Waiting
for Spring
by
Nirupama Dutt
The emergence of a
Dalit identity in
East Punjab
is a recent development, spurred in part by the failure of Sikhism to
abandon caste discrimination as it initially
averred to do.
For us trees do not bear fruits
For us flowers do not bloom
For us there is no Spring
For us there is no Revolution …
–
Lal Singh Dil –
hese
are lines from the last poem of Lal Singh Dil, hailed as the foremost
revolutionary poet of
Punjab
. He passed away in 2007. The despondent note of the poem is both
surprising and telling, for a poet who had once declared that the song and
dance in his heart would not die, no matter how dire the circumstance. It
took Dil a lifetime to discover this sad yet provocative truth, against
the backdrop of the complexities of caste in
Punjab
. Yet centuries before Dil’s birth, the same frustration with caste was
intricately linked to the emergence of the Sikh religion.
When
Sikhism came into being during the 15th century, it was primarily as a
protest against the caste system, in the same manner that leftist and
other progressive movements came into being in reaction to the same
malaise in modern times. In this context, the road to the Dalit identity
has been a long one in
Punjab
, largely because such identification was submerged in the Sikh identity,
with much pride and celebration in the earliest known Dalit writings of
the 17th century. The celebratory mood was one of overcoming the ills of
caste-ridden society. In time, however, the tone saddened, as a religion
that had started out to reform Hinduism fell prey to the same ills of
caste-ridden social hierarchy.
An
important point to take away from this historical evolution is that the
contribution of those from the ‘low’ castes has never been wanting, as
far as struggle and movements for social justice go. The story that was
the turning point for the lower castes in
Punjab
was that of Jaita, a follower of Guru Gobind Singh. Jaita played a
significant role in bringing the severed head of Guru Tegh Bahadur, the
ninth master of Sikhism, back to Anandpur Sahib in Punjab, after he was
executed by Aurangzeb in
Delhi
in 1675. Seeing this act of bravery and sentiment, Guru Gobind Singh
adopted Jaita as his son. As such, a popular rhyme in
Punjab
goes, “Ranghreta guru da beta” (The scavenger is son of the
guru), as Jaita belonged to the community of ranghrets,
scavengers, who had converted to Sikhism. Bhai Jaita, who died fighting
the last battle for the guru in 1705, was the first known Dalit poet of
Punjab
. As Raj Kumar Hans, a professor of history, has pointed out:
In
its true egalitarian spirit, Sikhism had succeeded in integrating the
lowliest of the
low, the former untouchables, the dalits, into its folds…The way
Bhai Jaita was
integrated not only in Sikh religion but also in the family of Guru
Gobind
Singh, it is understandable that any other identity would have been
meaningless
to him.
Thus
Bhai Jaita cries out in thanksgiving, “O! Jaite the saviour Guru has
saved the ranghretas/ The pure Guru has made us his
sons.”
Disowned
ranghreta
Thereafter,
the second known Dalit writer of
Punjab
was Peero Preman (1830-72). Peero had earlier been a Muslim courtesan
named Ayesha, and later joined the Gulabdasia sect and inherited sainthood
from her mentor, Gulab Das. Ditt Singh Giani (1852-1901), another Dalit
writer, also made significant contributions to Punjabi literature,
particularly in terms of defining Sikh thought. He was also founder-editor
of a newspaper, Khalsa Akhbar, in
Lahore
. Similarly, Sadhu Daya Singh Arif, also a Dalit, (1894-1946) was a
theologian and writer who enjoyed great popularity.
Before we step into modern times, it is important to note the reasons for
Dalits moving out of the Sikh fold. To begin with, East Punjab has a
higher percentage of Dalits than any other state in modern-day
India
, making up almost 30 percent of the population. However, this community
owns just 2.3 percent of the cultivated agricultural land in the state.
Some 70 percent of Sikhs live in rural
Punjab
, as did a major chunk of the Dalits who worked as labourers in the fields
before they moved to other jobs, making way for migrant labour to take
their place. The relationship between the Jat landlords and their landless
labourers was a complex one. The lower castes worked with the upper-caste
Jats and, although the ‘otherness’ was the accepted order, there were
instances of close bonding and even addressing elders as uncle (chacha
or taya) or aunt (bhua, masi). The experience and skills
of the elders were respected; tilling of the land was a shared task, and
the relative well-being of everyone depended on it. This is articulated
best in the lines of the celebrated Dalit revolutionary poet, Sant Ram
Udasi: “The farmer embraces the labourer and weeps/ Water flows from the
stacks of ruined crops.” The lower castes took on the caste name of
their masters, and it was natural that there were amorous ties. Yet the
clear-cut caste divide was always there – as were separate wells for
drinking water, and separate cremation grounds.
While
Sikhism did not, in principle, recognise caste, in practice it carried
Hindu caste prejudices – hierarchies that went into Christianity and
Islam as well, when conversions took place. In the customary scheme of
working relationships, outcastes such as Mazhabi (chura or
sweeper Sikhs), Ramdasi (chamar or leatherworker Sikhs), Balmiki,
Ravidasi, Musalli, Teli, Mochi and others were not allowed to own land,
but were allowed to build temporary structures on the shamlat, or
village common land. How Dalits continue, even today, to be the wretched
of the earth can be seen in the
village
of
Badal
, home to the ruling family of
East Punjab
. Against plush structures of the Badal clan, fancy rest houses and more,
the Dalits live in filth and squalor on the western side of the village
– a common practice, lest the rays of the sun be ‘polluted’ before
reaching the upper-caste homes. None have the foresight, compassion and
love of the Tenth Guru to be able to see the outcaste ranghretas
as their own.
It is against this backdrop that contemporary Dalit writing emerged. The
early Dalit writers of modern times were distinctly leftwing in their
approach, with a strong belief in an equal social order. And with this
began the emergence of Dalit consciousness. The first poet to voice these
concerns was Gurdas Ram Alam (1912-89). Born in a poor Dalit family in
Bundala village in Jalandhar District, Alam sang about the deprived and
oppressed-caste communities with a hopeful and celebratory note for the
future:
Oh! The untouchable, open your eyes and see
I have a prescription for thee
Strength, unity and education will set you free.
Direct
descendants of Alam’s creed were Sant Ram Udasi (1939-86) and Lal Singh
Dil (1943-2007), revolutionary poets whose work served as inspiration for
the Naxalite uprisings of the 1960s. If Udasi calls out, “Smile Forever
O’ Sun on the Hutments of the Workers”, Dil sees joy in the dance of
the little children as their
mother
cooks the evening meal:
When the labourer woman
Roasts her heart on the tawa
The moon laughs from behind the tree
The father amuses the younger one
Making music with bowl and plate
The older one tinkles the bells
Tied to his waist and he dances
These songs do not die
nor either the dance in the heart …
Celebration
and pride are a part of the Dalit writing of
Punjab
, even as irony, loss and deprivation are never absent.
Gurdas
Ram Alam.
Derby
England
. 1972
Photographer
unknown
Sant
Ram Udasi
Coventry
England
. 1979
Photo
by Devinder Naura
In this
context, the past decade has also seen the emergence of the autobiography,
including those of Dil, Madhopuri, Prem Gorkhi and Attarjit. The latter
two are accomplished short-fiction writers, and have explored the Dalit
consciousness through their reality. These stories bring to the fore many
truths we wish to ignore. In addition, Gorkhi and Attarjit, Des Raj Kali,
Bhagwant Rasoolpuri, Mohal Lal Phillauria and Nachhatar are among other
contemporary fiction writers exploring the Dalit consciousness.
For
instance, Attarjit, in his celebrated story Thuān (Scorpion),
studies the caste divide from a different angle. The low-caste worker, who
once worked as a daily-wage earner in Jat fields, is now an educated,
prosperous lawyer who lives in the city, and has taken on an urban,
upper-caste second name. In the wake of an agricultural crisis, a son of
the Jats is forced to do construction labour at the former’s house. The
caste prejudice now flares up in reverse, shattering two worlds.
At
present, Dalit and women’s writing are occupying centre stage in the
world of Punjabi letters, motivated as they are by the struggle against
oppression. This is because what is counted as ‘mainstream’ literature
is related neither to struggle nor social justice. Bhagwant Rasoolpuri, in
his brilliant story Kasoorwar (Sinful), raises the issue of the
Dalit woman. This is the rambling memoirs of an old woman, one who knows
that keeping body and soul together is not for the wretched, and that a
woman is damned not only by the other but also by her kin.
Lal
Singh Dil
Samrala.
1978. Photo by Amarjit Chandan
‘No caste’ in
West Punjab
Across
the border, meanwhile, in the context of Pakistani Punjab, there is ample
evidence of Dalit identity submerging itself in the Muslim one. Sadly,
however, the Hindu malaise of the caste system was transferred even to
Islam, and caste stratification can today be found in
Pakistan
. Indeed, the titles used in the two Punjabs for Dalits who were taken
into the folds of Sikhism and Islam – mazhabi (one who has a
religion) is used for the Dalit who embraced Sikhism, while and
musalli (one who offers prayers) for those who have embraced Islam
– are technically positive, but are generally used offensively. This
implies that a change of name need not necessarily be accompanied with a
change of attitude.
In contrast to the situation in East Punjab, West Punjab does not have
Dalit writing as such, unlike the voluminous writing on the Dalits in
India
, especially from the left. In East Punjab, in his classic novel Marhi
da Diva, Gurdial Singh immortalised Jagsir – the landless
protagonist who toils and dies unsung but for the wife of the upper-caste
Jat, who goes and lights a lamp on his humble tomb, as they shared
unexpressed love for each other; and in West Punjab, meanwhile, Ishāq
Mohammad, founding president of the maoist Mazdoor Kissan Party and a
poet, playwright, told the unhappy tale in his very popular play called
Musalli. Ishāq Mohammad, the son of a peasant, had a great aptitude
for learning, and secured scholarships all the way through his enrolment
at
MAO
College
in
Amritsar
, where Faiz Ahmed Faiz was among his teachers. His studies were
interrupted only by the onset of World War II and, like Faiz, Ishaq
decided to join the British Indian Army to oppose the Nazi invasion of the
Soviet Union
. Later, both Faiz and Ishāq were implicated in the attempted coup of
1951, better known as the Rawalpindi Conspiracy, and imprisoned. It was in
jail that Ishaq wrote Musalli, which chronicled the deeply rooted
apartheid in Punjabi society – a fact that many Pakistanis are loath to
admit, because they believe that Muslims cannot practice caste-like
discrimination.
Yet
writers in
Pakistan
admit that caste prejudice is alive and kicking, living on in rules
regarding kitchen utensils and those preventing inter-marriages. The word churha
(sweeper), for instance, ranks among one of the most common abuses. Even
Allama Iqbal lamented in one of his couplets:
Yun tau syed bhi ho, mirza bhi ho, afghan bhi ho
Tum sabhi kuch ho, batao tau mussalman bhi ho
You are syeds, mirzas and Afghans
You are everything but Muslims.
[April
2010
