I would never have known about Manoranjan Byapari but for a chance reading of an interview of his in ‘The Hindu Lit for Life’ annual meet this year. Byapari was given the award for best non-fiction work. The interview was revelatory, to say the least. It made me get the book without any delay and read it. This is his memoirs, written in Bengali and translated in English by Sipra Mukherjee. Byapari and his family of eight were refugees from East Pakistan in the 1950s, after India’s partition. They were members of the Namashudra Dalit community. The book is a powerful journal of his life of acute hunger, poverty and utter deprivation. At the same time, it is also the chronicle of a life of courageous struggle, perseverance in the face of violence and cruelty, and the will to survive.
Most of us today do not know enough about the horrors of India’s partition and its aftermath. Most books on the subject dwell on the events in Punjab rather than Bengal. Here, we learn that the first flow of refugees from East Bengal were mostly upper and middle class people. They were easily absorbed and settled in West Bengal. But Byapari’s family came along with the second flow of refugees. They were huge in number, poor and belonged mostly to the lower castes. West Bengal was hostile to them. The pejorative term ‘Bangal’ was used to refer to these refugees. They were seen as taking jobs and trades from the locals. For Byapari’s family, it was a double whammy. They were not only ‘Bangals’ but Dalits (outcaste) at that. Upper caste Hindus treated them abusively. The local Muslim community saw them as ‘kafirs’ because they are Hindus by birth and worshippers of idols. With an Indian Bengal that was unwelcoming, the refugees were forcibly sent to the rocky, inhospitable area of Dandakaranya (mostly in Orissa and Madhya Pradesh). Byapari writes about horrible conditions in the camps there, where refugee families died everyday from Cholera, malaria or inter-group fights. The early chapters in the book talk about his family’s suffering in Ghola-Doltala and Shiromanipur Camps where poverty, destitution, starvation and penury were rampant. Unable to bear the hopelessness, the young Byapari runs away from Dandakaranya to Calcutta. He wanders from Calcutta to Assam to Siliguri to Darjeeling in search of sustenance. He carries loads, washes utensils, assists in tea-shops and works as a cook and a rickshaw puller. Often, he is cheated of his monthly earnings or robbed of his saved earnings. Once, he is employed as a cook’s assistant in a wedding ceremony but is thrashed later for hiding the fact that he is a Namashudra. The head cook, a depraved Brahmin, fancies his teen-age body and rapes him. Byapari runs away and finds work and refuge in the house of a policeman. But, when the darkness of the night envelops him, the beast in the policeman is aroused by the teenager’s young body and Byapari is raped again. Byapari runs away once more, this time to Kanpur. He describes his itinerant existence poignantly as "Life has spread skittish mustard seeds under my feet".
He returns to Calcutta in the 1970s and is drawn to the Naxalite communist movement, gets caught up in gang warfare and ends up in prison on a eleven-year sentence. There, in the justice system of Democratic India, he finds an young man spending eleven months in jail for stealing a paltry 25 kg of salt. A bond of 100 rupees was set to let him out on bail, but he was too poor to mobilize even that much money. So, he rots 11 months in the prison. However, it was in prison that Byapari learns to read and write at age 24 from a fellow Naxalite. He is hooked and becomes a voracious reader, consuming Marx, Tagore and Gorky. After release from prison, he becomes a rickshaw puller again in Jadavpur when he chances to meet the writer Mahashweta Devi as his passenger. Devi asks him to write for her magazine and so starts Byapari’s life as a writer. He marries a tribal woman from Bastar in the 1980s, goes to Chhattisgarh to work with the great Gandhian-Communist labour leader, Shankar Guha Niyogi and his organization, Chhattisgarh Mukti Morcha. He spends a few years in Dalli-Rajhara with this movement. The repressive forces of the State, combined with the business elite, finds Niyogi’s revolutionary trade-union activism a threat to their exploitation and profits. Niyogi is assassinated in 1991. After Niyogi’s death, Byapari returns to Kolkata and continues to write, mainly novels, short stories and essays. In a stunning reversal of his early life, he now has 15 novels, 35 essays and 150 short stories to his credit.
Byapari says that he writes out of anger and not love. He has a go at Indian society and its cruelties. Why not? If some held him in contempt because he is a Namashudra, others do the same because he is illiterate or a rickshaw-wallah or just a poor man. He is skeptical of leaders who claim to fight caste or claim to fight class. He has been marginalized by both. Towards the end of his book, he has a go at even Rabindanath Tagore for saying that ‘it is a sin to lose faith in humanity’. Byapari says that ‘this gentleman’ was raised in affluence, in a zamindari household in the idyllic environs of Shanti Niketan. If he had to work as a cook in some place and be chased away as a thief, denying his rightful earnings, if he had to save money painstakingly by lifting heavy cannisters of milk over days only to be robbed by those very milkmen themselves, if he had to pull a ricksahw bathed in the sweat of summer heat and the passenger vanishes without paying him, then the esteemed poet too may have thought differently on humanity. On India as a land, Byapari says, ‘this is the land where Lord Ram killed Shambuka (a Shudra) for daring to learn the Vedas and where Dronacharya asked Ekalavya (a Nishada tribal) to sacrifice his thumb for daring to aspire to the vocation of a Kshatriya. No wonder Byapari is writing in anger and justifiably so.
The book brings to intense focus the overriding obsession among Indians of the caste-hierarchy in Indian society. Indians experience their identity on multiple dimensions. There is the identity based on language, on caste, on religion, on social class and on gender. There is also the identity based on region, like the south Indian, the north Indian, the NE Indian etc. Amongst all these identities, the caste identity is the most dominant one, even above the seemingly dominant one of religion. Caste gives not only an identity but also gives a sense of superiority or inferiority based on where one is situated in its hierarchy. It is fashinable nowadays among the upper caste middle classes to pronounce that caste is no longer a big factor in urban India, especially among the educated. One has to only look at a recent event in Indian politics to bring them back to harsh reality. Ms.Mayawati recently joined Twitter by announcing it in a tweet. She is a career politician, a woman, a premier Dalit leader, Hindi-speaking, and dark-skinned. She was promptly trolled, as politicians deserve to be. But, it is the nature of the trolling that shows the prejudice against Dalits among the educated crowd. Just because she is a Dalit, it was assumed that she is uneducated and can’t do her own tweets. Mayawati is actually a Law graduate and an ex-school teacher. The same aspersion is not cast on other politicians who can’t speak English but tweet in English all the same. Some trolls asked whether she is capable of managing her own twitter handle. Others asked why her photograph looks as though her complexion is fair. Being a Dalit woman politician is a triple whammy.
In writing this memoir about the stark reality of Dalit life in India, Byapari gives less importance to aesthetics and more stress to emphasize that Dalit life can be represented truthfully and fully only by Dalits who live it. It cannot be done by a non-Dalit, not even by the great Mahashweta Devi, however sympathetic she may be. As Byapari says, “....I have come back from the jaws of death many times. Recently again I was fighting death, and I had a strong feeling that my life-story must be documented in print, or else it will be lost with me. It's important for people to know that someone survived in such horrid conditions. My writings represent all those people who continue to live in such inhuman circumstances".
This memoir provides much food for thought and deserves to be paid careful reflection by the readers, especially in today’s atmosphere of empty pride in a militant Hinduism which is intolerant towards anyone who disagrees with the State’s chest-thumping patriotism and nationalism.