Jhoothan
-Om Prakash
Valmiki
Omprakash
Valmiki's Joothan is an autobiographical account of his experience of growing
up in a village near Muzzafarnagar in UP as an untouchable or Dalit in the
newly independent India of the 1950s. An engineer by profession, Valmiki
(1950-) began writing this memoir in 1974. Apart from Joothan, he has to his
credit two anthologies of short stories, Salam and Guspathiye and three
anthologies of poetry, Sadiyon Ka Santaap (1989), Bas Ab Bahut Ho Chuka (1997)
and Ab Aur Nahin (2003). Now a middle class intellectual, he deliberately uses
the name Valmiki as a mark of identification with his roots and also with the
larger community of the sweeper caste (variously called Bhangi, Chura, Chuhra
in different regions of the north), many of whom call themselves Valmiki,
tracing their lineage to the author of the Ramayana. Joothan is among the first
texts in Hindi that identifies itself as a part of Dalit literature. Until the
advent of Dalit literature in Marathi in the 1950s and its subsequent spread to
other languages such as Telugu, Tamil, Malayalam, Gujarati and Punjabi in the
modern period, literature had been the domain of the high castes. Dalit
literary expression has shown a dramatic increase throughout the Hindi belt
since the late 1980s. Joothan elucidates the powerful narrative agenda of Dalit
autobiography which contests the claim that discrimination on the basis of
caste no longer operates as a social force in modern India.
The passage is an extract from Joothan: A Dalit's Life (1997).
On the edges
of the pond were the homes of the Chuhra All the women of the village, young
girls, older women, even newly-married brides, would sit in the open space
behind these homes at the edges of the pond to take a shit. Not just under the
cover of darkness but even in daylight. The purdah. observing Tyagi women,
their faces covered with their saris, shawls around their shoulders, found relief
in this open-air latrine. They sat on Dabbowali's shores without worrying about
decency, exposing their private parts. All the quarrels of the village would be
discussed in the shape of a Round Table conference at this same spot. There was
muck strewn everywhere. The stench was so overpowering that one would choke
within a minute. The pigs wandering in narrow lanes, naked children, dogs,
daily fights, this was the environment of my childhood. If the people who call
the caste system an ideal social arrangement had to live in this environment
for a day or two, they would change their mind.
Our family lived in this Chuhra basti. Five brothers,
one sister, two chachas, one tau and his family. Chachas and tau lived
separately. Everyone in the family did some or other work. Even then we didn't
manage to get two decent meals a day. We did all sorts of work for the Tagas,
including cleaning. agricultural work and general labour. We would often have
to work without pay. Nobody dared to refuse this unpaid work for which we got
neither money nor grain. Instead, we got sworn at and abused. They did not call
us by our names. If the person were older, then he would be called 'Oe Chuhre'.
If the person were younger or of the same age, then 'Abey Chuhre' was used.
Untouchability was so rampant that while it was
considered all right to touch dogs and cats or cows and buffaloes, if one
happened to touch a Chuhra, one got contaminated or polluted. The Chuhras were
not seen as human. They were simply things for use. Their utility lasted until
the work was done. Use them and then throw them away.
A Christian used to visit our neighbourhood. His name
was Sewak Ram Masihi. He would sit with the children of the Chuhras around him.
He used to teach them reading and writing. The government schools did not allow
these children to enrol. My family sent only myself to Sewak Ram Masihi. My
brothers were all working. There was no question of sending our sister to
school. I learnt my alphabet in master Sewak Ram Masihi's open-air school, a school
without mats or rooms. One day, Sewak Ram Masihi and my father had an argument.
My father took me to the Basic Primary School. There my father begged Master
Har Phool Singh; 'Masterji, I will be forever in your debt if you teach this
child of mine a letter or two.'
Master Har Phool Singh asked us to come the next day.
My father went. He kept going for several days. Finally, one day I was admitted
to the school. The country had become independent eight years ago. Gandhiji's
uplifting of the Untouchables was resounding everywhere. Although the doors of
the government schools had begun to open for Untouchables, the mentality of the
ordinary people had not changed much. I had to sit away from the others in the
class that too on the floor. The mat ran out spot I sat on. Sometimes I would
have to sit way behind everybody, right near the door. And the letters from
there seemed faded.
The children of the Tyagis would tease me reaching the
on the board by calling me 'Chuhre ka'. Sometimes they would beat me without
any reason. This was an absurd tormented life that made introverted and
irritable. If I got thirsty in school, then I had to stand near the hand-pump.
The boys would beat me in a case, but the teachers also punished me. All sorts
of were tried so that I would run away from the school and take up the kind of
work for which I was born.. perpetrators, my attempts to get schooling
According any stratagems to these were unwarranted.
Ram Singh and
Sukkhan Singh a were also in my class. Ram Jhinwar. Ram Singh was a Chamar and
Sukkhan Singh was a Singh's father and mother worked as agricultural labourers
Sukkhan Singh's father was a peon in the Inter College. The three of us studied
together, grew up together, experienced the sweet and sour moments of childhood
together. All three of us were very good in our studies but our background
dogged us at every step.
Barla Village
also had some Muslim Tyagis who were called Tagas as well. The behaviour of
these Muslim Tagas was just like that of the Hindu Tagas. If we ever went out
wearing neat and clean clothes, we had to hear their taunts that pierced deep
inside like poisoned arrows. If we went to the school in neat and clean
clothes, then our class fellows said, 'Abey, Chuhre ka, he has come dressed in
new clothes.' If one went wearing old and shabby clothes, then they said,
'Abey, Chuhre ke, get away from me, you stink.'
This was our no-win situation. We were humiliated
whichever way we dressed.
I reached
fourth class. Headmaster Bishambar Singh had been replaced by Kaliram. Along
with him had come another new teacher. After the arrival of these two, the
three of us fell on terrible times. We would be thrashed at the slightest
excuse. Ram Singh would escape once in while, but Sukkhan Singh and I got beaten
almost daily. I was very weak and skinny those days.
Sukkhan Singh had developed a boil on his belly, just
below his ribs. While in class, he used to keep his shirt folded up so as to
keep the boil uncovered. This way the shirt could be kept clear of the puss on
the one hand, and on the other, the boil protected from the blows of the
teacher. One day while thrashing Sukkhan Singh, the teacher's fist hit the
boil. Sukkhan screamed with pain. The boil had burst. Seeing him flailing with
pain, I too began to cry. While we cried, the teacher was showering abuse on us
nonstop. If I repeated his abusive words here, they would smear the nobility of
Hindi. I say that because many big-named Hindi writers had wrinkled their nose
and eyebrows when I had a character in my short story 'Bail Ki Khal' (The Ox
Hide) swear. Coincidentally, the character who swore was a Brahman, that is,
the knower of Brahma, of God. Was it possible? Would a Brahman swear...?
The ideal image of the teachers that I saw in my
childhood has remained indelibly imprinted on my memory. Whenever someone
starts taking about a great guru, I remember all those teachers who used to
swear about mothers and sisters. They used to fondle good-looking boys and
invited them to their homes and sexually abuse them.
One day the headmaster Kaliram called me to his room
and asked: 'Abey, what is your name?' 'Omprakash,' I answered slowly and
fearfully. Children used to feel scared just encountering the headmaster. The
entire school was terrified of him.
'Chuhre ka?' Headmaster threw his second question at
me.
'Ji.'
All right... See that teak tree there? Go. Climb that
tree. Break some twigs and make a broom. And sweep the whole school clean as
mirror. It is after all, your family occupation.
Go... get to it.'
Obeying Headmaster's orders, I cleaned all the the
verandahs. Just as I was about to finish, he came to me and and said, 'After
you have swept the rooms, go and sweep the rooms
The playground was way larger than my small physique
could handle and in cleaning it my back began to ache. My face v covered with
dust. Dust had gone inside my mouth. The other was children in my class were
studying and I was sweeping. Headmaster was sitting in his room and watching
me. I was not even allowed to get a drink of water. I swept the whole day I had
never done so much work, being the pampered one among my brothers.
The second day, as soon as I reached school,
Headmaster again put me to sweeping the school. I swept the whole day I was
consoling myself that I will go back to the class from tomorrow.
The third day I went to the class and sat down
quietly. After a few minutes the headmaster's loud thundering was heard: Abey
Chuhre ke, motherfucker, where are you hiding... your mother...'
I had begun to shake uncontrollably. A Tyagi boy
shouted, 'Master Saheb, there he is, sitting in the corner."
The headmaster had pounced on my neck. The pressure of
his fingers was increasing. As a wolf grabs a lamb by the neck, he dragged me
out of the class and threw me on the ground. He screamed: 'Go sweep the whole
playground... Otherwise I will shove chillies up your arse and throw you out of
the school."
Frightened, I picked up the three-day-old-broom. Just
like me, it was shedding its dried up leaves. All that remained were the thin
sticks. Tears were falling from my eyes. I started to sweep the compound while
my tears fell. From the doors and windows of the schoolrooms, the eyes of the
teachers and the boys saw this spectacle. Each pore of my body was submerged in
an abyss of anguish.
Just then my father passed by the school. He stopped
abruptly when he saw me sweeping the school compound. He called me, 'Munshiji,
what are you doing?" Munshiji was the pet name my father had given me.
When I saw him, I burst out sobbing. He entered the school compound and came
towards me. Seeing me crying, he asked, 'Munshiji, why are you crying? Tell me,
what has happened?"
I was hiccuping by now. In between my hiccups, I told
the whole story to my father: that the teacher had been making me sweep for
last three days; that they did not let me enter the classroom at all.
Pitaji snatched the broom from my hand and threw it
away. His eyes were blazing. Pitaji who was always taut as a bowstring in front
of others was so angry that his dense moustache was fluttering. He began to
scream, 'Who is that teacher, that progeny of Dronacharya, who forces my son to
sweep?" Pitaji's voice had echoed through the whole school. All the teachers,
also with the headmaster came out. Kaliram, the headmaster threatened my father
and called him names. But his threats had no effect on Pitaji. I have never
forgotten the courage and fortitude with which my father confronted the
headmaster that day. Pitaji had all sorts of weaknesses, but the decisive turn
that he gave my future that day has had a great impact on my personality. The
headmaster had roared, "Take him away from here...
The Chuhra wants him educated... Go, go... Otherwise I
will have your bones broken." Pitaji took my hand and started walking
towards our home.
As he walked away, he said, loudly enough for the
headmaster to hear, 'You are a teacher... So I am leaving now. But remember
this much, Master... right here... In this school. And not just him, but there
will be more coming after him.' This Chuhre ka will Pitaji had faith that the
Tyagis of the village would chastise Master Kaliram for his behaviour. But what
happened exact opposite. Whosesoever's door we knocked, the answer was, 'What
is the point of sending him to school?' 'When has a crow become a swan?"
You illiterate boorish people, what do you know?
Knowledge is not gained like this.' 'Hey, if he asked
a Chuhra's progeny to sweep, what is the big deal in that?' 'He only got him to
sweep; did not ask for his thumb in the gurudakshina like Dronacharya.'
And so forth. Pitaji came back, tired and dejected. He
sat up all night without food or drink. God knows how deep an anguish Pitaji
went through. As soon as the morning broke, he took me along and went to the
house of the pradhan, Sagwa Singh Tyagi.
As soon as the pradhan saw Pitaji, he said, 'Abey,
Chotan? ... what is the matter? You have come so early in the morning', 'Chowdhri
Saheb, you say that the government has opened the doors of the schools for the
children of Chuhras and Chamars. And that headmaster makes this child of mine
come out of the class and sweep all day instead of teaching him. If he has to
sweep the school all day, then you tell me when is he going to study?'
Pitaji was supplicating the pradhan. He had tears in
his eyes. I was standing near him and looking at him. The pradhan called me
near him and asked, 'Which class are you in?'
'Ji, the
fourth.'
You are in my Mahendra's class?'
'Ji.' Pradhanji said to Pitaji, 'Don't worry. Send him
to school tomorrow.'
The next day I went to school with fear stalking my
heart. I sat in the class in trepidation. Every second I worried that the
headmaster was coming... Now he comes... At the slightest sound my heart
pounded. After a few days, things calmed down. But my heart trembled the moment
I saw Headmaster Kaliram. It seemed as though it wasn't a teacher who was
coming towards me but a snorting wild boar with his snout up in the air.
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