Cast Out and Outcaste

Subodh stepped off the train as it stopped briefly at the small railway station that served the village of Bhimanagar. With the gathering dusk, flocks of migratory starlings streaked across the darkening sky as they made their way to a grove of trees nearby to roost. Rose-coloured starlings are winter visitors, and Subodh could feel a nip in the evening air as he pulled out a light woollen sweater from his backpack and quickened his pace to cover the three-kilometre walk to his grandfather's home before nightfall. In the dimly lit lanes of the village, he passed the modest brick and mortar dwellings surrounding the railway station. In the distance he could make out the silhouettes of the larger, more affluent buildings of the upper caste families.

 Nothing seemed to have changed in the twenty years since leaving Bhimanagar as a ten-year-old to move to the big city where his father, a government officer, had been posted. Even though visits to his grandparents in his growing years had been few and far between, and always for brief periods, the surrounding landscape was familiar to him, and he had no difficulty in finding his way around. He was also a brisk walker and in no time, he had reached his destination, a handsome two storey stone building with an ornate and richly decorated front door with a large brass ring on either side of the two door panels. Subodh’s grandfather was from one of the oldest families of the village, and in his time had been a prominent and well-respected member of the local community.

His grandmother, who had been expecting him all day, enveloped him in a warm embrace. She couldn’t believe her eyes as she saw the shy, teenage boy that she had last seen, transformed into a strapping young man, and a college professor at that! Taking Subodh by the hand she led her grandson across the house and showed him to the room she had readied for him. 

Subodh rose early the next morning to the sounds of a cock crowing in the distance and the twitter of birds from the tree outside his window. The morning air was crisp and bracing and putting on his track pants he decided to go out for a run in the fields behind his grandfather’s home. Having run for a good thirty minutes, he stopped to catch his breath under a familiar looking banyan tree with its thick and widespread canopy. As he sat there, a flood of memories engulfed him.  It was under the shade of this very tree that he and his childhood friend Shekhar had spent many happy hours playing hide-and-seek, chasing one another around its enormous bark and swinging from its thick overhanging roots.

Shekhar’s family had for generations not been part of the rigidly stratified four-tier caste system. Not falling into any of the strictly determined caste sub-divisions, they had been assigned to lowly, menial and “unclean” tasks too ritually polluting to merit inclusion within the upper castes and had come to be known as Dalits or untouchables. Being outcastes or outside the traditional caste system, they had been subjected to extreme social isolation, deprivation and oppression on account of their perceived low status. Although untouchability was constitutionally abolished in 1950, it is still prevalent in many parts of India, especially in rural areas where Dalits are denied rights and privileges enjoyed by the upper castes. They are prohibited from drinking water from shared water sources, inhabiting or using areas frequented by higher castes or even worshipping at the same temples.

Bhimanagar was a fairly large village with a population of about 300 households with a comparatively small section of landless Dalit families, economically dependent on their wealthy upper caste neighbours. The disparity in caste, status and social standing did not figure in the mind of a ten-year-old. Further, Subodh’s family had been too emancipated and broadminded to stop him from playing with a Dalit child. The differences had not mattered then, and did not matter now. With happy childhood memories resurfacing, Subodh’s thoughts strayed towards his long-lost friend. Where was Shekhar now and what had become of him? Did he still live in the little house beside the stream? Would they recognise each other were they to meet again? Subodh was determined to find out. With no particular agenda in mind for the visit, except spending some time with his grandparents, he decided to go and seek out Shekhar.

Subodh had earlier thought that he would run for at least an hour, but with this new mission in mind he searched his memory for the best way to find the stream beside which he remembered Shekhar’s house. He walked for about ten minutes through slushy paddy fields until he came upon the little stream beside which was a row of small brick houses. An old woman sat grinding rice outside one of the homes. He approached her and asked tentatively, “Namaste Amma. Do you know which house Shekhar lives in?”

The woman continued with her work, looking him up and down suspiciously without replying. Who was this stranger and what was his business here early morning? From the way he dressed and spoke it was obvious that didn’t live locally.

Subodh decided that he would have to be a little more explicit if he wanted the woman to co-operate. “I used to live in this village many years ago, and as a child I had a friend named Shekhar who used to live in one of the houses here.”

The old woman paused and scratching her head she answered, “Yes, now I remember. But that was a very long time ago. There used to be a man who worked as a sweeper, and he had a boy called Shekhar. The man died many years ago and his wife and son went away from here.” 

“Yes, yes that was my friend Shekhar,” replied Subodh, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice. “Do you know where he went? Does he still live in this village, and can you tell me how I could find him?”

“I only know that he left school and went looking for work. He was always good at making small things out of wood. There is a carpenter’s shop down in the bazaar, maybe you can make some enquiries there with the upper caste owner.”

Subodh thanked the woman profusely, grateful that he had made some progress. He returned home knowing that his grandmother would be waiting for him and decided to continue with his enquiries after breakfast.

At the carpentry shop, the owner Pranlal was not very helpful; even hostile. From his guarded and vague responses Subodh sensed that he was holding back information and was either unwilling or afraid to share what he knew. 

“I had a boy called Shekhar who worked as an apprentice in my shop for about two years. After that he left, and I don’t know anything more. Please excuse me, I have a very busy morning and a lot of orders to deliver,” he looked away dismissing Subodh’s questions.

Subodh turned away disappointed but determined more than ever to find out more and unravel the mystery that now seemed to surround his friend.

Just as he was preparing to leave the shop, a well-dressed, middle-aged man who was standing by the entrance privy to the conversation, turned to Subodh and holding him by the arm offered, “You seem to be a friend of Shekhar’s and are concerned about his whereabouts. My name is Akhilesh. I am only a well-wisher and don’t wish to be quoted. Come along and I tell you what I know.”

Intrigued and desperate to have more details, Subodh followed the man to a small tea shop at the edge of the market. When Subodh introduced himself, Akhilesh said he had known his grandfather for several years. Having made the connection, Subodh seemed more at ease, and he was glad to have found someone who was willing to help him locate Shekhar. Over several cups of tea, the kind-hearted and avuncular Akhilesh, who had once been Shekhar’s patron and well-wisher, recited the following tale:

Shekhar came from very humble beginnings but was someone who was determined to rise above the shackles of his background. After his father’s death he was forced to give up school and joined the carpentry shop as an apprentice. He was a very talented young man and after two years he set up his own carpentry shop. Akhilesh was one of his first clients and Shekhar made a number of furniture pieces for him and his family members.

Not only was Shekhar talented, he was also honest and hard-working. The quality of his goods and his straightforward dealings earned him many customers and his popularity in the village grew. With the growth in his business, he was able to rent out a larger shop and hire two helpers and in due course he was also able to afford a decent accommodation for himself and his mother. At last, he thought he would be able to walk around with pride and hold his head high amongst the village folk.

Alas, only if the bigoted village population could let him be! His success and prosperity provoked anger and envy of the upper caste villagers, especially of his erstwhile employer, Pranlal. He felt threatened by Shekhar’s increasing popularity. He swore to teach the “upstart” Shekhar a lesson and rallied other members of his community and organised a systematic campaign to harass Shekhar and thwart him in his work. He began spreading rumours to stir up negative feelings against Shekhar and hatched plans to attract Shekhar’s employees too. Shekhar was deeply hurt and offended by their deeds but ignored them as much as he could. But the onslaughts continued relentlessly. Posters defaming Shekhar soon started appearing at prominent places all around the village and one morning Shekhar arrived to open his shop only to find a large heap of garbage stacked up at the entrance of his shop. Anger and hurt pride turned into feelings of frustration and helplessness. Shekhar’s mental health was taking a toll. He became moody, withdrawn and depressed.

A young Dalit man from the village was getting married and he had invited a large number of guests to his wedding feast including both Dalits and upper caste families. Knowing full well that upper caste members would refuse to dine on food prepared by Dalits, the groom had arranged for food prepared by upper caste cooks. Shekhar had also been invited to the wedding feast. It took a great deal of persuasion by several members of his community for him to attend briefly and greet the groom and his family.

Large floor mats with disposable plastic tablecloths had been laid out and the guests were seated on the ground in caste segregated rows. Shekhar arrived late just as the food was being served. Having paid his respects to the host family, he was keen on leaving. But it would be considered impolite to leave without eating. If he sat down with the other guests, he would have to take off his shoes and put them on again. That would make a discreet and quick departure impossible. Just as he was debating what to do, he saw a lone chair by the side of one of the long rows of seated guests. He filled his plate and sat down on the chair to eat his meal.

A group of upper caste men seeing him there attacked him hurling abuses and knocking his plate over.

“How dare you sit on a chair in our presence whilst we are seated on the floor,” one of the men shouted at Shekhar.

“Just look at the audacity of this low caste fellow! Does he have no shame sitting on a chair and eating before us?” screamed another, as together they beat up Shekhar.

Shamed in public and beaten up over a seemingly mundane matter, Shekhar left the venue in tears and rushed home. But a short distance away he was waylaid by the same group and attacked brutally again, this time with sticks and clubs. Injured, bruised and bleeding profusely he managed to stagger home.

At this point Akhilesh paused, unable to continue. Subodh, speechless and shocked at the atrocious brutality of the episode, nonetheless pressed Akhilesh to go on.

In a faltering voice Akhilesh completed his story with the words, “Poor Shekhar never recovered from the merciless attack. Without medical attention, he succumbed to grave internal injuries, three days later.”

Subodh hung his head, shattered and overcome by grief. Torn by remorse he berated himself for the fate that had befallen Shekhar. Several guilt-ridden questions plagued his mind. Had he abandoned and betrayed his childhood friend? Living in his own selfish world why had he not bothered to keep in touch with his friend earlier? Even on one of the few visits to the village he could easily have tried to locate Shekhar. All this would not have happened if he had not been so insensitive and uncaring.

Akhilesh patted him on his shoulder trying to console him, “It is not your fault Subodh. None of this is your doing.  These people commit such highhanded atrocities because they are confident that they can get away with impunity. We need to have stricter laws and more severe punishments for these crimes. The oppressed and the marginalised must receive justice.”

Wiping away his tears, Subodh asked, “Was Shekhar’s body buried or cremated?”

“Shekhar was buried in a cemetery reserved for the Dalit community”

Subodh stood with bowed head at Shekhar’s humble grave in the small Dalit cemetery on the outskirts of the village. Tears welled up anew in his eyes as he remembered the lines from Oscar Wilde’s “The Ballad of Reading Gaol”:

"And alien tears will fill for him Pity's long-broken urn, For his mourners will be outcast men. And outcasts always mourn."

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