumed by the kitchen and the various ‘satsang
gatherings’. This colonization of time and space is clearly visible in Amar
Jiban—the life story of Rashsundari, a Brahmin woman from a zamindar family
in West Bengal. This complete colonization denies her any opportunity to access
the world of literature. She is deprived of reading material and she has to satisfy
herself with trash newspapers that fortuitously enter the kitchen as packing
material. The ritualization of upper caste women’s time and space is also
clearly evident in the TV serials. The coercive patriarchal backgrounds, which
seek to colonize the female body is less likely to motivate women to tell their
story publicly. The ritualization of space and time results in the folding up of
upper caste women’s body into the patriarchical inner. This ultimately tends
to limit the flow of the narrative which is forced to take indirect forms of speech
as it has been noted by Tanika Sarkar (2001) with reference to Amar Jiban. Amar
Jiban shows that an upper caste woman is folded into a kitchen. On the contrary,
the testimonies written by dalit women show that they flow freely from the
domestic to the public spheres.
The literary scene of Maharashtra represents a very rich collection of
autobiographies written by women from subaltern background— dalits, tribals
and de-notified tribes. However, it has to be noted here that there is an uneven
response from these women in terms of autobiographical writings. For example,
as compared to other subÂcastes, the Mahar-Buddhist women from
Maharashtra tend to dominate this form of representation. Dalit women,
particularly from Matang and Charmakar sub-caste of dalit caste cluster in
Maharashtra seem less inclined to adopt this form of representation. We have no
space to offer serious explanation as to why testimony escapes these women. One
can make a quick point to say that both objective and subjective factors led
Mahar-Buddhist women to achieve the required confidence to write
autobiographies, as statement of protest both against the internal as well as
external structures of exploitation. Unlike the Matang and Charmakar women,
Mahar women were landless agricultural labourers. The slack period in
agriculture always pushed Mahars (male/female) to search for other alternatives
to better their life chances. At the subjective level, the ideological mobilization of
Ambedkar and also the self-help efforts by some of the rich Mahars from
Vidarbha region to start schools for girls seem to have contributed in creating a
strong sense of assertion among Mahar-Buddhist women. In later years,
confidence led these women to articulate their acute sense of exclusion in the
form of autobiography. The Mahar-Buddhist women developed self-
consciousness of their marginalization and exclusion that they make only a guest
appearance in autobiographies written by the dalit male. In autobiographies
written by the dalit male, woman is projected as a sacrificing mother or a mother
patiently enduring pain and suffering, but very rarely as the agency for change. It
is this subordinated image that keeps appearing in the dalit autobiographies that
motivates dalit women to write their own authentic story. To put differently,
politics of presence has led these women to make statements of arrival in the
dalit counter public. In fact, dalit women's testimonies have added to the
subversion value of the counter public. Secondly, as compared to Matang-
Charmakar women, the Mahar-Buddhist women have arrived at modernity quite
early and hence acquired early confidence to write their life-story as they have
been in the public sphere right from the early decades of the twentieth century.
This early arrival to modernity was not arbitrary as the socio-economic
conditions had pushed these women out from their traditional role. Kumud
Pawade, Shantabai Krishnji Kamble, Urmila Pawar, Shantabai Dani, Mukta
Sarvagod and Baby Kamble are some of the important dalit women writers who
wrote their autobiographies.
The narratives of exploitation, humiliation and starvation are common to all
these autobiographies. The triple exploitation (caste, class and gender) is the
common theme and representing modern Ambedkar also forms a common
reference point in almost all the autobiographies. The theme of resistance,
against dalit patriarchy in particular and social patriarchy in general, is also
commonly seen. It is only in case of Mukta Sarvagod's autobiography Mitleli
Kavade (Slammed Doors) that one finds attention distributed between
Ambedkar and other upper caste socialist workers. She seems to have been
influenced by the kind of humanism that the socialists represented in
Maharashtra. Modernity is another common theme in these autobiographies.
The autobiography under reference is different from other dalit women's
autobiographies as it offers a frank description of the nature of dalit patriarchy. It
is a modernist narrative which begins with dreams of modernity and its
realization in the end. These are some of the features that women's testimonies
share in common, and yet Baby Kamble's autobiography is distinct from other
testimonies for the following reasons.
First, Baby Kamble's autobiography The Prisons We Broke is an important text
which offers us an insight into the possibility of understanding the tension
between tradition and modernity. Second, it shows us that it is through the every
day response to this tension between modernity and tradition that the dalits are
determined to chart out their journey to modernity, which according to the
author is epitomized in Ambedkar. Third, Baby Kamble informs us about some
of the important social practices that indicate resonance with modernity and its
sphere of influence. For example the traditional notion of chawdi and kalgi tura
represents what Habermas would call public sphere based on the ability of
deliberation and argumentation. Chawdi is not like the traditional caste court,
jati panchayat, where disputes are discussed and judgments are delivered by the
traditional elite. In fact, the chawdi, in Baby Kamble's story, appears as a much
more open sphere of discussion and debate, offering an opportunity to everyone
to participate in the deliberation on issues concerning the community. As the
autobiography shows, the chawdi as the dalit public sphere has played an
important role in questioning the distorted reading of Ambedkar's movement in
Maharashtra. For example, the reference to Buddhist conversion in Kamble's
story challenges the bias reading of some of the scholars, according to whom
dalit conversion to Buddhism was Ambedkar's personal decision. To put it more
bluntly, it would suggest that Ambedkar imposed the decision of conversion on
the dalits from Maharashtra. This kind of an ahistorical reading might suggest
that the common dalit had no moral responsibility to own up to the decision of
conversion. Baby Kamble's autobiography provides evidence to the contrary
reading of the conversion decision. Her narration suggests that the Mahars from
several villages in the vicinity of her own village town, Phaltan, debated the
question of conversion and the option of Buddhism. They met regularly at the
Chawdi to debate and discuss the issues. These debates often involved the
resistance that some of the traditional Mahars put up to neutralize the impact of
Ambedkar's alternative modern thinking. The author, through the reinscription of
her memory, acquaints us with the bitter but interesting debate between two
Mahars—a modern Mahar(her own grandfather, Malhari) and a traditional
Mahar, the karbhari. The debate is about the intervention of Ambedkar in the
cultural inner that is built up around the religious practices of Mahars. The
traditional Mahar seeks to resist any attempt of intervention in this
culturalreligious domain. The modernist Malhari, from Mumbai, attempts to
force dialogue on tradition, and is vehemently opposed by the conservative
Mahar who tries to protect the cultural inner. The conservative Mahars
resistance seems quite firm. He says to the modernist “Ambedkar has spoilt
your head with his strange foreign knowledge. He has become the Christian.
Then is not he polluted?†It is interesting to note from Baby Kamble's testimony
that the traditional Mahars treat western Christianity as a source of ritual
pollution. The notion of ritual pollution as internalized by the Mahars shows that
they are the victim of what Dumont calls continuous hierarchy. That is to say
those who are the victim of the ideology of purity-pollution also participate in its
perpetuation. The political fall out of this ideological externalization led the
Mahars to treat a body of the upper caste with timeless sacredness. The
acceptance of purity-pollution by dalits tends to sustain asymmetry of cultural
relationship between the Mahars and the upper caste. As the testimony of Baby
Kamble shows, the internalization of the ideology of purity-pollution, compels a
Mahar to keep his body folded, fearful of touching the upper caste and thus
polluting the sacred body. Kamble s story offers an important clue to argue that
Ambedkar’s attempt to culturally delink dalits from Hinduism through
conversion was an attempt to consolidate the hold of modernity and reason over
the Mahars.
Baby Kamble's story brings out brilliandy how the body of a Mahar is
tormented with the tension between the moment of folding and flowing. She has
offered an insightful observation, which suggests that the moment the yeskar
Mahar entered the feudal space, he was forced to bend his back in honour of the
upper caste. Secondly, he was supposed to ring a bell to announce his arrival in
the public sphere infested with caste and the ideology of purity-pollution. Thus,
the public space’ had a diminishing impact on a yeskar Mahar. But as soon as
he entered the maharwada, or a dalit colony in the contemporary time, his body
language would radically change from a hunchback to a person with an inflated
chest, his head held high. His speech act would also change from infrasonic to
supersonic. The familiar would assign to his voice a confidence and firmness. He
could retain the control on his body in the familiar context. He would choose the
familiar as the moral sphere to dissolve the guilt that he is not able to retain the
continuity in the freedom of body language across different spheres. In the
context of Baby Kamble’s story it is further interesting to note that a Mahar's
body begins to undergo painful compression because the public sphere is
occupied by the upper caste presence, both physical and metaphysical. The
Mahar is possessed by the fear of the upper caste, who keeps scaring him even if
the latter is not physically present in the public sphere. As the story shows, the
maharwada would give him the confidence to treat his black blanket, which he
would use for collecting leftover food, like a black attire of a modern barrister.
In The Prisons We Broke we see that the architecture of upper caste houses in
Phaltan was designed in such a way that it would help in keeping the polluting
Mahars at safe distance. In order to cordon off the upper caste from ritual
pollution, the exterior of upper caste houses had raised platforms around it. The
upper caste home was designed with a double purpose of providing a secluding
interior to confine their women within it, and an exterior to keep the dalits
outside. However, with the passage of time, dalit women showed an
extraordinary courage to challenge the upper caste attempts that involved
assigning conceptually inferior meaning to public spaces. The upper caste could
no more confine dalit women either to their dalitwadas or push the latter to the
polluting margin of the public spaces. Baby Kamble describes this dalit women's
struggle for equal recognition in her life-story. Thakubai, a dalit woman is
refused a seat in the last row of the public hall and insisted that dalit women be
permitted to sit in the front row. The queen of Phaltan had to concede this right
to sit in the front. Today, of course, the public sphere in Phaltan has
democratized the spatiality, thus enabling the Mahars to own shops in the prime
location of this town. However, this dalit response to spatial modernity also has
the tragic side to it. The dalits claims for modernity are very seldom welcome
and tolerated by the upper castes. The caste riots reportedly engineered by the
upper castes undermine this claim by attacking the symbols of dalit modernity.
For example, in the riots of 1972, the upper castes are reported to have attacked
the shops owned by the Mahars in Phaltan.
Finally, the life story of Baby Kamble and other dalit women writers decisively
destroy the myth which certifies dalit patriarchy is democratic. Baby Kamble in
her narratives of dalit women's suffering brings out the worst form of
exploitation and physical torture that the dalit male inflicted on dalit women.
The physical torture not only involved physical injuries but also inflicted deep
psychological pain, leaving a scar of humiliation in the minds of dalit women. As
The Prisons We Broke shows, dalit men did not hesitate in chopping off the nose
of those dalit women who according to the former failed to abide by the
patriarchial norms. Baby Kamble also describes in her story a Devdasi system,
which brings disrespect to their individual self. In the Devdasi system young dalit
girls are married either to a god or goddess. This is done for the well-being and
survival of a male child. The conservative mahars are shown opposing the efforts
to demobilize common dalit masses from this system. The argument advanced
by the conservative Mahars in support of the system is quite interesting for they
sought to defend the system by elevating it spiritually. They would argue that
marriage of a dalit woman with God Khandoba is a rare privilege, while the
reformist would argue that this elevation is a reduction of a human being to the
worst form of exploitation. This reduction and elevation is an on-going tension
between those who support the system and those who oppose it. This system is
prevalent among the dalit women from several states in the country. The
autobiogarphy of Baby Kamble also suggests that the radical and motivated
Mahars sought to resignify the pilgimage, like the one to Jejuri, where the
traditional Mahars used to dedicate their girls to God Khandoba as Muralis, into
the modern sites for demobilizing the Mahars from these humiliating practices.
As the autobiography shows, the radical Mahars often used these jatras, or
devotional conglomerations, for culturally mobilizing dalits against the Murali
system. Just to contextualize it further, the upper caste used pilgrimage to
imagine the nation, but the dalit used it for imagining a decent society. The
humour that Baby Kamble has used in her Marathi writing and which is
accurately retained in its English translation by Maya Pandit, makes the reading
of dalit mobilization on certain socially sensitive issues like dowry and eating the
flesh of dead cattle very interesting. The size of share in the flesh of dead cattle
was a point of serious consideration for marrying a girl. The radical mobilization
against this was always difficult. This has been shown by Baby Kamble with a
remarkable touch of humour. The autobiography also describes the trick that the
radical dalit had to deploy for demobilization of dalit from dehumanizing
practices like eating the flesh of dead catde. Baby Kamble shows how her
grandmother used the idea of pig as a weapon to dissuade Mahars from eating
the flesh of the dead cattle. The Mahars in those days were repulsed by the very
idea of pig. Her grandmother used this source of repulsion to keep the Mahars
away from eating dead cattle. It is ironic to note that the Mahars reproduce the
same mechanism of which they were the victim at the first instance. As the
testimony under reference shows, the upper caste avoided eating their food in
the presence of a Mahar who was treated even less than a leper. Now the Mahars
have transformed themselves from lepers to leopards (Dalit Panther).
The story also depicts another dehumanizing practice but with remarkable
sense of humour. According to the dictates of Manu, dalits, even today, are
entitled only to the negative right to cast off cloths or the cloth that is used for
wrapping the corpse. The dalit women from Kamble's village often used this
piece of cloth to critique the dress code of the women from the different upper
castes. This cloth would be used to reproduce the dress styles of the upper caste
women. A dalit woman would act as a Brahmin kaki with a particular dress style
and then again she would wear this cloth like a Gurjar woman. Finally, a
distinctive style prevalent among dalit women would also be represented. This
can be seen as a critique of the dress codes that sought to establish patriarchical
controls over the body of upper caste women. The dalit women offer the critique
of this cultural policing by the upper caste patriarchy. Today, fashion shows are
driven by considerations of promoting a product in the market. But Baby
Kamble's testimony shows what is discarded as obnoxious can be resignified as a
weapon to make a comment on the dress code that would seek to connote the
folded body of an upper caste woman. Dalit women's use of the fashion show
does not smack of envy but it is a much larger comment to reveal the
constraining dress code. This is something remarkable in Baby Kamble. In the
dalit male autobiography, Taral-Antaral by the late Shankarro Kharat, one of the
leading dalit writers, the cloth used for wrapping the dead corpse is used only to
stitch a garment whereas Kamble infuses it with a parodic element.
It would not be an exaggeration to say that Baby Kamble’s autobiography
offers several important clues for doing serious research on the normative issues
of dignity and self-respect and also the much debated issues like tradition and
modernity. It is really heartening to note that the insights that one can get from
Baby Kamble's story would now be available to a larger body of scholars, besides
the Marathi scholars. The translation by Maya Pandit would certainly help
scholars and activists to draw on the valuable resources for recontextualizing
some of the insights that are embedded in the life-story of Baby Kamble. What is
the role of translation? Translations help in bridging the gap between two minds
existing in two different spaces and times, viz. the sociological space in terms of
the caste location, and the intellectual space it allows the dalit concerns to
occupy. It also connects two minds existing in two different spatial contexts. The
story of the self, translated in a communicative language also reveals the
foreignness of others mind. First order translation seeks to communicate the life
experience at the horizontal terrain of language transition. For example, dalit
autobiographies in Marathi have invoked among the non-dalits a sincere
response suggesting a need for self-reflection and interrogation. In some cases it
has also brought out a sense of guilt among the non-dalits. It is interesting to
note that Marathi autobiographies have also generated a sense of embarrassment
within the upwardly mobile dalits. Second order translation makes the dalit
experience available to a larger public through its reproduction in connecting it
to a language like English, then possibly to several vernacular languages. Both the
empirical and the theoretical tends to underplay the authentic through ruthless
editing of the real world of dalit women. Translation plays an important role in
terms of creating a moral impact upon the recalcitrant self, usually from the
upper caste. It can open an ethical/ moral corridor within the hardened self.
Maya Pandit's translation of Baby Kamble's autobiography is accurate and
gives a feeling as if we are reading the story in the original. I hope this translation
will help in expanding the social base of readers, activists and commentators and
will be further translated into several vernacular languages. It is in this sense that
the English translation becomes important for transmission of life words both
within the country and outside it. Another distinctive character of this
translation is that Maya Pandit has succeeded in filling the gaps that Kamble had
left in her own writing. For example, she did not focus much on her personal life.
This has been accomplished by Maya Pandit in her interview with Baby Kamble
that features at the end of the book. The Prisons We Broke produces not only a
use value but a moral value for all of us, both for selfÂinterrogation as well as the
interrogation of the system that forced Baby Kamble to write her story.
Gopal Guru
August 2007
References
Parekh, Bhiku. 1989. Colonialism, Tradition and Reform. New Delhi: Sage.
Rege, Sharmila. 2006. Writing Caste/ Writing (Gender: Dalit Women's
Testimonies. New Delhi: Zubaan.
Sarkar, Tanika. 2001. Hindu Wife, Hindu Nation, New Delhi: Permenant Black.
Sarvagod, Mukta. 1983. Mitleli Kavade. Amelner: Chetashri Publication.

Gopal Guru teaches at the Center for Political Studies, Jawaharlal Nehru
University, New Delhi. He works on caste, gender and Indian politics, particularly
on normative issues related to dignity, self respect and social justice.
 Glossary

Aai Mother

Aaja Grandfather

Aaji Grandmother

Abir A fragrant powder made from various ingredients like

sandalwood

Akhad Dialect form of 'Ashadh', the fourth month of the

Marathi calendar

Akka Term used to address the elder sister

Akshata Coloured rice grains which are showered on the bridal

couple in the marriage ceremony

Amawasya No-moon night

Ambil Liquid preparation made with ragi and buttermilk

Ambura Stale food gone sour

Angara Holy ash

Angara Holy ash

Anna Old measure of money (The equivalents would be:

16 annas=1 rupee; 2 annas=1 ginni; 3 gandas=1

damdi; 4 cowries=1 ganda or pei; 4 damdis=1 paisa;

6 paise=1 anna)

Appasab Term of respect used for a brother or man.

Arhar dal A kind of lentil

Ashwin Name of the seventh month in the Marathi calender

Atya, Atyabai Paternal aunt; often mother-in-law, because of the

custom of marrying the girl to the paternal aunt's

son

Baliraja The king of the Shudras. The story goes that he was

a very benevolent king, so the gods became scared of

his merits. God Vishnu went to him in the form of a

young Brahmin and taking advantage of his

generosiry asked for land that could be spanned in three

steps. When Bali granted him his wish, Vishnu

assumed a gigantic form and covered the earth and

the sky in two steps. When Vishnu asked for place

for the third step, Bali offered his head. Vishnu put

his foot on Bali's head and pushed him deep down

 his foot on Bali's head and pushed him deep down

into the nether world.

Balutedars The twelve major Shudra and Atishudra Dalit castes

that were responsible for the village work and were

entitled to some return.

Barbat Cooked meat; meat curry

Bashinga Crown of flowers placed on the heads of the bride

and the groom

Bhagat A non-brahmin priest; medicine-man; godman

Bhajani A group of amateur singers who often sing in the

mandal
temple at nights. They would also go to people's

houses and sing for different occasions.

Bhaji Vegetable

Bhalkri Roti made from jowar flour

Bhandara Holy turmeric

Bhanwas A small clay platform

Bhau Brother

Bohole The platform on which the bride and groom sit

during the time of marriage

Boka Limb of an animal

Bombil Dried bommelow fish

Bukka Black powder used for worship

Chaitra The first month of the Marathi calendar

Champak A kind of flowering tree

Chang bhale A ritual chant in the worship of god Khandoba and

goddess Mari Aai

Chanya Pieces of dried meat strings

Chaturvaryna The system of four'Varnas', viz., Brahmin, Kshatriya,

Vaishya and Shudra. This term excludes the

Atishudras like the Mahars

Chawdi A central place in the village for public and official

transactions. The Mahars would have their own

Mahar chawdi in their locality.

Choli Traditional blouse

Chulat aaja Granduncle

Chulha Stove

Cowry An old measure; see note on'anna'

Dakshina Money or things offered to the Brahmin priest as a

Dakshina Money or things offered to the Brahmin priest as a

mark of respect

Damdi An old coin, very low in value; see note on'anna'

Devhara Platform on which idols of gods are kept

Devrushiin Fortune-teller

Dhabbu Literally means fatso. The word is used to refer to a

round biggish coin worth one paisa in the old times.

Dhangar Shepherd

Dhani Master; low castes had to address the upper caste men

as'Dhani'

Dhondya From'dhonda', a name meaning stone

Dhoop sticks Incense sticks

Dhoti A garment worn by men to cover the lower half of

the body

Dhupa arti Ritual worship

Dimdi A tiny drum carried by the vaghya

Dir Brother-in-law, Husband's brother

Ganda An old measure of money; see note on 'anna'

Ghat River bank

Ghongadi Coarse blankets of sheep wool

Ghongadi Coarse blankets of sheep wool

Ghugrya A dish of unhusked jowar grains soaked in water,

ground and rolled into small balls

Ghumki A prolonged and deep ringing sound produced in

the throat; also a small musical instrument or chord

Ginni Old measure of money; see note on'anna'

Gomutra Cow's urine, considered to be holy by upper caste

Hindus

Gudhi Padva The first day of Chaitra, the first month of the

Marathi calendar, celebrated as new year's day

Gudhi Flag

Gulal Coloured powder

Gulawani A syrupy dish made from jaggery traditionally served

in festive meals or marriage feasts

Hadal A female ghost which is supposed to be quite

terrifying

Haldi Turmeric

Halgi A kind of drum

Inibai Kinship term, signifying relationship between the

mothers of the bride and groom

Ithuba The dialectal pronunciation of 'Vithoba' or Viththal

Iwan Kinship term, signifying relationship between the

fathers of the bride and groom

Jalsa A public performance of songs

Janeu The sacred thread worn by Brahmins as a mark of

their status as a high caste

Jatra Carnival

Jogtin A girl offered to goddess Bhawani/Ambabai as her

ritual worshipper

Johar mai/bap The traditional greeting or'salaam' that the Mahar

was supposed to offer to the higher caste people

Jowar millet

Kaka Paternal uncle, father's brother

Kaki Paternal aunt; also a respectful way of addressing elder

women

Kalawatin A dancing woman from the Kolhati caste; also means

woman artist. The word is also used as a term of

 woman artist. The word is also used as a term of

insult, signifying a woman with loose morals.

Kameej Long shirt

Kanher A wild bush with pink-white flowers which are used

for worship

Karavali Bride or groom's sister or female cousin

karbhari leader of the community

Kargota String tied around the waist

Kartik Eighth month of the Marathi calendar

Karuna Compassion

Katwat Wooden plate

Keli Mud pitcher used to store drinking water

Khanderaya God khandoba of Jejury

Khob A groove

Khun Tiaditional blouse piece with a big border

Kolhati A nomadic caste lower in the caste hierarchy, famous

for men who play musical instruments and women

who dance.Women artists in the folk theatre often belong to

this caste.

Kumkum Red powder used to make a mark on the forehead

Kuncha Small brush used to gather the flour spilt around the

grinding stones

Kurwadya Tapioca wafers

Laki Meat soup

Lezim A musical instrument in the form of a stout short

stick with a chain attached to it like a bow string.

Thin round iron slices are woven in the chain, which

make a musical sound when the stick is shaken. Used

in folk dances and sports.

Lonar A caste that traditionally sold lime or charcoal

Madanwayu High fever which especially afflicted new mothers

Magh Eleventh month of the Marathi calendar

Mahar The name of an Atishudra caste

Maharwada The residential colony of the Mahar community

located outside the village

Mali Gardener

Mama Maternal uncle

Mami Wife of maternal uncle

Mamledar The government official responsible for the

 administration of the district and the collection of

revenue

Mandal Group or club

Mangwada The residential colony of the Mang community

Maratha A Kshatriya caste. Traditionally fighters, landholders,

rulers

Mawshi Maternal aunt

Mistry An honorific term for a carpenter or contractor

Mridung A kind of drum

Mudy A woman whose nose has been chopped off

Mundawali Ceremonial strings of flowers worn by the bride and

groom on their heads. One string is tied around the

forehead and the other two fall on each side of the

face, framing it with flowers.

Murali A girl offered to god Khandoba in marriage

Nachya Male dancer who dressed as a female in the Tamasha

theatre

Nag narsoba Mud snakes which are worshipped on the Nagapanchami

day

Nagapanchami Snake festival

Nagapanchami Snake festival

Namaj Muslim prayer

Neeti Ethical, upright behaviour; morality

Nivad Sacrificial food offered to the gods

Padri Christian priest

Padva Marathi new year day

Paisa Old measure of money; see note on'anna'

Pallav The part of the sari which covers the torso

Panch Committee composed of the elder men of the

community which dispensed justice

Pancha Towel

Panji Meat soup

Parul Clay pots

Patil The administrative officer of the village, generally

from the Maratha caste

Pativrata A woman who upholds her husband as god and serves

him faithfully

Pei Old measure of money; see note on'anna'

Pithale Dish made of dal flour

Potraja Ritual worshipper of the god Khandoba and

Potraja Ritual worshipper of the god Khandoba and

goddesses like Ambabai, who played drums

Pradnya Intellect

Puran poli Sweet chapattis stuffed with jaggery and lentils

Rede jatra Buffalo fair conducted during the festivities for the

mother goddess

Rukhwat Ritual gifts to the bride from her maternal house,

kept on display

Saint Tukaram The 17th century Marathi saint poet who belonged

to the Warkari sect

Sankashti The fourth lunar day of every dark fortnight in a

Chaturthi
month on which devotees fast to avert difficulties

and troubles. Sacred to God Ganapati.

Sasra Father-in-law

Sasu Mother-in-law

Sat Asra Seven spirits that are supposed to dwell in rivers and

wells, and are worshipped as deities

Satwa Truth
Sheel Character

Satwai and A pair of deities who are believed to write the future
Barma
of a child on its forehead on the fifth day after the

child's birth. Barma is the dialectal form of

Brahmadev, the brahminical god, from the trinity of

Brahma, Vishnu and Mahesh worshipped by the high

caste among Hindus.

Shalu Heavily brocaded sari, generally worn by the bride at

the time of marriage

Shenai A musical instrument

Sher An old measure (around 1 kilogram)

Shimpi Tailor

Shravan Fifth month in the Marathi calender

Suti roti Roti of wheat flour made without oil offered with

the cooked liver, heart and lungs of the sacrificed

animal

Suwasini A married woman whose husband is alive

Thgari Deep wooden plate

Tail/Thisaab Term of respect generally meaning 'elder sister'

Tal Cymbals

Tambul Combination of betel leaf, areca nut, clove, lime, etc, eaten
after meals

Thrwad A wild tree bearing yellow flowers

Tarya A term of respect used to address a man. Also a name.

Thwa Baking plate made of iron

Teli Oil merchant

Tonga Horse carriage

Ukadala Literally boiled food; here, decayed food that is boiled

Vaghya Ritual worshipper of god Khandoba offered to the

god as a child

Vajra The deadly weapon of God Vishnu which is

invincible

Vinkar Weaver

Walni Here, a string for hanging things

Yeskar The Mahar whose duty was to work for the village

Zad Literally a tree; here, a person possessed by a spirit,

god or goddess

Zalu songs Zalu is a song sung on the fourth day of wedding

festivities before the bride leaves for the groom's

festivities before the bride leaves for the groom's

house. The women from her maternal household sit

by the bride and her mother and sob as they sing the

song. The men stay quietly in the background