I Was Called A ‘Musaharin’ Growing Up, I Didn’t Know Why Until I Met One

What makes me the person that I am? With this question, I don’t mean to imply that I am a great person. I’m not. But as the first female in my family to make it to the capital city, that too as a journalist, I can’t escape this thought, however much I try.

I belong to Bihar, one of India’s most backward states, and I studied in Jharkhand. While many of my brothers and sisters grew up in backwardness, I was luckier. They didn’t have the privilege of going to good schools, let alone thinking of making a good career.

Our village used to be the destination for summer and winter vacations and occasionally on account of marriages in the family. All through these years, I’ve had countless experiences there, both good and bad.

I recall being called Musaharin, Chamarin, Domin (all names of Dalit caste groups) on a regular basis as abuse. Musaharin, especially, whenever I would look filthy.

Of course, I didn’t pay much attention then. But then some childhood memories and experiences stay with us when we are bound to forget others.
Today, I’m a Journalist who lives in Delhi and speaks some English, too. And as I navigate through the city life and do my journalism, my village, which I’ve grown fond of more than ever, and my people keep coming back to me.

And of the many memories and experiences that come back, that way of abuse stands out.

Who Are The Musahars?
I wanted to enquire why I was addressed as a Musaharin. To do so, I went to one of the Musahars, a Dalit caste that is accorded the mahadalit (dalits among dalits) status by the Bihar government. I saw children bereft of clothes. And people told me many from the community die of hunger.

I got answers. I came out of that place with my head hung in shame. This country, each one of us should feel ashamed.

Apart from these, a major finding was that they are still bonded agricultural labourers in many places. All because they’re landless themselves. They work on other people’s fields as cheap or bonded labour. They don’t own land, so they don’t own anything.
Pushed to the outskirts of most villages into small tolas, they are still considered untouchable. Oppression comes in handy in the community. Caste plus landlessness has kept them far away from the basic dignity that they deserve.

A popular folk song sung by women from the community says:

???? ??? ???? ???? ?????
????? ??? ?? ????
???? ?? ???? ??????? ?? ??????
??????? ???? ?????? ??????

(While young, my father got me married
My husband says, let’s go plant paddy
To plant paddy I go to the zamindars field
Zamindar, the sinner, oggles my body.)

More than 96% of over 2.5 million Musahars are landless and hardly 1% of them are literate.

Land reforms, including fixation of ceiling and acquisition of surplus land, from large land-owning communities, are already there in the law books. Redistribution of land, however, remains unimplemented on the ground.

Disruption of the status quo through government intervention is the only way out for the community. But something more important than laws — the intention to work for the weakest — is missing.

The story of the Musahars and the caste question has remained with me ever since. Interestingly and sadly, it’s not just Bihar. It’s everywhere.
In India, being a predominantly agricultural society, landlessness among the Dalit castes and the consequent marginalisation is widespread.

Punjab — the land of plenty and sarbat da bhala (prosperity for all) — is another state where Dalits, even after converting to the Sikh religion which preaches equality, haven’t found the dignity that they’ve forever looked for.

We’re talking about a third of Punjab’s population. Landlessness, again, emerged as the primary vector of marginalisation.

The powerful have remained powerful and the weak have been made to remain weak. The political class, surely, does not have any interest in looking after them unless there’s an electoral gain or loss at stake.

People’s lack of education (which again is the government’s duty) and awareness helps governments get away with their responsibilities.
A Dalit woman labourer I met while the paddy harvest sung this song to me:

???? ?? ?????? ???????, ?? ??? ???? ????,
????? ?? ??? ???, ??? ???, ???? ???? ?????!

(With a sickle in my hand, I harvest your paddy,
But you didn’t even give me my compensation; how will my child survive?)

I wonder if my writing will change anything at all. But I dream. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if they had a piece of land they could call their own, till as they please?

How would they feel if they were not left at somebody else’s mercy and instead be given the opportunity to be their own masters? Wouldn’t it be the most wonderful thing if they didn’t just have to think about arranging food?

I see myself as one of them and their pain as my own. The victory shall be collectively ours.

Courtesy : Youth ki awaaz

Note: This news piece was originally published in youthkiawaaz.com and used purely for non-profit/non-commercial purposes exclusively for Human Rights .