The savarnas in the village always used coercion to force the safai karamcharis to do the filthy work of collecting night soil. If anyone refused, the village headmen and businessmen would summon and question them. The Thakurs and Raghuvanshis hurled abuses and threats. “Do you want to live in the village or not? We will not spare your lives.” There was no point in leaving the village either, because people of our jati had to do this work everywhere. Besides, forming new relationships in a new place was a daunting task.
Our refusal to do this work invited a flood of abusive words and poisonous behaviour, enough to keep our people in constant fear. The threat of sexual violence against our women also remained a powerful weapon of control. Even after the municipality was formed, the savarnas continued to hold on to their dominance.
Once, the safai karamcharis of the municipality went on strike. Their monthly wages were a mere five rupees, and even that was never paid on time. They demanded an increase in their pay. The protestors would be summoned to the police station – sometimes urged to compromise, and at other times, beaten brutally by the police. Many people were badly injured. In Seoni, Hari Rathore, Phoolchand Baggan, Chhotelal Baggan, Gorelal, and Dulichand Rathore were the bold and outspoken men of our community. After striking work, a jati panchayat was called, and a unanimous decision was made to go on an indefinite strike. Our people were prepared for the worst, and the savarnas failed to intimidate them. The strike was announced publicly and lasted an entire week, throwing Seoni and Banapura into chaos. Villagers came to our homes, urging us to return to work. People of our jati were summoned to the police station and threatened with dire consequences, but this time, no one gave in. This was the result of their newfound resolve.
The distraught women of our community described the condition of their injured husbands and sons to other women and wept over the uncertain future of their children. Another jati panchayat was held to discuss possible solutions to this grim situation. During the strike, policemen constantly patrolled our mohallas, forcing our men into hiding. When they couldn’t find the men, they summoned the women to the police station and made them sit there all day. The women were subjected to verbal abuse and humiliation, threatened with dire consequences, and told to persuade their men to end the strike. Terrified, the women yielded easily. Hearing them weep filled me with fear too. Kalicharan Bhaiya’s wife, Budhia Bhabhi, however, was a bold and fearless woman. Whenever she saw the policemen, she hurled abuses at them: “May you rot in hell! You envy our men and cast lustful eyes on our women. Don’t you have women at home?”
The villagers always managed to break such strikes; this was true of strikes in places like Hardi, Itarsi, and Hoshangabad too, which would be forcibly brought to an end. On such occasions, a jati panchayat was convened, and the elders would advise the people of our community to compromise. But we continued to do the same work as before, and we continued to endure the same hardships. This pattern had been reproduced for generations. Young men who resisted and refused to work without pay were summoned to the police station and beaten. False charges of theft and robbery were levelled against them. Then they were given a choice – return to work or rot in jail. The constant threat of the police kept us living in fear.
Many such atrocities were committed against our people in Madhya Pradesh, Rajasthan, and other states of northern India. Goons hired by casteist savarnas would storm into our mohallas, beat up our men, and publicly humiliate our women. They even set fire to our bastis. On hearing about such incidents from Pitaji and my brothers, Ma and Nani would tremble with fear and pray to God for protection. Yet the injustices and atrocities committed by the savarnas continued without end.
And so, the safai karamcharis of the municipality in Seoni went on strike in 1968 to demand better wages and working conditions, but also to protest against the harassment they were constantly subjected to. I was in class eight then. This time, they showed unity and firm resolve. The demands that had been ignored by government officials for years were now quickly accepted. When the week-long strike ended, the villagers heaved a sigh of relief. After this incident, our people began to be treated with a measure of respect. This was a big achievement, yet our people never realised their own strength. Had they understood the meaning of this change, they could have moved further towards liberation from their oppression. After the strike ended, they struggled immensely clearing the backlog of work that had piled up over those eight days.
The second major strike took place in protest against dry latrines. The workers stopped work for many days. Official notifications were issued, recognising the seriousness of the situation. Flush latrines were built to replace the dry ones. This was a major victory for us, yet the work of carrying night soil continued wherever dry latrines remained. Our people still did this degrading work – out of ignorance, fear, or helplessness.
Gandhiji’s ideas about the upliftment of the Harijans were widely promoted in our region, but our people didn’t realise that they had brought no real improvement in our condition. Having deep faith in Gandhiji, they often said, “Mahatma Gandhi cleaned his toilet himself. Under his influence, even the traders and moneylenders had begun to pick up the garbage around their homes and dispose of it themselves. When such big businessmen didn’t hesitate to do this work, why should we? We were born into this caste and must do this work, whether we like it or not.”
This was a kind of conspiracy, a trap to deceive innocent people and stop them from even thinking about resistance or rebellion. The untouchables got caught in Gandhiji’s play of words and remained “Harijans”, “children of God”, only in name. Neither did Babasaheb Ambedkar’s ideology reach them nor did they understand its meaning. Their degrading occupation and wretched condition made their lives miserable, yet they could not think beyond fate and karmic retribution.
Our people placed great faith in Mahatma Gandhi and the Congress party, believing them to be their saviours. Congress had been in power for many years. When the Janata Party came to power in 1977, it caused great anxiety among our people about their future. This became a frequent topic of discussion among Ma, Nani, and Pitaji. During election time, when candidates from different parties came to our home asking for votes, Ma, Nani, and Pitaji assured each of them of their support but always ended up voting for the Congress. Some party workers even came home and handed out ten-rupee notes to each voter. They made many promises and offered temptations, but nothing was ever done to improve our lives. We continued to live in misery and deprivation. I often heard people say that our country was progressing and advancing technologically, but we hardly benefited from it.
Every year, Gandhi Jayanti and Bal Divas were celebrated at school. In the mornings, children took out processions, and the village traders distributed sweets to them. We raised our hands high, cheering for our leaders. That was how our childhood passed. On August 15 and January 26, Congress leaders gave speeches in school programmes. On those days, I felt a surge of patriotic pride and shouted “Bharat Mata ki Jai!” with enthusiasm. My father and brothers taught us the values of patriotism and devotion to the nation, and as I grew older, I began to understand them myself. Yet our world remained apart – one in which we faced hunger, deprivation, and humiliation every single day.
Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru passed away in May 1964, and the entire nation was plunged into mourning. Condolence meetings were held in villages. Lal Bahadur Shastri became the prime minister of India and was hailed as the leader of the poor and the peasants. In those days, truckloads of people could be seen in villages chanting the slogan “Jai Jawan, Jai Kisan” (Hail the Soldier, Hail the Farmer). Life, in all its aspects, continued as usual. Since individuals and society are shaped by social, religious, educational, economic, moral, and political forces, our lives too were influenced by them. We would listen intently to discussions on these issues and reflect on them with unease. The political situation in the country was unstable, and the threat of war hung in the air. Whenever we saw aircraft flashing lights of different colours in the sky, my brothers told us they were sending coded signals. India and Pakistan were at war, and leaders delivered speeches claiming Kashmir and praising India’s glorious past. Students were gathered and informed about matters of national security to stir patriotic feelings of sacrifice and martyrdom.
However, the very people who spoke of patriotism also practised untouchability towards us. We listened to the villagers’ conversations from a distance, while news of the war was constantly broadcast on the radio. My brothers shared updates they had gathered from the newspapers. During discussions to resolve the 1965 Indo-Pakistani war, people spoke of Prime Minister Lal Bahadur Shastri’s visit to Tashkent and his death by poisoning in 1966. The entire nation was plunged into grief, and from then on, Shastri Jayanti was celebrated alongside Gandhi Jayanti on October 2.
In July 1969, Prime Minister Indira Gandhi announced the nationalisation of fourteen major banks, and this became a major topic of discussion. One day, annoyed with the peon, Thapak sir quipped, “Banks are getting nationalised. Peons should also be nationalised.” We burst out laughing.
On August 15, 1972, India celebrated the silver jubilee of its independence from British rule with great pomp and joy. Our village too was decorated and lit up for the occasion. Shakuntala Mami, the wife of our eldest mama, Sukhlal Rathore, came to visit and said, “Arrey bhaiya, the government has ordered that everyone must hang a lantern outside their home. But how will we light our homes? Do we even have enough oil and wicks?” That day, the entire country – not just the upper-caste bastis of Banapura and Seoni – was decorated and illuminated. Only our homes, far from the village, remained wrapped in darkness.
In those days, public discussions were largely against capitalism and in favour of socialism, and government policies reflected the same. In the literary sphere, many kavi sammelans and conferences were held that centred on Hindi poetry infused with socialist and progressive thought. In 1973, upper-caste lovers of literature organised a big kavi sammelan in Seoni, where Bhawani Prasad Mishra was felicitated. Neither my family nor I ever had the chance to attend such events. I came to know about it long after it was over.
Although people spoke of social unity and progress, nothing changed in our condition. Conversations often centred on social reform, but no one dared to challenge tradition. As a result, most people continued to follow the old customs. Despite the closeness of Maharashtra and Madhya Pradesh, the Bhangi community could not benefit from Babasaheb Ambedkar’s message of Dalit awakening and self-respect, even though Nagpur had once been the capital of Madhya Pradesh, the Central Provinces and Berar. We knew nothing of the movements Babasaheb had led before and after Independence due to the conspiratorial machinations of Gandhiji. Branded as “Harijans” by him, we kept singing his praises and remained grateful for the crumbs of pity and sympathy he doled out to us. That was the kind of life and mindset we had in those days, and even if we wanted to, we could not begin to imagine what dignity and self-respect meant.
Author Sushila Takbhaure , Deeba Zafir & Preeti Dewan
Excerpted with permission from My Shackled Life: A Dalit Woman’s Autobiography, Sushila Takbhaure, translated from the Hindi by Deeba Zafir and Preeti Dewan, Speaking Tiger Books.
Courtesy : Scroll
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