Mamta Kalia

to lose touch with those companions
of my age group in the neighbourhood
who did not go to school. Satpal and
Hiram Singh of the Bhangi basti had
started going to school. So only three
boys out of thirty families of our colony
went to school.
Ram Singh, Sukkhan Singh and I had
once again come together after class
six. Ram Singh was the brightest of us
all in his studies. Ram Singh and I had
joined the Scouts. The Scouts had to
go to the city for a district-level meet.
The school had issued us khaki halfpants
and shirts. The Scout teacher
Rameshchand had asked that the uniform
be washed and ironed. Up to that point
I had never worn an ironed piece of
clothing. Whenever I saw the starched
and freshly washed clothes of the Tyagi
boys, I wished that I too could go to
school in such clothes. At times I had
to wear the castoffs from the houses
of the Tyagis. The boys teased me when
they saw those clothes. But even those
castoffs could not cover our helplessness.
I had washed that khaki uniform with
great care. The problem was how to
iron it. There was a dhobi’s son in my
class. I asked him. He told me to come
to his house in the evening. I took the
uniform to his house that evening. As
soon as his father saw me he screamed,
Abey, Chuhre ka, where do you think
you are going?’ His son was standing
near him. I said, ‘I need to have the
uniform ironed.’
‘We don’t wash the clothes of the
Chuhra-Chamars. Nor do we iron them.
If we iron your clothes, then the Tagas
won’t get their clothes washed by us.
We will lose our roti.’ He had answered
me point blank. His reply crushed me.
I came back without saying a word. My
heart was heavy. I had lost faith in God.
One can somehow get past poverty and
deprivation, but it is impossible to get
past caste.
I had a teacher named Yogendra Tyagi
who was from Kutubpur. He was a nice
man and a good teacher. He taught
history and English. I used to be very
impressed by the way he rattled off dates
in history. I felt he had a great knowledge
of history. It was he who made me
interested in history, and it is an interest
that I have retained to this day. He
knew my father. Whenever he saw Pitaji,
he would tell him, ‘Chhotan, don’t prevent
your son from studying.’
Despite all his good intentions, he
used to cause me great distress in the
classroom. Whenever I made a mistake,
instead of thrashing me, he would grab
my shirt and drag me towards him. All
my concentration would then be focused
on my shirt, as I feared that it would
get ripped any moment. Pulling me by
the shirt, he would ask, ‘How many pieces
of pork did you eat? You must have
eaten at least a pao.’
Whenever Master Saheb said things
like that, I would begin to cry. My eyes
would fill up. The whole class used to
laugh at Master Saheb’s comments. The
boys would torment me about them.
‘Abey, Chuhre ke, you eat pork.’ At such
moments, I would think of all the Tyagis
who came in the darkness of the night
to the Bhangi basti to eat pork. I felt
April-June 2010 :: 19