Dalit rekha — go thus far and no further

The final arbiter of status in a village is the caste you are born into. Caste is a social fact, near immutable, that confers prestige on some and odium on others. It is a predicament that is impossible to escape since everyone knows your place in the caste ladder. Wealth and power can help fight the odium of low birth. The middle castes have for long used money to buy respectability, typically by giving up lowly occupations, hiring Brahmin priests to officiate in rituals and imitating the customs and manners of those above. But for Dalits this strategy does not work so well.

Hidebound notions They are separated from those above their station by notions of purity and pollution, an obdurate barrier that will take a lot of beating before it will give in. For more than three-fourths of the village, they are unclean and off bounds. Those above won’t accept food or water from them, won’t let them into their houses, and certainly not let them touch their cookware. Physical contact with them is an absolute no-no. I had my first encounter with caste prejudice when I let a Dalit woman enter our kitchen.

I had gone about this hoping that I wouldn’t hit a rough patch, but this was not to be. My tractor driver caught a glimpse of her coming out after finishing with the dishes. He looked askance at me but said nothing. He returned the next morning to say that Periasamy had shown up in his dream to warn that I must not repeat this indiscretion. No one in my village trifles with Periasamy who is the head of a pantheon of gods venerated by the middle castes. But I was unconvinced. He was probably shooting from god’s shoulder to force me into compliance. I have continued with my convictions in the years that have passed but so has everyone else. When it comes to physical contact with Dalits, no one is willing to concede an inch.

On the other side of the road from my farm lies a Dalit settlement of some hundred households. This is not some ramshackle slum. The roads are of concrete. Houses of brick and mortar are beginning to replace mud huts. Everyone has access to electricity and piped water. Girls are not put to work but sent to school. Some of the men are still in farm work, but the majority has moved on to urban occupations. Garment factories are forever looking for hands. The older women work as agricultural labourers but not the younger ones.

Some families have done extraordinarily well. I see Madhan every day on my morning walk, collecting fodder for his goats. He and his wife were farm hands, but their daughter is now a doctor in the government hospital. He has moved out of wage labour as befits the father of a doctor, and his wife has become a full-time babysitter for the family. Kittu who drove a jeep for the government has built two houses, one for each daughter, and owns a fleet of taxis.

Temple ritual The neighbourhood decided to build a temple for Ganesha. A Brahmin priest was called in to consecrate the temple. He chanted in Sanskrit for three days and nights. It was a strange sight. The Dalits who have traditionally worshipped their own deities not only built a temple to a sanskritic deity but had a Brahmin priest do the honours. Kittu has just opened a shop dealing in electrical goods and a Brahmin has come to invoke the gods’ blessings for his new venture.

Dalits are not the subservient lot they were even a generation ago. Sadly, education and money can take them this far and no further. The Brahmin priest will expect fruit, flowers and money from Kittu but not accept a cup of tea. No one will accept tea from his hands. And when push comes to shove the middle castes would not hesitate to hurl a caste slur at him. In theory, Kittu can file a police complaint under the law banning atrocities against Dalits. In practice, he would rather shrug his shoulders and walk away.

The most that Dalits can gain in the village through education, money and the Brahmin priest is grudging respectability. Social acceptance will remain elusive. It is the anonymity of the city that offers an escape from this predicament. They have to move away from agriculture, which is already happening, and physically relocate from the village to urban centres. That appears to be the only ray of hope.

The writer is a labour relations and HR consultant

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