When I Hid My Caste

When I Hid My Caste is more than a book, it is a saga of dreadful and disgraceful experiences of the Dalits. It revolves around the Maharashtra of 1950s and covers the life of Mahars, one of the many Dalit castes in India. It is a collection of ten stories which depicts the distress and humiliation of the Mahar characters.

The first story Prisoner of Darkness is about a Mahar woman Bano who and her only son are ruthlessly attacked by a mob after her husband’s death. While she is mournful the village holds her responsible for her own husband’s death. They see her as a witch who is manipulative and harmful. Their rage fails them to understand that she is nothing but a helpless and innocent woman.

Bohada is the only story with a happy ending. Mahars in those days weren’t allowed to play lead roles in the Bohada where the dancers painted themselves as characters from the Ramayana and Mahabharata. But in that Bohada a Mahar tries to steal away one such important role with his revolt and cunningness.

Streetwalker is the story of a sex worker who goes to any extent to meet her dying child. Even if she tries to work hard all her hope dissipates after she is robbed and finds out that her son is already dead.

Dassehra Sacrifice as the name suggests is about how a Patil proudly sacrifices a buffalo for Dassehra, while mercilessly attacking it. Mahars of the village fight with all their strength to keep the beast in control. The story depicts the fake courage of a Patil hiding his timidness while the four well-built Mahars heroically fight with the buffalo even risking their lives. It also shows the superstition of callous killing of an innocent beast for the Goddess.

Few lines in the last story When I Hid My Caste got me thoroughly shaken. Here it is ‘in this luck-forsaken country, human beings should not be born as Dalits. If and when they are they must bear such sorrow and such disrespect as would make death seem an easier option, making a cup of poison a Dalit’s best friend.’ It is strange how people’s conduct change when they discover you are of a low caste even if they were kind to you before. In this story the protagonist is beaten up by the same man who once considered him his Guru when the former had hidden his caste.

In this book Baburao Bagul has surfaced the sufferings of the Dalits comprehensibly and made us question the age-old beliefs. The way even educated Dalits were treated was pitiful. I don’t think much has changed even now, do you? People still ask your surname, people still want to know your caste.

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The heavens don't listen anymore

They asked for the fulfillment of rain,
But all they got was scorching sun.
They asked for small moments of zest,
But all they got was agony of loss.
They wished to see a silver lining,
But all they found was an agitated soul.
They wished to find a widening smile,
But all they found were tears of pain.

Perhaps the heavens don't listen anymore,
And have artfully closed the blessings' door.
I tried to knock at it, but out came no answer.
I am still holding myself at the threshold,
Who knows, perhaps the heavens may listen once more ....

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An innocent bystander

(An extract from my poetry)

Can I be an innocent bystander?
A guiltless viewer of victim
In a world that changes with lightning speed,
Where the mountains gradually crumble down,
Like ugly buildings shattering to dust,
Where the deserts grow wider and lakes disappear,
Where flowers wither away and stink,
The leaves breathe out dust and smoke,
Where children lose their charm and innocence,
And choose the glamour of gadgets over books,
Where we tend to lose our identity,
And follow an unknown and absurd culture,
Where we turn emotionless and
no longer judge with our hearts,
Where the brain is rotten and stagnant,
Sees nothing beyond what is dull or artificial,
And I cannot be an onlooker doing nothing,
Neither can be you
For a viewer of crime is a criminal too.

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I would send a message to space

I would send a message to space
That we live in this part of universe
We breathe our first and last here
We build houses on every bit of land
Covering the lakes, breaking the mountains,
cutting down the lush green trees
We build roads on hills, amidst the forests
We have bridges, skyscrapers, motor boats, ships,
automobiles, airplanes and even space shuttles
We are trying to connect,
But our icebergs are melting, 
rivers polluting and air stinking
Soon we will no longer love,
No longer listen to music or sing,
No longer dance merrily in the rain,
No longer speak words of wisdom,
No longer whisper sweet affection,
We are losing our souls and soon we will perish,
before we even realize.
So, when you receive my message floating through space,
Save us if you can.
Some last hope still remains before its extreme and
we are all gone like dust in the air ...

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To write is to feel

(An extract from my poem)

To write is to feel,

The brightness of the day,

The coldness of the night,

The shine of snow covered mountains,

The glitter of the sands in the deserts,

The glow of the moon,

The twinkling of the stars,

The sound of the river,

The roar of the ocean,

To write is to feel,

To write is to live,

As I live, so I write.

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When you are alone

At one point you slowly get tired of living alone

And that’s when you step out, trying to be gregarious

Only to realise it was always good to live by yourself

And listen to your heart than being in the crowd

And still being alone.

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Pages of life

When I turn the pages of my diaries that I have kept from time to time, all I find is hope, that I didn't let to die. I find phrases where I have written about my days of failure and then I find another that was accomplishment. I find I have written down the questions that popped up in my head out of curiosity and how they change with time. I can also find myself getting answers as I grow old. I find confusions and illusions clearing its way to greater understanding. I can read about the risks I have taken and the fear that came along with them. I find traces of immaturity and childishness giving its way to a welcoming adult. I can see broken promises, lack of commitment, leading to a much matured self. I can find darkness pushing its way towards light and fragments of desperation leading its path towards hope. There are pages where nightmares turn to dreams and evolve into reality bringing with it most fulfilling zest. I can see hope leading into more hope. These pages remind me of who I was, of what I have become and what I would like to grow into. Its like I have lived through these pages and they are the pages of my life. They remind me that I have sweated enough, transformed enough and lived enough without giving up. These pages tell me what I could do and what can be done. As long as there is hope and as long as I keep writing into them, I can pass the most toughest huddles. 

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