Captured live

Indian literature, both in English and in the regional languages, has recorded the practice of untouchability in great detail.

THE inhuman practice of manual scavenging and its inextricable links with the caste system have been sensitively documented by writers and film-makers from time to time. Perhaps the first literary portrayal of the human dignity-defying practice in English was by Mulk Raj Anand in Untouchable. Published in 1935 after 19 "rejection slips", the novel describes a day in the life of Bakha, a sweeper. "The sweeper," wrote E.M. Forster in his Preface to the novel, "is worse off than a slave, for the slave may change his master and his duties and may even become free, but the sweeper is bound forever, born into a state from which he cannot escape and where he is excluded from social intercourse and the consolations of his religion."

In a trenchant criticism of the caste system, Forster wrote: "... they [Indians] have evolved a hideous nightmare unknown to the West; the belief that the products [human excreta] are ritually unclean as well as physically unpleasant, and that those who carry them away or otherwise help to dispose of them are outcastes from society. Really, it takes the human mind to evolve anything so devilish. No animal could have hit on it. As one of Mr. Anand's characters says: `They think we are dirt because we clean their dirt.'"

Bakha's search for a way out of the hideous system first takes him to a Christian missionary and then to a follower of Mahatma Gandhi. However, he finds the real answer in technology. Forster wrote: "No god is needed to rescue the Untouchables, no vows of self-sacrifice and abnegation on the part of more fortunate Indians but simply and solely - the flush system. Introduce water closets and main drainage throughout India, and all this rubbish about untouchability will disappear."

The next major work on the life of scavengers came from Kerala in 1947. Thottiyute Makan (Scavenger's Son) by Jnanpith Award-winning Malayalam author Thakazhi Sivasankara Pillai is a stark depiction of the deprivation and hellish existence of the manual scavengers of Alappuzha town in Kerala prior to the abolition of the practice in the State. It is a tale of three generations - all carriers of night soil, but with each generation there is a bigger struggle to rise above the baseness of their menial occupation and a deeper questioning of its firmly entrenched social stigma.

A notable work in Tamil is Kazhisadai (Scum) by Arivazhagan. Published in 2003, the novel is the story of Hanumanthayya, a municipal conservancy worker who dips into underground sewers risking his life and removes night soil to earn a living.

A powerful audiovisual portrayal of the problem is the 26-minute Tamil documentary "Pee" (Shit). Shot in Mini DV format by R.P. Amudhan in 2003, the film shows Mariyammal, a manual scavenger, venting her anger and frustration even as she cleans a shit-strewn street near a temple in Madurai. Among other recognitions, the film won the National Jury Award in the national competition at the Ninth Mumbai International Film Festival in February 2006. The documentary attracted wide attention and was selected for screening at the Guan Zhou International Documentary Film Festival, China and the Tel Aviv Documentary Film Festival.

Excerpts from the novel

`THERE is no chance of seeing anything if I stand here,' he mused. `I shall go and look.' But he hadn't the courage to go. He felt weak. He realized that an Untouchable going into a temple polluted it past purification. His father would be angry if he knew that he hadn't done any work this morning. Somebody might come and see him roaming about and think he was a thief.

But the edge of his curiosity became more and more acute as he stood there. He suddenly dismissed his thoughts and with a determined, hurried step went towards the stairs, looking to this side and that, with a tense, heavy head, but unafraid. A murderer might have advanced like that, one confident in his consummate mastery of the art of killing. But he soon lost his grace in the low stoop which the dead weight of years of habitual bending cast on him. He became the humble, oppressed under-dog that he was by birth, afraid of everything creeping slowly up, in a curiously hesitant, cringing movement. After he had mounted the first two steps, he stood completely demoralized with fear and retreated to the place from which he had started. He picked up his broom by its short wooden handle and began to sweep the ground... . This was a slow business as compared to the work at the latrines, but... not so unpleasant.

He collected the litter in small heaps, because he knew he could not push any more of it with his small broom, right round the courtyard. He had purposed to collect these small heaps one by one, in his basket later on. When the heaps were ready, he waited for a moment to wipe the sweat off his brow. The temple stood challengingly before him. He bent down and began to collect the heaps which his broom had piled up. The unfailing sense of direction of his inner impulse landed him near the steps of the temple again. But now he was afraid. The temple seemed to advance towards him like a monster, and to envelop him. He hesitated for a while. Then his will strengthened. With a sudden onslaught he had captured five steps of the fifteen that led to the door of the temple. There he stopped, his heart drumming fiercely to his chest, which bent forward like that of an athletic runner on the starting-line, his head thrown back. The force of another impulse pushed him a step or two further up. Here he was almost thrown out of equilibrium by an accidental knock on his knee and stood tottering, threatened with a fall. But he gripped the steps hard, and recovering his balance, rushed headlong to the top step. From here, he lay, he could peer through with his head raised above the marble threshold, lowered (luckily for him) by the rubbings of the heads of the devout, and affording a glimpse, just a glimpse, of the sanctuary which had so far been a secret, a hidden mystery to him. In the innermost recesses of the tall, dark sanctum, beyond the brass gates, past what seemed a maze of corridors, Bakha's eyes probed the depths of a raised platform. There, from a background of gold-embroidered silk and velvet draperies, stood out, various brass images dimly shrouded in the soft tremors of incense that rose from a dish at their feet. A priest sat half naked, with a tuft of hair on the top of his shaven head, unduly prominent as it tied itself in an inscrutable knot. An open book lay on a bookstand before him, amidst the paraphernalia of brass utensils, conch-shells and autiful curves of his graceful body, got up and blew a conch-shell. Bakha saw, peered, stared hard, and realized that the morning service had begun. After the loud soprano of `Om, Shanthi Deva' the seated priest lifted his hard voice, jarring on the bell which tinkled in his left hand, into unison with the brass notes of the conch. The quiet little shrine of a moment ago had become a living, feeling reality. Worshippers flocked the inner corridors of the temple towards the platform of the gods, and stood beneath the dome, singing `Arti, Arti... '. The loud flourish of the first conch note floated into a sweet, lingering melody, soft and clear, yet potent with a strength of the most mysteriously affecting kind, a strength sustained enough to raise one's hair, as it proceeded to a finish in the hoarse shout of triumphant worship `Sri Ram Chandar ki Jai'.

Bakha was profoundly moved. He was affected by the rhythm of the song. His blood had coursed along the balanced melodic line to the final note of strength with such sheer vigour that his hands joined unconsciously, and his head hung in the worship of the unknown god.

But a cry disturbed him, `Polluted, polluted, polluted.' A shout rang through the air. He was completely unnerved. His eyes were covered with darkness. He couldn't see anything. His tongue and throat were parched. He wanted to utter a cry, a cry of fear, but his voice failed him. He opened his mouth wide to speak. It was no use. Beads of sweat covered his forehead. He tried to raise himself from the awkward attitude of prostration, but his limbs had no strength left in them.

Then as suddenly as he had been overpowered he asserted himself. He lifted his head and looked round. The scales fell from his eyes. He could see the little man with a drooping moustache whom he knew to be a priest of the temple, racing up the courtyard, trembling, stumbling, tottering, falling, with his arms lifted in the air, and in his mouth the hushed cry `polluted, polluted, polluted.'

`I have been seen, undone,' the sentence quickly flashed across Bakha's mind. But he espied the figure of a woman behind the shouting priest. He stood amazed, though still afraid, still feeling that he was doomed. He was unaware, however, of the form the doom would take.

But he soon knew. A thumping crowd of worshippers rushed out of the temple, and stood arrayed as in the grand finale of an opera show. The lanky little priest stood with upraised hands a few steps below him. His sister, Sohini (for that was the woman he had seen behind the priest), lingered modestly in the courtyard.

`Polluted, polluted, polluted!' shouted the Brahmin below. The crowd above him took the cue and shouted after him, waving their hands, some in fear, others in anger, but all in a terrible orgy of excitement. One of the crowd struck out an individual note.

`Get off the steps, you scavenger! Off with you! You have defiled our whole service! You have defiled our temple! Now we will have to pay for the purificatory ceremony. Get down, get away, you dog!'

Bakha ran down the steps, past the priest below him, to his sister. He had two impulses, that of fear for himself, for the crime he knew he had committed, another of fear for his sister, for the crime she might have committed, since she stood there speechless.

`You people have only been polluted from a distance', Bakha heard the little priest shriek. `I have been defiled by contact.'

`The distance, the distance!' the worshippers from the top of the steps were shouting. `A temple can be polluted according to the Holy Books by a low-caste man coming within sixty-nine yards of it, and here he was actually on the steps, at the door. We are ruined. We will need to have a sacrificial fire in order to purify ourselves and our shrine.'

`But I... I... ' shouted the lanky priest histrionically, and never finished his sentence.

The crowd on the temple steps believed that he had suffered most terribly, and sympathized, for it had seen the sweeper-boy rush past him. They didn't ask about the way he had been polluted. They didn't know the story that Sohini told Bakha at the door of the courtyard with sobs and tears.

`That man, that man,' she said, `that man made suggestions to me, when I was cleaning the lavatory of his house there. And when I screamed, he came out shouting that he had been defiled.'

Excerpts from the novel

One day's experience - Chudalamuthu learned a few things. When toilets are full and brimming with filth, the Thotti earns something. In the evening the toilets are empty. So no one recognises him.

Chudalamuthu grew up on the rice and kanji that was brought (by his father Isakkumuthu) on the night soil cart. That was true. But did he have to eat that rice forever? Couldn't he eat well from the wages of hard labour? Even then, Chudalamuthu wondered whether he could stick to such tradition forever. It is a must that the Thotti who removes filth should eat filth. There would be no wages next month. Two months would have to pass like that. If he trudged along with this pot from morning, it would take care of the old man's needs. But then, what about him?

A few neatly dressed men were approaching, talking enthusiastically. Chudala, who was deep in thought, broke their rank. One of them looked at him fiercely and asked:

"Can't you keep away from us? You stink!"

Chudala didn't say anything. A hot retort roared inside him. But he suppressed it. He has to keep away! He stinks! The thing that made him stink was entrenched inside those gentlemen!

He could hear music from a nearby mansion. From another home wafted the smell of a nice curry being seasoned with mustard. There were well-lit homes, seats of happiness, towering on both sides. They are a fortunate lot, those who live there. But what causes such well-being and happiness? Chudala wondered. Isn't it because the toilets remained clean? How would this town appear if there had been no Thottis around or if men had refused to be Thottis? It would be the end. All these bigwigs would flee with their noses covered. It would be the end. But they know how to create Thottis. Thottis are inevitable.

* * *"Who do you think is in your womb?"She replied, laughing:"Who else? Thotti's son!"

Chudalamuthu was stunned. He had never thought like that. What a dreadful truth! That child is a Thotti's son!

Chudalamuthu advised her:

"You should never think like that. The other day, the swamy at Mullakkal Ashram told me, you should think only about good things. Then the child will do well. If you think that he's a Thotti's son, he will also become a Thotti."

* * *The midwife said:"Here, hold the child."

Chudalamuthu's hand froze. An old woman who came out, said:

"You must give 10 chakras before taking the child."

Chudalamuthu came back with ten chakras. But he was fearful of taking the child in his hands. He was a Thotti. He had to hold the child with the hands that cleared toilet-filth!

Yet he had to do it. He held out his hand and took the child. And gave it back immediately.

Chudalamuthu had never felt such an aversion at being a Thotti as he did that day. That baby might have also been feeling the aversion. Can it know the stink? A Thotti stinks even if he takes a bath. Will the child have problems because I touched it? He should grow up without touching a Thotti. Even so, when he gave the child to other hands, Chudalamuthu felt like holding him again.

* * *

Advocate Kurup's wife had a hearty laugh when she learnt that the Thotti's son was christened Mohanan. That laughter didn't make a fool of Chudalamuthu. It shocked him. Paralysed him. That laughter was not only full of ridicule but it had the suggestion that a Thotti did not have the right to such a name.

* * *"Why is the child crying?"Valli replied with a smile:"He wants to have dinner with you."

Muthu was shocked. Yes, he was shocked. Chudalamuthu had never thought there would be such a demand. He wants to eat the rice that I mixed with this hand that gathers toilet-filth. How can it be allowed from now on? How can it be denied? Now he may even call me acha (father) in public.

* * *

He remembered every toilet he had been acquainted with. Day after day he would gather filth with the shovel and the ladle, put it in the bucket and then in the can - each time it would spill on his body... I am supposedly a human being! A human being with a heart, brain and five senses! Why did he have the ability to beget children? To create more Thottis? Could his son become a great man?

No! Chudalamuthu thought: What he must do is to take his pot and start in the morning. And, fill it with whatever he got during his house visits, the sour payasam, stale porridge or day-old kanji, put it on the night soil cart and give it to his son. Thus it should grow up. A Thotti's son cannot grow without eating that filth. Even if it is not given to him, he'll ask for it. A Thotti's son will find that filth tastier than a biscuit. Because his taste for it is hereditary.

* * *Chudalamuthu said further:

"I always wonder. One day or the other, he will know that he's a Thotti's son. Wherever he goes he's a Thotti's son. Both are a problem."

Valli too had something to say:

"I too wonder. Will it do any good even if he pretends he's not a Thotti's son? Just think, where will he get a bride? Will he get anyone other than a Thotti's daughter?

"Yes, that too is right. But, even then, I won't bring him up as a Thotti's son. That's certain. Even if he's a Thotti's son, his son should not be a Thotti's son."

Valli said, sighing deeply:"That child will become Thotti's son's son."

Chudalamuthu thought for a brief while and said:

"Yes."Valli asked:"Who made this Thotti in the beginning?""Do you also wonder about it?"

"Yes. At times. I never had such thoughts before. But now I wonder."

"Do you feel an aversion being a Thotti?"

"What can I say if you ask me that? Can I have such aversion?"

It became clear to that husband that his wife too was thinking like him. Valli asked to clear her doubt:

"Will there be a time when there are no Thottis around?"

"I don't know."

"No. I don't think so. No. How can it be? If there is a toilet, don't you also need a Thotti?

* * *

"Do you know why they refuse to admit our child in school? If Thotti children start to learn - then, they are afraid, there won't be Thottis any longer."

* * *

Another day, Mohanan pestered Valli with his stubbornness. He didn't want the shirt and shorts that he had worn to school the previous day. He didn't have enough of powder; he insisted on her bathing him with good, perfumed soap. Till that day, he had never been so stubborn. Valli asked, angrily:

"What happened to the shorts that you wore yesterday? It looks very clean."

He rubbed his eyes and said:

"All the children ran away from me holding their nose, saying that I stink."

Valli understood that story immediately. It was not that he stank. A Thotti stinks. Therefore, a Thotti's son will stink.

* * *

Thotti's son didn't know what a Thotti is. But other children of his age knew it very well. Because they find a Thotti repugnant.

Valli told her husband about her son's insistent curiosity.

"Don't try to evade it any longer. You must leave this job. You must do it before he comes to know everything."

* * *He knows!Mohanan continued:

"In the afternoon when I was going (to school) I saw a man pulling the cart. Oh! What a stink! I covered my nose and ran. Then a boy told me. That it was a Thotti. Amma! Does Achan too draw a cart like this?"

Valli expected that it would be a big problem when Mohanan came to know what a Thotti is. But he was speaking normally. There seems to be no problem now that he has come to know about it.

Even if he had come to know about it earlier, there wouldn't have been any problem. Perhaps, when he comes to know what is inside the cart - even then he won't be flustered. Valli answered his question unhurriedly, without emotion:

"Achan too draws (the cart) that way." His thinking was different: "Poor Achan! He too would sweat profusely in the sun."

Translated by R. Krishnakumar