Mamta Kalia
Mamta Kalia Mamta Kalia
neighbourhood had gone somewhere else. Within the batting of an eyelid, the baithak had filled up. There was stuff lying all over. The basti people had brought cooking utensils as well as some other necessities. Everything else had been left behind. A great many people had sought shelter in the baithak. Our greatest problem was how to light the chulha. No one had any fuel. The firewood we had was completely soaked in the rain. We had borrowed uplas, cowdung cakes, from the Tagas to light a fire. Eight or ten chulhas had been set up in the baithak. Well, there weren’t any real chulhas. Three bricks had been put together as makeshift chulhas. Those who could not find bricks were making do with stones. The smoke rising from these chulhas had completely transformed the baithak. One couldn’t even breathe in that smoke. The men had assembled in the veranda and were smoking the hookah. The women were battling with the stoves. The children made such a racket that you could not hear a thing. As soon as evening fell, the baithak had gone absolutely dark. No one had a lamp or a lantern. The burning dung cakes in the hearths were making an unsuccessful attempt to dispel the darkness. Sitting under one roof people had forgotten their old grudges. Whatever they had, they wanted to share with others. Ma had boiled gram that night, with just salt for spice, and that was all we got to eat that night. The taste of those salted grams, the feeling of content that 22 :: April-June 2010 they provided has not come my way again, even in five-star hotel food. That night no dal or vegetable had been cooked on any stove. Roti, onion and salt: no one had anything else besides these three items. The next day, afternoon came, and yet no chulha had been lit. The rain had brought us to starvation’s door. Life had come to a standstill. People were wandering all over the village, hoping to find some grain so that they could light the stove and cook it. At such times one can’t even get a loan. Many had returned empty-handed after searching all over. Pitaji had also returned with empty hands. Hopelessness was writ large on his face. Sagwa Pradhan had laid down his condition for giving grain: indenture a son on an annual lease and take as much grain as you want. Pitaji had come back without saying a word. But mother had managed to get a few seers of rice from Mamraj Taga’s house and that tided us over. After many days, we were going to have a proper meal. Ma put a big pot on the hearth to boil the rice. It did not have too much rice, but it was filled with water right up to the brim. The smell of boiling rice permeated the entire baithak. Little children were looking at Ma’s chulha with expectant eyes. The water was drained after the rice had boiled. Ma divided that water into two containers. One part was given a baghar like dal, and all the children were given a bowl each of rice water from the other. This mar or rice water was as good as milk to us. Whenever rice
was cooked at home, we all got very excited. Our bodies felt energetic after imbibing this hot drink. There were Julahas’ homes near our neighbourhood. During the marriage season when dal and rice were cooked in their homes, the children of our neighbourhood ran there with pots in their hands to collect the mar. Thrown away by others, the mar was to us even more valuable than cow’s milk. Many a time the Julahas used to scream at the children to go away. But they stood there shamelessly. The desire to drink the mar was more powerful for them than the scolding. The mar tasted very nice with salt. If once in a while gur was available, then the mar became a delicacy. This taste for mar wasn’t brought about because of some trend or fashion. It was due to want and starvation. This thing that everyone discards was a means to quell our hunger. Once in school, Master Saheb was teaching the lesson on Dronacharya. He told us, almost with tears in his eyes, that Dronacharya had fed flour dissolved in water to his famished son, Ashwatthama, in lieu of milk. The whole class had responded with great emotion to this story of Dronacharya’s dire poverty. This episode was penned by Vyasa, the author of the Mahabharata to highlight Drona’s poverty. I had the temerity to stand up and ask Master Saheb a question afterwards. So Ashwatthama was given flour mixed in water instead of milk, but what about us who had to drink mar? How come we were never mentioned in any epic? Why didn’t an epic poet ever write a word on our lives? The whole class stared at me. As though I had raised a meaningless point. Master Saheb screamed, ‘Darkest Kaliyug has descended upon us so that an untouchable is daring to talk back.’ The teacher ordered me to stand in the murga or rooster pose. This meant squatting on my haunches, then drawing my arms through my inner thighs, and pulling down my head to grasp my ears, a painful constricted position. Instead of carrying on with the lesson he was going on and on about my being a Chuhra. He ordered a boy to get a long teak stick. ‘Chuhre ke, you dare compare yourself with Dronacharya . . . Here, take this, I will write an epic on your body.’ He had rapidly created an epic on my back with the swishes of his stick. That epic is still inscribed on my back. Reminding me of those hated days of hunger and hopelessness, this epic composed out of a feudalistic mentality is inscribed not just on my back but on each nerve of my brain. I too have felt inside me the flames of Ashwatthama’s revenge. They keep on burning inside me to this day. I have struggled for years on end to come out of the dark vaults of my life, powered by little besides the rice water. Our stomachs would get bloated because of a constant diet of this drink. It killed our appetite. It was our cow’s milk and it was our gourmet meal. Scorched by this deprived life, the colour of my skin has altered. Literature can only imagine hell. For us the rainy season was a living hell. April-June 2010 :: 23
- Page 1 and 2: A Journal of Mahatma Gandhi Antarra
- Page 3 and 4: Contents Focus LANGUAGE DISCOURSE W
- Page 5 and 6: Editor's Note Those who have a pass
- Page 7 and 8: Focus JOOTHAN Om Prakash Valmiki Tr
- Page 9 and 10: unwarranted. Ram Singh and Sukkhan
- Page 11 and 12: angry that his dense moustache was
- Page 13 and 14: place where uplas or cow dung cakes
- Page 15 and 16: He had entered the cowsheds of the
- Page 17 and 18: that she kept with great care with
- Page 19 and 20: to lose touch with those companions
- Page 21: It rained a lot in the year 1962. A
- Page 25 and 26: Discourse JOOTHAN: A DALIT LITERARY
- Page 27 and 28: in the present. These are memories
- Page 29 and 30: sun and the needle pricks of the sh
- Page 31 and 32: as well as the rhetorical use of th
- Page 33 and 34: he used to come to our house in Alm
- Page 35 and 36: although drawing its special charac
- Page 37 and 38: the forests, or the discovery of la
- Page 39 and 40: oth the above-mentioned tendencies
- Page 41 and 42: enterprising elements with more cap
- Page 43 and 44: quite opposite to them. This has on
- Page 45 and 46: considerable “reverse flow”, th
- Page 47 and 48: on the basis of a new model. This n
- Page 49 and 50: Our mind Clouds with the din of Loo
- Page 51 and 52: He’s not born in any castle- In t
- Page 53 and 54: Such Is The Time Such is this time
- Page 55 and 56: manning machines returning home, af
- Page 57 and 58: I have to tell them each time that
- Page 59 and 60: Said—I used to love this man. Had
- Page 61 and 62: Poetry FIVE POEMS Nilesh Raghuvansh
- Page 63 and 64: How dear it is to hear him so! His
- Page 65 and 66: Books Never willed anybody for a gi
- Page 67 and 68: Discourse POST MODERNISM: A CRITICA
- Page 69 and 70: (Daniel Bell), or ‘post-modern ti
- Page 71 and 72: According to Jameson and Baudrillar
neighbourhood had gone somewhere else.<br />
Within the batting of an eyelid, the baithak<br />
had filled up. There was stuff lying all<br />
over. The basti people had brought<br />
cooking utensils as well as some other<br />
necessities. Everything else had been<br />
left behind.<br />
A great many people had sought<br />
shelter in the baithak. Our greatest<br />
problem was how to light the chulha.<br />
No one had any fuel. The firewood we<br />
had was completely soaked in the rain.<br />
We had borrowed uplas, cowdung cakes,<br />
from the Tagas to light a fire. Eight<br />
or ten chulhas had been set up in the<br />
baithak. Well, there weren’t any real<br />
chulhas. Three bricks had been put<br />
together as makeshift chulhas. Those who<br />
could not find bricks were making do<br />
with stones. The smoke rising from these<br />
chulhas had completely transformed the<br />
baithak. One couldn’t even breathe in<br />
that smoke. The men had assembled in<br />
the veranda and were smoking the<br />
hookah. The women were battling with<br />
the stoves. The children made such a<br />
racket that you could not hear a thing.<br />
As soon as evening fell, the baithak<br />
had gone absolutely dark. No one had<br />
a lamp or a lantern. The burning dung<br />
cakes in the hearths were making an<br />
unsuccessful attempt to dispel the<br />
darkness. Sitting under one roof people<br />
had forgotten their old grudges. Whatever<br />
they had, they wanted to share with<br />
others.<br />
Ma had boiled gram that night, with<br />
just salt for spice, and that was all we<br />
got to eat that night. The taste of those<br />
salted grams, the feeling of content that<br />
22 :: April-June 2010<br />
they provided has not come my way<br />
again, even in five-star hotel food. That<br />
night no dal or vegetable had been cooked<br />
on any stove. Roti, onion and salt: no<br />
one had anything else besides these three<br />
items.<br />
The next day, afternoon came, and<br />
yet no chulha had been lit. The rain<br />
had brought us to starvation’s door. Life<br />
had come to a standstill. People were<br />
wandering all over the village, hoping<br />
to find some grain so that they could<br />
light the stove and cook it. At such<br />
times one can’t even get a loan. Many<br />
had returned empty-handed after<br />
searching all over. Pitaji had also returned<br />
with empty hands. Hopelessness was writ<br />
large on his face. Sagwa Pradhan had<br />
laid down his condition for giving grain:<br />
indenture a son on an annual lease and<br />
take as much grain as you want.<br />
Pitaji had come back without saying<br />
a word. But mother had managed to<br />
get a few seers of rice from Mamraj<br />
Taga’s house and that tided us over.<br />
After many days, we were going to have<br />
a proper meal. Ma put a big pot on<br />
the hearth to boil the rice. It did not<br />
have too much rice, but it was filled<br />
with water right up to the brim. The<br />
smell of boiling rice permeated the entire<br />
baithak. Little children were looking at<br />
Ma’s chulha with expectant eyes.<br />
The water was drained after the rice<br />
had boiled. Ma divided that water into<br />
two containers. One part was given a<br />
baghar like dal, and all the children were<br />
given a bowl each of rice water from<br />
the other. This mar or rice water was<br />
as good as milk to us. Whenever rice