#dalitpride

Four months ago, when I decided to ‘come out’ as Dalit, I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t know that I would immediately find ‘my people’ – a formidable online (and offline) community of fellow Dalits and Ambekarites who would then help me find pride in my Dalitness. I didn’t know I would discover my history hollowed out by systemic oppression and recognize a society that never stopped hating me or my people for being who we are. I didn’t know I could feel the flaming rage I did when I fully understood why Rohith, Delta, Jisha were killed, raped and brutally murdered. Or the despair on realizing how easily that could have been me.

But I also didn’t know that being Dalit would give me my voice. A voice that will make fellow Dalits reach out to say that they are not scared to ‘come out’ now. A voice that would instigate such pitiful fear among fundamentalists that they would be forced to carry out a 24-hour hate tweet cycle to shut it up. A voice that I had used otherwise but was never as unfettered, assertive or loudly heard as it was when I used it as a Dalit.

“Bhujang? Bhujang mhanje kon?” (Who are the Bhujang’s?)

If I had a dime for every time someone asked me this question, I’d be so rich, I wouldn't have to put up with all these questions ever again.. such wishful thinking.

 I grew up as a “normal” convent educated kid. Oblivious to caste, religion and all of the so-called societal evils that kids don't normally care about. Now that I think about it, I have a vivid memory of teachers walking into my fifth standard class for some sort of a convenient SC/ST roll call and announcing ‘all such kids to raise their hands’. Sure enough, there would be 5 or 6 of us. I’d raise my hand like it was something special and go back to the tomfoolery.

 I still didn't make anything of it, because I didn't know anything about it. As far as I was concerned, my younger brother and I were just like everyone else. I wore the same uniform to school, I did well in school and other things I pursued, we didn't get everything we asked for, but we got the occasional Barbie doll and roller skates. Books were never denied, music was cultivated like a subject (from early morning Marathi folk songs to ghazals to old Hindi songs and the list goes on). Festivals and food celebrated with aplomb. Clothes and appearances were cared for, shoes were always polished. I had the same assembled computer in ’96 that everyone else did, the same Encarta CD, Rahul Dravid posters adorned my walls and the slow but steady collection of ‘Now That’s What I Call Music’ cassettes before I discovered Napster.

To add to it, my name wasn't exactly a giveaway. ‘Neha Bhujang’ wouldn't necessarily ring alarm bells, so I was a happy chameleon.

I’m unable to pinpoint the exact moment I had an existential question, but I would place my bets on the forms that needed to be filled up - the dreadful box that had to be ticked and then the questions came. I reckon this was nothing short of the ‘birds and the bees’ sort of a conversation with my parents and that’s where real life began.

I speak of my parents before I speak of myself because there is no one else to tell their story and also why I call myself a proud Dalit.

 Both my parents were born to Mahar parents in Aurangabad in the 50s when Babasaheb’s life long struggle had fruitfully culminated in an inclusive constitution, we had the reservation in schools and jobs and my grandmother even lives to tell us about the day she converted to Buddhism at Deekshabhoomi in Nagpur way back in ’56. 

We now had rights, but their stories tell me that putting pen to paper does little to wash off a social stigma that is over 2000 years old. The similarities in their stories as kids are staggering - sitting separately while eating, shamed out of innocent temple visits, forbidden to touch the village well to draw water, waiting to be served water in their hands from a distance lest they pollute the vessel, unwelcome in upper caste homes, watching their parent’s salute “Johar Mai Baap” (a salutation invented by the Peshwas which meant “ You are my mother, my father, you are my supremacy and I bow to you”) to the upper castes, some of whom weren't as economically blessed as us. Confused faces asking, “Why do we have to do all this?” to hear a dejected “because that’s how it is child” reply in return.

 This was proof that no matter your economic status, caste is like a tattoo on your face that you cannot hide. Reservation gave my parents the right to higher education, a better life and also the ability to exercise their rights as equal citizens of a free country. Both of them were toppers throughout and were the favorites of their teachers, but they had to earn it the hard way.

 As they grew up, there were instances of promotions being held back, jealous colleagues and classmates, being assigned menial assignments, unnecessary firing, transfers to locations where your caste would travel faster than you ever could, colleagues pretending to be collegiate yet no one would eat from your tiffin at lunch. But there were also some Brahmin and upper caste friends who would play with them irrespective, doting principal/teacher who would indulge them with books because they did justice to them, colleagues who didn't care and became fast friends and bosses who were fair and cared about their growth.

 Suffering discrimination is like swallowing a morsel of food with angry tears in your eyes and a lump in your throat. It makes your feel worthless and small but much like their parents, I suspect they found the strength and they passed it on to us. They went out of their way to make us realize that we were not “backward” in any way, just because we were called so. We could be better than anyone we wanted to be and we genuinely believed it. They taught us by example what Babasaheb taught them - to educate oneself, dress impeccably, learn the language, not just to be good, but to be the best at something, to be humble and to work hard and doubly hard to let your merit shine through because that’s what it would take to prove yourself to the world. 

 So we grew up proud of saying “Jai Bhim” and who we were. 

I’ve had my fair share of boyfriend’s moms’ freaking out as they found out, teacher’s proclaiming in class “Tumhara admission to kahin bhi ho jayega,” unconcerned that I was one of the handful of girls in 12th standard with an ambition to become an engineer. I was asked in interviews whether I really deserved the reservation, some friendships turned awkward, there office conversations about reservation that I couldn't partake in, turned a deaf ear to terms like “bhangi” thrown around ‘harmlessly’, heard friends express disbelief when I came out when they said, “But you don't look like a Dalit”. Fair weather friends who claimed they have ‘so many friends from backward communities and don't care about caste’ probably couldn't hold a candle to my husband (and his Tamil Brahmin family) who had the courage to marry me without any unnecessary drama.

 I did go on to become an engineer (as a merit student throughout), completed an MBA from a premiere institute and secured a day 1 placement in a multinational bank; while pursuing music on the side.

I’ve also died a hundred times when I couldn't raise my voice because I had to protect myself against fear of getting ostracized - but the key to feeling powerful is also feeling helpless at first and then find the right platform to voice and fight - because for many of us it’s still a fight every single day.

 I know now of Babasaheb’s vision when he said that the only way to truly rid us of this problem is through education, inter-caste marriages, hard work and unquestionable pride…to be so proud that they can’t touch you as you blaze your trail. 

 In any case, I’d take interesting over normal any day.

- Neha Bhujang (@pureshores)

When I was very young and went to my village, my neighbours at the water pump asked me not to touch them. I thought it was a game. When I returned to my school, in my hometown, I wanted to play the "untouchable" game but my friends found it boring. We ended up playing name, place, animal and thing. 

"Oh, you are too pretty to be an SC."

"No one would believe you are an SC."

"You look like a Brahmin!" 

These are some things that I continued to hear while growing up

My teachers told me that I was very lucky to be an SC because I could get ‘access’ to higher education and top government jobs. I was a straight A’s student in my school, always in the top 5. Then, I was too dumb to know any better. I thought it was OK to be spoken to this way.

 I thought my mom was exaggerating when she told me how her possessions were set on fire in the hostel room when her roommate found out that she is Dalit. I thought the stories of discrimination that my mother, grandfather and aunts faced were a thing of a past. 

 Then I faced it! 

 My Brahmin boyfriend's mother rang my phone, "I don't have caste feelings but I can't let an SC come into my home." She hung up after threatening to complain to the police (wonder what the FIR would read like, "An SC is in love with a Brahmin!" Gasp!) 

 I have received admission in the MA and Ph.D. programs without availing the reservation, as was my right because there was always a nagging voice telling me that everyone might think I only got it because of reservation. The voice got so loud, for a while I believed it and it felt so real and vivid.

 Funny, that when caste and its ramifications are discussed, the first thing that everyone decries is the reservation. The outrage, anguish, victimhood and pain are absent and the stories of caste-based discrimination and atrocities are turned a blind eye to.

 The only response to even mentioning the word ‘Dalit’ is the reservation.

Would reservations be needed if the same fervor and dedication were displayed against the discrimination on the basis of caste? 

 In India, there are many schemes to give impetus to women empowerment. Fellowships for a girl child’s education, lesser interest rates on loans for homes and women entrepreneurs, reservation in jobs, panchayats and numerous schemes regardless of their economic status.

It is needed in a patriarchal society where women are sidelined, discriminated, and subjected to sexual, physical and mental violence - for their security, empowerment, independence, and equal representation. 

And this doesn't make all women victims and all men abusers. Here men and women come together for the betterment of women's position and rights in society. The same applies to marginalized sections too. Even though some still continue to oppose these women-centric measures.

You are lucky and privileged if you haven't faced discrimination, constantly reminded of your ‘lower’ birth hierarchy (race, caste, gender), consistently undermining your capacity, haven’t heard slurs based on your caste (mala munda - SC Bitch, madiga lanja - SC whore), race (N-word, coloured, chimps), gender (cunt, pussy, whore, slut) or religion (cut bulli - half-dicks). And Dalit women, who are ‘double untouchables’, get a double serving of those slurs.

- Deepthi Krishna, Ph.D. Research Scholar, University of Hyderabad.

I often read comments, that say that no one cares about caste these days, these Dalits just want to make an issue out of it and so on.  Here are some very recent examples of discrimination around me!

1. My husband's and my family have known each other since years. The relations were hunky dory till my husband revealed to his folks about his intention to marry me. They very clearly told him that though they agree that the girl and family is educated and cultured and are absolutely fine with a ‘friendship’ with having Dalits as a part of their family is totally unacceptable. They tried to make him understand about what will people say etc. Finally after a prolonged heart-wrenching battle with his family, my husband got married to me but his folks did not attend our wedding nor they kept any communication with us. And this was in year 2008.

2. My uncle was posted in Zhasi on a managerial designation. My grandma died at his house. Forget about paying last respects, not a single person from that locality came forward to give 'kandha' to her. Even my uncles juniors and peons hesitated. My dad and relatives took two full days to reach Zhasi from Nagpur due to some train issues and only after that  her last rites were performed. This was year 2007. 3. Two of my upper caste (UC) friends were looking for grooms and their parents agreed to consider guys from other castes too. Being a close friend I accompanied them to marriage bureaus where community wise 'groom registers' are maintained. They asked me to help them scan the resisters and if I come across guys with xyz criteria show it to them. I was  having fun shortlisting the guys till I showed them one particular guy. Thier excitement died when they saw the register with the heading 'Buddhist grooms'. They told me clearly, please don't see registers from this community. Only I know how I felt at that moment.  This was year 2009. 4. I was born and raised in a Dalit locality. Though it is in the midst of Nagpur city, very few people know its name. During school, my friends parents asked me where I lived and the moment I explained how to reach there (since no one knew my localities name) I could see the difference in their facial expressions. Never did any of my friend came (or rather were allowed) to come to my house. This was 90's. 5. When I had applied for my first passport I had to visit the nearest police station for a verification. When the officer saw my address he smirked at me. “Why does a girl from xyz locality need a passport?” ( wish I remembered his name so that I could show him that this Dalit girl is now a globe trotter) 6. Very often we see that even if when an Indian moves abroad they carry and maintain 'Indianess'. When I moved abroad, during the first get together with the Indian community, our host who has lived here for last 22 years played the infamous 'surname game' with me (the one which brahmins play with UC hindus  and UC hindus play with lower caste hindus and Dalits ) and then majority of us know the aftermaths. I was taken aback but not shocked. This was year 2013. 7. Every Dec 6th, Dalits flock to Mumbai to pay homage to Dr Ambedkar at Chaitya Bhoomi Mumbai. Every year (I remember even when I was in an engineering college) my friends cringe about the difficulties they have to face on that day due to these 'ghati' people.  “Pata nahi kyu aatey hai, kya milta hai inko is din yaha bheed karke”. But these same friends of mine enjoy the crowd, the gulal and the noise on ganesh utsav and gokulashtmi (big Hindu festivals). This 'ghati' slur, 'jai bhim waley' comments from my friends, for the people of my community hurt me a lot, made me angry but I never retaliated  for one simple reason – to confirm to the standards (but now i regret why I didn't) 8. I was born and raised in Nagpur till I was 17. Every dusshera Buddhist dalits from entire India especailly rural India come to Deekshabhoomi to celebrate 'Dhamma Chakra pravartan din'. My school friends never failed to comment- “Kya ye log aate hai ganda karte hai, pura trafic jam hota hai, gawar log.  Whereas on the same day, Ramnavmi is celebrated in other parts of Nagpur. There the sophisticated UC people gathered to burn the Ravan effigy, enjoy the food and other stalls and of course to litter too. The next day my friends would  happily discuss how they enjoyed their holiday. I could never tell them that I too enjoyed but at  Deekshaboomi. I could never tell them that I am a part of that crowd whom they call 'gawthi'.

9. On numerous occasions my domestic help in Mumbai passed nasty comments about 'Jaibhim waley log' in her slum. On one occasion my husband told her that your madam is also a 'Jai Bhim wali' and for the first time in my life the situation was hilarious for me and embarassing for the so called UC person.

10. My first cousin is currently pursuing her BCA in Nagpur. Her late father was an unlicensed coolie at a railway station and her mother is a daily wage worker in packaging factory. She studied in a vernacular medium in a corporation school but always cherished a dream of working in a company and supporting her mother financially. Despite all odd conditions at home, she scored distinction in SSC.  She is the first person in her family to even read and write. She needed financial help and encouragement to go ahead in life. I am helping her with the financial needs. BUT what she needs at this moment is to get her self-confidence back, which she has completely lost after she went to college. She was continuously mocked by her classmates with comments like 'quota wali' and 'jai bhim wali'. Her corporation school education did not equip her with English language skills, her uncouth family background never allowed her to understand the importance of self-presentation. For this, her classmates singled her out. Is it her fault? In a way yes because she was born in a Dalit family who had never known in last 1000 years what education means, what culture means. (ed: THIS!!!) She is faring badly in her studies. [By the time I realized her mental agony, she had already lost the drive of doing well in her life. Now I talk to her over phone regularly to pep her up]. 

UC people don't know that it is a privilege to have a cultured and educated family which starts defining your personality from the day you are born. Think before you ridicule other underprivileged. Had she been treated equally, maybe not a class topper but,  at least, she would had the zeal to study like she initially had. She even dreads going to college. This is the year 2015

- Chetna Kamble 

रोहिथ वेमुळे, एक दलित पीएचडी छात्र जिसने 18 जनवरी को अपनी ज़िन्दगी देकर आत्महत्या कर ली, तारों की बातें करता था. उसका दिमाग भी मानो एक जादुई धुल से बना था. जिसकी छाप वो अपने आखिरी खत में हमेशा के लिए छोड़ गया.

उसका जीवन, जिसमे वो इतना आगे तक पढ़ पाया और जिसकी फीस उसकी माँ ने लोगों के कपड़े सिल कर भरी थी, अपने आप में एक बगावत था. अपनी मौत में भी वो दलित अधिकार की एक ऐसी मशाल छोड़ गया, जिसकी लौ सबकी आँखों में कौंध सी गयी. मीडिया की, सरकार की, अफ़सर शाही की, और मेरी।

मेरा जन्म राजस्थान के अजमेर ज़िले के एक दलित घर में हुआ था. और मैंने इस बात को छुपाकर कर बढ़े होना सीखा. मेरी कान्वेंट स्कूल की पढ़ाई, मेरा नकली जात नाम और रंग, जो "गेहुआ होकर भी गंदा नहीं" था, इन सबने मिलकर मुझे मेरी कास्ट छुपाने में मदद की. "बेटा, वैसे आप क्या हो? "आंटी, ब्राह्मिन". यह झूठ मैंने इतना बार इतनी सफाई से बोला कि मैंने अपनी दोस्तों की माओं को तो क्या, खुद को भी उसे सच मानने पर मजबूर कर दिया. मगर मैं अपनी शर्मिंदगी को मजबूर नहीं कर पायी, वो जो हर बार मेरे चेहरे पर शर्म की छाप छोड़ जाती, जब भी कोई कॉस्ट, कोटा या भंगियों के बारे में बात करता। भंगी - वो लोग जो हज़ारों सालों से दूसरो के घरों में जाकर उनकी घिन उठाने का काम करते रहे थे. भंगी - एक गाली जो दूसरी जाती के लोग एक-दूसरे को यूं ही दे दिया करते हैं. भंगी - एक दलित जात जो मेरी भी जात हैं.

"इस बार उन्हें पता चल जायेगा" ये ख्याल मेरे ज़ेहन में कई बार आया. एक बार तब, जब मेरे कॉलेज ने मेरा नाम कोटा की लिस्ट में डाल दिया था. और एक बार तब भी, जब मेरी नौकरी की शुरुवात में उन्होंने मुझे बिर्थ सर्टिफिकेट जमा करने के लिए बोला।और कुछ लोगों को पता चला भी, कुछ को नहीं. कुछ को कोई फर्क नहीं पड़ा और जिन्हे पढ़ा - जिनमें से एक मेरी स्कूल की दोस्त भी थी, जिसके माँ बाप के पूछने पर, मैंने पहली बार अपनी अस्ली कास्ट बता दी थी - उन्होंने मुझसे बात करना बंद कर दिया. मगर उन्हें पड़ा हो या नहीं, फर्क मुझे हमेशा पड़ा. मुझे इतना फर्क पड़ा की मैंने अपनी कास्ट छुपाने की लिए कई झूठ बोले. और उनको छुपाने के लिए और झूठ बोले. बढ़ी आसानी से मैं अपना जात नाम, जो मेरे दादा ने 60 साल पहले ही अपने नाम से हटा दिया था, भुला चुकी थी. वो नाम था निदनिया।

और मैं उसे तब तक भूली ही रही जब तक मैंने रोहिथ का फेसबुक नहीं देखा. जब तक मैंने यह नहीं देखा की किसी वजह से, मरने से कई दिन पहले उसने मुझे ऐड करने की कोशिश की थी. और उसे न जानते हुए मैंने उसे डिलीट कर दिया था. किस वजह से उसने मुझे ऐड करना चाहा? शायद उसने मेरा नाम कुछ दलित ग्रुप में देखा हो और मुझ तक पहुँचने की कोशिश की हो.

और उसकी वो कोशिश कामयाब भी हो गयी. उस कोशिश की कामयाबी इसमें थी की उसने मुझे 'बाहर आने' पर मजबूर कर दिया. वो भी उन लोगों के सामने जिन की बीच मैं छुपकर अपने आप को तमाम ज़िन्दगी छुपाती रही. उसने मजबूर कर दिया मुझे यह महसूस करने पर की मेरा इतिहास शर्म की नहीं, बल्कि ज़ुल्म की ईटों पर बना है. मजबूर कर दिया यह याद करने पर की मेरे बढ़े दादा ने मिटटी में डंडी घुमाकर लिखना सीखा था. क्यूँकी उनके दूसरी जाती के टीचर ने उन्हें स्लेट नहीं पकड़ने दी  थी. और उसने मुझे एक और चीज़ करने पर मजबूर कर दिया - खुद पर गर्व.

और मैं जानती हूँ की मैं अकेली नहीं हूँ. हम जैसे बहुत सारे हैं जिनको समाज दलित होने पर शर्म महसूस करने को विवश करता है. हमें शर्म की वो विवशता सुनने और सुनाने की ज़रुरत है. इसलिए मैंने dalitdiscrimination.tumblr.com. की शुरुआत की है. एक ऐसी जगह जहाँ हम बिना झझक और बिना शर्म के, अपने दलित होने के बारे में बात कर सकते हैं. जहाँ हम कोटा, रिजर्वेशन और काबिलियत से आगे बढ़कर, अपनी खुद की और अपनी कहानियों की बात कर सकते हैं. सुन सकते हैं वो आवाज़ें जो अब तक दबी, दली और अनसुने खून की आसूं रोने पर मजबूर रहीं हैं. और हम सुन, कह सकते हैं कहानियाँ अपने गर्वे की, अपने इतिहास की, और अपनी उन कहानियों के प्रभुत्व की. और हम बात करें जातिवाद के मानसिक, शारीरिक और भावनात्मिक हानि की. ताकि हर कोई यह जान ले, की रोहिथ का जन्म (जैसा वो अपने खत में लिख गया) कोई हादसा नहीं था.

- याशिका दत्त (निदानिया )

A common and very prominent form of discrimination I hear around is the use of  lower castes  names as abuses. I often hear my friend calling each other "bhangi-chamar" in a derogatory sense. Bhangi- the cast of rag pickers- and Chamar (to which I belong to)- the caste of leather workers- both belong to the scheduled caste. Even without my realizing, how this affected my confidence.

Last night, I was travelling with my friends in a cab. Someone brought up the topic of reservation. I got into a debate while defending my rights. Then I realized this stunning fact. All that they cared about was the economic aspect, with no consideration being given to the social aspect! This was because of their  own well 'fortunate' social status. Most worrying is their consistent denial to accept that the casteism still exists.