Dalits in Malari village of Ghazipur in east Uttar Pradesh trying to “exercise their franchise” learnt that “exercise” was the appropriate word for the task. Finding out why meant visiting the polling station with these residents of an “Ambedkar village” in Barachawar block on February 16. “Ambedkar villages” are those selected by the Uttar Pradesh Government for accelerated development.
Scheduled Caste/Tribe members constitute a large chunk – sometimes over 50 per cent – of the population of such villages. Under the Mayawati Government, the number of “Ambedkar villages” crossed 10,000. In the run-up to the millennium, this article is the first of an occasional series of reports on the situation of dalits by writer-journalist P. SAINATH. He will be reporting exclusively for The Hindu from different parts of the country, especially the rural areas, where there are large concentrations of the oppressed
There are more dalits in India than there are people in Pakistan. And that is if we count only the Scheduled Castes as dalits. (Some social scientists include adivasis and a few other groups in this category.) The Scheduled Castes account for nearly 16.48 per cent of India’s people. That is, close to 156 million human beings. Their contribution to society in terms of labour, art and culture is enormous. Their share of the country’s resources and riches is, however, disproportionately lower.
The term dalit simply means oppressed or ground down. Communities formerly considered “untouchable” under the caste system increasingly describe themselves thus. Mahatma Gandhi called them “harijans” (God’s people). But many have discarded this term, preferring “dalit’ which indicates their position as an oppressed people, their opposition to the dehumanising caste system – and the existence of an oppressor. Legally, they are termed “Scheduled Castes” (SC).
Only 16 per cent of dalits live in urban areas. The remaining 84 per cent, in rural India. The over 450 SC groups in the country represent an important and incredibly complex phenomenon. A people confronted by seemingly intractable problems brought on by millenia of exploitation, enforced poverty and deprivation.
Whether it is in private employment, school drop dropout rates, literacy and health indicators, access to higher education, or even government jobs, they are at the wrong end of the spectrum. The actual gap between dalit literacy levels and those of the non-dalit population grew worse between 1961 and 1981. And atrocities against these communities have often registered sharp increases from year to year. Decades after the abolition of untouchability, the actual extent of its prevalence would surprise many Indians who believe it belongs to the past.
At the same time, there has been an upsurge among the dalits. And this has found reflection in the challenging national political scene during this past decade.
What are the challenges facing dalits? Why are they unable to exercise their rights that others do? What are the developments unfolding within these communities? Could the run up to the new millennium also mark a turning point in their battles.?
What are the real problems as perceived by those at the receiving end? What is it to be a dalit in India today? What are the coping mechanisms of such communities in different parts of the country? How far do they succeed and what are the factors that hold them back? What are the emerging responses in political terms and do these really have a significant way? What are the living conditions of millions of ordinary dalits?
Malari, Ghazipur (Uttar Pradesh): What could education possibly have to do with booth capturing?
Why have schools set up mainly for dalit children in almost all the “Ambedkar Villages” come up next to the upper caste bastis? Since the idea was to make things easier for the dalits, it seems odd that the schools should be so far from their own basti.
Take Malari, Karkatpur, Dahendu, Khara, Mohabatpur and Mubarakpur Jugnu villages. In all, the schools are much closer to the upper caste bastis. This is no accident.
Kapil Dev of Malari village sums it up:
“Schools are used as polling centres. The further they are from your basti, the more difficult it is to capture them. When they are closer, your sheer physical presence exerts a form of control. So why would the upper castes allow the schools to come up near the dalit basti? Anyway, the idea of these children getting educated does not enthuse them.”
Dev, who heads the Poorvanchal Gramin Vikas Evam Prashikshan Sansthan (PGVPS), an activist group here, says: “Schools as polling centres – that upsets them most. More dalits will be less afraid to vote if polling centres are closer to their bastis. It also means the booths will be less easy to capture. The upper castes find that unacceptable.”
So when Kapil Dev’s father offered land within the dalit basti for the new school, he was turned down. The village pradhan who had till them been unable to find land for the school suddenly did so. The school is now within the upper caste area.
Was Kapil Dev exaggerating? Any such notion was dispelled en route to the polling booths with the dalits of Malari on February 16, voting day. There were two polling centres very close to where we set out from in the village. But most of those voting here were upper castes: 219 dalit votes of Malari were not so lucky. We trudged in groups of four for nearly four kilometres in the sun for them to cast their votes in Kanhora village. (Over five people at a time could attract trouble under the prohibitory orders in force.)
Many found the journey gruelling. We found people resting at different pints along the dirt track, worn out. In one village, the dalit basti had put out a charpoy for four old men tired out by 8-km trek and were giving them water and beedis. Meanwhile a man crippled in one leg hobbled along painfully on the other. Further down, an elderly couple crossed water-filled ditches. The woman was blind and was led to the full distance on her husband’s arm.
Why go by foot? All vehicular traffic banned between 6 a.m. and 6 p.m. in order to check those the officials called potential “booth capturers”. Zealous policemen enforced this the previous evening itself and many vehicles were impounded. Apparently, booth capturers sometimes travel on bicycles. So, these were banned, too. The police even punctured the tyres of a few bicycles they came across. Hence Malari’s long march regardless of age, infirmity or physical condition. All were exhausted by the time we reached Kanhora.
At the polling centre in Kanhora, too, disparities were evident in the positioning of the booths set up by the main parties in contest. (In Ghazipur constituency, Manoj Sinha of the Bharatiya Janata Party was taking on Om Prakash of the Samajwadi Party. Raj Kumar Bhind of the Bahujan Samaj Party was also in the race.) The two strategic approaches to the Kanhora school building had a party assistant each. One BJP, the other SP. The BSP had two booths, both much further out and less accessible. One of these was visible mainly because a BSP flag on a pole three times the height of the cycle it was mounted on.
At the voting centre itself, a single policeman armed with a lathi represented the majesty of the law. In all, if I were looking for a booth to capture in Ghazipur district, I’d settle for Kanhora.
Still, the polling here was peaceful. And mostly across the district, it was tightly organised. In another area, the district magistrate had ordered a repoll in 18 booths. But relative to the past, Ghazipur had witnessed one of its quitier elections. (Dalits make up almost a fifth of the district’s population of 2.4 million.)
The trek did not dampen the spirits of may who made it to Kanhora. They felt that “the haathi (BSP symbol) had eaten the kamal (BJP) and was giddly riding the cycle (SP).” Some were less elated, though. Nenhu and twelve others of the Mushar basti in Karkatpur village found they had “already voted”. The upper castes had decided to save them the trouble.
Among the Mushars, the poorest within the dalits, many do not find their names on the voters’ list. Officials doing the registration have little time for them. So Mangru Mushar, realising his name was not on the list, cast the vote of his friend, Jakeer, who died some time ago. “Had he been alive, he too would have voted for the haathi,” he says smiling.
We told Mangru, Mr MS Gill would have strongly disapproved such irregular procedures. Mangru, however, did not seem to mind much about that. He thought it futile to try and have his constitutional right restored to him the legal way.
May be he had a point. Only the previous day, Raghupathi, another Mushar of Karkatpur, had told us about the last polls. More than half of the 28 votes in that basti had been cast before they reached the polling station. “The officials threw us out. Our petition achieved nothing.”
And Nenhu says the upper castes who usurped his vote this time “threatened us with violence”. Again, the officers on duty were unhelpful.
Accidentally or otherwise, almost all government servants seconded to poll station duty in the district are from the upper castes. In a medical centre where several people had been sent on poll duty, the one dalit, a lab technician, stayed behind.
Yet, dalits here are voting in large numbers than before. More dalit women are voting, too. The Kanshi Ram-Mayawati phenomenon has surely helped produce this effect. In the past, the upper castes resorted to terror with less resistance. The appearance of a jeep at the dalit basti had people scampering in fright.
Even today, some dalits do as they are bid. As Jamna Ram told us in Malari, “We cannot live in peace unless we vote the way the zamindar wants.” Yet, while the village elite still resorts to terror, it may not go unchallenged. And elections seem to be the most likely arena of such a challenge.
Many dalit voters grumble that voting brings “no benefits”. Yet, they vote. Mainly on hope. With all their suspicion of it, the dalits see the electoral-democratic process as a right, as a lever that creates some spaces. A time when the powerful can possibly be called to account. Why did you take all the trouble to come this distance and vote, we asked an exhausted Avtari. The old lady had voted despite its being of “no use at all”.
Because, she said reproachfully, still puffing from the effort, “yahan haar-jeet ka faisla ek vote pe chalti hain.” (Victory or defeat here could ride on a single vote.)
Published in The Hindu, March 15, 1998