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 –
T
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 clearcut 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 dailywage 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