Despite the repeal of the Criminal Tribe Act in 1949, members of the 'denotified' tribes in Maharashtra continue to face harassment at the hands of the police and leaders of the upper castes.
WHEN Banabai Banshi Pawar set herself on fire in a crowded courtroom at Kalamb in Maharashtra's Usmanabad district on August 28, it poignantly highlighted her frustration with a lifetime of harassment.
Having doused herself with kerosene, she pleaded with the Judge to release her two sons, who she said had been arrested on false charges. She threatened to kill herself unless they were released. A policeman standing next to her sneered at a woman he considered to be from one of the 'criminal' tribes. "You are all liars. That's not kerosene. It's water," he said. That was enough to ignite her anger. She set herself on fire and died.
Banabai is from the Pardhi community, one of the 150 'denotified' tribes which were branded 'criminal' under British law after they rebelled against the Raj. Even though independent India repealed the Criminal Tribe Act in 1949, officially removing the criminal label, they still face discrimination. In Maharashtra, at least six known attacks against members of the denotified tribes have occurred in the past three months.
Banabai's suicide only sparked a witch-hunt against her community. The next day, merchants in the town burned down more than 100 houses of people who belong to the Pardhi community.
Soon after Banabai's suicide, a group of Pardhi women, already agitated over the arrest of nine men from their basti, confronted a local police inspector. Infuriated, some police officers met powerful local leaders and traders at the police station that evening and asked them to help the police maintain 'law and order'. The traders decided to call a bandh the next day.
During the bandh, a huge mob armed with swords, sticks and containers of kerosene entered the particular Pardhi basti and torched everything in sight. Local leaders, including some notorious political figures, led the mob. More than 100 houses were set on fire and huts, a truck, motorcycles, and other belongings reduced to ashes. "All that we were left with were the clothes we were wearing. Everything else was destroyed - vessels, grains, bedding, clothes," says Sakarbai Pawar, whose hut was burned. Her family of 12 now takes shelter under two tin sheets. "The mob came here, called us thieves, and asked us how we had built our houses. They threatened that they would not let us stay here. We ran away," says Natabai Pawar.
In Kalamb, members of the Pardhi community have been called thieves, bootleggers and moneylenders. While a handful of people from the community do run an illicit liquor and moneylending joint, most others are agricultural and construction workers. Two persons, whose brick-built houses were burned, work respectively as a bus conductor and a peon in the local government office. "Not all of us are brewing liquor here. We work as labourers in fields or at construction sites. If we really were thieves, would we be living like this, searching for the next meal?" asks Tai Phulchand Kale, standing next to what remains of her hut.
The first to propagate the stereotype concerning Pardhis and profit from it are the police. "The town's residents were harassed by these criminals. They gave vent to their frustration," says the local inspector, sympathetically. However, the Pardhis say it was the police who incited the traders against them the night before the attack.
Moreover, they add that the nine men arrested on the night of August 27 were not caught while on their way to a dacoity, as claimed by the police, but were dragged out of their homes and taken to the police station. There they were asked to pay Rs.7,000 each for their release. The Maharashtra Police's Protection of Civil Liberties Cell is investigating charges of false arrests against the Kalamb police. Senior police officers admit that the investigation seems to suggest that the arrests were unjustified.
The real reason for the torching of Pardhi homes seem to have more to do with commerce. The Pardhis occupy a piece of land near the market which is today prime property, worth lakhs of rupees. Local politicians and traders are eager to evict them. In fact, the Kalamb Traders' Association has even asked the government to 'rehabilitate' the 'criminals' outside the town. "They have encroached on government land. Once they are rehabilitated outside the town, the law and order situation will improve," says Lakshmichand Bhalai, a committee member of the association.
Special Inspector-General of Police S.S. Suradkar explains: "People use the criminal label against them to serve their own vested interests. However, most Pardhis are not involved in illegal businesses. Some cultivate land, others have jobs or businesses."
Yet the label sticks. The powerful sections benefit from perpetuating the stereotype. "It's convenient to brand us criminals. Whenever a low-caste community begins to prosper, the upper castes cannot stomach it. They will do anything to repress them. The big, politically powerful criminals like to use us as scapegoats," says writer and Pardhi activist Lakshman Gaikwad, who himself has risen from a small Pardhi basti in Latur to become a Sahitya Akademi award winner.
ON September 19, 22 houses and shops in the Banjara basti were set on fire by powerful residents of Achler village in Latur district. They were angry that a Banjara zilla parishad member, Shankar Pawar, had been elected president of the local school board. Banjaras constitute another community that was denotified. Although traditionally a nomadic community, the Banjaras in Achler have been living in the village for decades.
Ramnabai Chavan and her family have been living in the village's community centre, or sleeping under the shade of trees, ever since their house was torched. "Nothing remains of our house, not even a blanket to cover my children," she says. "The upper castes cannot swallow the fact that a small man has gone forward. They want to retain power. We ordinary people have to bear the brunt of their politics," she adds.
Moreover, the members of the upper castes have now boycotted the Banjara community. "When people are working in their own fields, they accuse them of stealing. They don't give us work in their farms, don't let us enter the market or use the water tank, and have even asked the neighbouring village not to buy our farm produce such as milk. How are we supposed to survive?" asks Ramnabai.
Ranu Lakshman Ade and her son were attacked while they were working in the field. Her arm was broken while her son was beaten until he lost consciousness. "Luckily the police came and stopped them. They sent him to the hospital," she says.
Shankar Pawar, the man at the centre of the controversy, explains: "It's all political. They are lashing out at our community to scare me before the zilla parishad elections." He points out that a few days before the attack, a group called the Shiv Sanghatana had held a meeting to mobilise the Shaivite community in the village. "During the attack, they even entered the school and hit one of the teachers. His hand was broken. For 40 years a man from their caste was president. They don't like the fact that now a person from a lower caste was elected by the board," Shankar Pawar says.
Their struggle for both political and economic opportunities may be bitter. But the fact that the denotified tribal people are fighting for, and sometimes getting, their piece of the pie is itself a sign of change. It is becoming more difficult for the powerful upper castes to keep them marginalised. Even labels have a shelf life.
