‘Pathetic. What is your total population?’ he asked.
‘Ha-ha. Guess what? The government has no figures of DNTs. There is a claim of 150 to 200 DNT and 600 to 1600 nomadic tribes. Based on the various reports, they estimate the DNT count at 100 to 150 million.’
‘That’s huge. Why don’t you raise your demand?’ he asked.
‘Strength lies in unity, Zaheer. A major reason for the suppression is a lack of union and leadership. Due to the boycott, the communities live scattered and away from the mainstream world. With no representation in politics or society, they hold no value. The majority have no identity proof, and so cannot participate in voting. Thus, they carry no political advantage.’
‘Tragic. I pray for their welfare.’ He rubbed his eyes and face. He spread his hands open, murmured, and viewed the plantation for a while. ‘Are you trying to justify your crimes by telling me all this?” he said.
‘That you decide. I am only explaining to you the situation.
Zaheer scratched his head.
‘At present, 10 Indian states follow the HOA. The CTA targeted the communities, while the HOA targets the individual. The practice and objectives remain the same. Thus, honest planning and implementation is the need of the hour for transformation,’ I said.
‘Hmm. Tell me about your Chhara tribe,’ he asked.
I stretched my body and straightened again. And continued,
‘Chharas are also known as Kanjarbhat in Maharashtra and Kanjar in Rajasthan. But we are largely settled in Gujarat and Rajasthan. We speak Bhantu and consider the North Indian Sansi and Bajania tribes as our linguistic cousins. Crushed by oppression, prejudice and police cruelty, we enjoy no rights in our country. People call us “Criminals.”
‘In the past, we were nomadic entertainers and earned a livelihood through performances.’
‘You mean dancing?’
‘Yes. And you know, Chhara women’s talent of singing and dancing, while holding swords in hands and pots on their heads, was renowned all over the world. They danced for their pleasure, which resulted in natural grace and their exclusive quality.’
“How beautiful. I too have danced with a water-pot on my head. But the pot was empty and I held it with my hands.’
I smiled at his innocence. ‘Childhood mischief, huh?’
‘No. Household chores... refilling our water barrel.’
‘Hmm. Try dancing without holding the pot.
‘Nah. I’ll leave it to the Chharas,’ he said with a smile.
‘We served the British with our theatrical and dance performances. Chharas are “born performers” not “born criminals”— the talent of expressing art is our trademark.’
‘Hmm. But they branded you, too.’
‘Yes. Being nomads, they considered Chharas as a social menace and branded us a criminal tribe. They pushed us out in a ghetto, 15 kms away on the outskirts of Ahmedabad. 20,000 Chharas live in that settlement which is well-known as Chharanagar.
‘Society dumps us since our conception in the womb. The prejudice, humiliation, stigma and discrimination influenced us to become criminals.’
‘So, how do you earn?’
‘The common source of Chhara’s livelihood is alcohol and stealing. Our ancestors learnt the art of brewing country liquor out of jaggery, fruits, and vegetables for personal consumption. And today, Chharas illegally produce and sell Chaangli in the dry Gujarat State. My parents did the same.
‘The womenfolk run the alcohol business. The police harass them for bribes, and they pay and escape. Thus, their kitchen fire keeps burning. By records, most houses witness premature deaths of male breadwinners due to alcoholism. And the Chhara women do not remarry. They prefer self-dependency and work to earn and manage their family. Every day, they struggle with indifferent society and greedy police.’
‘I wish to hear your story, Vikram sir,’ he said.
Chapter—6
Who Will Sell Us Liquor?
For years I held my secrets, but the time to free myself from this burden had come. Zaheer crossed his arms across his chest and gazed at me. His gleaming face energised me. I closed my eyes and put my palm on my heart. After a deep breath, I spoke, ‘I was born on 7th September 1977. I am the second child after my elder brother. Nobody in my family studied in a school.
‘I assisted my parents in the liquor business and learnt the tricks of petty theft. I mastered the art of stealing in my early teenage. In our community, the more a Chhara shines in wrongdoing, the more honour he commands. He’ll be an ideal, adored by us. Just like you appreciate those who outshine in studies and succeed, and we respect those who top in crimes. The only difference is the choice. We have none. We must do petty offences for livelihood. And we are trained from childhood to do it.’
‘You have had an adventurous life, huh?’ he said.
‘Hah. A challenging one, Zaheer. I woke up early every day and after my breakfast, assisted my parents in alcohol making. My job was to stir the boiling liquor. By 8:30 am, I would race to public places to steal, return for lunch and prepare the liquor for distribution. I would fill Chaangli in bottles and join my brother to deliver it to dealers by evening. After learning the system, I managed it alone. Post-delivery, I resumed stealing. By sunset, I returned to play with my friends in and around Chharanagar.
‘Life has been unfair to us. Society suppresses us. They exploit us to execute their illegal and immoral tasks and label us as criminals. And they go scot-free.’
‘Stop the liquor business. Do something else.’
‘We disliked it, but society forced us into it. My father had attempted to venture into different professions but faced rejection. With our leader’s recommendation, he borrowed Rs. 1000 from a pawnbroker. In June 1981, he leased a shop near a high-class Hindu colony and offered vegetables and fruits on sale. People mocked him. “Ay, Chhara, you selling vegetables? Who will sell us alcohol?”
‘Another one winked and whispered, “We will buy your things if you fill liquor into them.”
‘People bought from other shops at higher rates, but avoided him. Most of his commodities perished and he suffered a loss. Dejected, he brought the stock to Chharanagar and sold at a discounted price. He recovered what best he could. Next, he purchased a sewing machine and offered stitching services, but no results. One rascal insulted him.
“Oye, Chhara, if you stitch my shirt, will it make me intoxicated?” he sneered.
‘Society has a clear ideology for Chharas. Produce liquor and commit crimes. My father sold the machine and incurred more loss. He requested the owner to allow him to vacate the premises. The owner deducted three months’ rent and other made-upcharges and returned the balance.
‘Within three months, my father suffered Rs. 400 loss, but he didn’t surrender. He borrowed Rs. 1000 more, leased a small store in another locality, and offered grocery items. His sales picked up.
‘Soon, people discovered his identity and his business collapsed. People pissed him off by demanding liquor. Back to the vicious cycle. He had borrowed Rs. 2000 and after the interest calculation and losses, he had Rs. 1000 remaining.
‘He returned Rs. 1000 to the pawnbroker and sought time to repay the balance. The lender complained to the cops. Our community leader intervened, and a meeting took place between them. The pawnbroker, the policeman and our chief scolded my father for undertaking another business.
“Why all this selling and stitching? Use your talents. Produce liquor,” a cop said.
“Continue your legacy. Steal some things. We’ll support you,” said another.
‘Together they convinced him and promised help if he agreed. Else, arrest him under Section 420—that is for cheating and fraud.
‘My dejected father started the alcohol business again. Within a year, he cleared his debt. He formed a clear vision: to train his sons in the profession dictated by society. Hence, we learnt the traits and wits of crimes since childhood.
‘Gujarat is a dry state and yet we produ
ced liquor because of the demand. The community wanted to educate their children and live a decent life, but society shunned us. We could stay nowhere other than in the Chharanagar ghetto. Thus, the new generation had no choice for livelihood. And so they wandered, joined their parents in the liquor business and became criminals in order to survive.’
‘Sad. Sad,’ said Zaheer.
Chapter—7
Off to School
‘One day volunteers from an NGO, working to uplift the downtrodden, visited Chharanagar. No one knew anything about them. They strolled around and took wandering children, and those building mud castles at the entrance, to their homes. The parents explained their circumstances. I had just stepped out with a liquor box for delivery when I bumped into one of them. Back to home. The volunteers somehow convinced my father to put me in school. “Join us for the procedure,” they said. There were 19 other boys like me who, with their relatives, visited this government institute in Naroda, a kilometre away from your locality, Zaheer.
‘The School had an iron entrance gate leading to an open field. We stepped in and found litter scattered all around. The roaming animals stood still and scowled at us. We edged ahead behind the volunteers, jumping over the animal poo spread all over like mines. Around a hundred feet away, we saw a one-floor structure that sagged like a person worn out by mundane toil. This was the school building. The faded yellow paint and chipped walls confirmed its government ownership. Scribbles and sketches made with sharp objects by the students decorated the walls. Plenty of heart-shaped carvings, with an arrow and couple names engraved within, added romance to the surrounding. A man sketched out with a dragon face and seven erect hairs and with the words “My Teacher” written below in Gujarati, incited our giggles. Dirty brown and red streaks of gutka spit adorned the corners of the walls.
‘Inside the building were rooms with glass windows and dusty concrete floors. A cracked blackboard hung on a wall, held on a twine. We were then made to sit under a tree in the open field. While the monkeys above rumbled at us, we chatted amongst ourselves about studying inside the class.
‘Some of the senior volunteers held discussions with the Principal after which our admissions were confirmed. They informed us to join the next day. They stayed back to finish the formalities, and we headed home with new hope in our hearts.
‘I woke up at 5 am and finished my household duties. My brother joined me for breakfast. He teased me while my mother dressed me up. The students wore their choicest attires, as the school would issue the uniform later. I sported a blue, half-sleeved shirt and a brown half-pant. My hair, partitioned at the centre, glistened with the excessive oil applied by my mother.
‘By 7 am, we reached the entrance area, the designated boarding spot. There were 20 of us ranging from six years to 12 years. The bus arrived. Its honking and clinking of the window glasses rocked Chharanagar. Chharas rushed out to witness the epic moment. As the dust cloud settled, 20 of us boarded the bus. The community members cheered and waved goodbye. Our gatekeepers, the pigs, dog, cows, buffaloes, goats, roosters and hens, hopped around. We left at 7:20 am. A boy named Manoj clung to my hand and moved like my shadow. He had travelled to jail in a police van and therefore feared this journey too. On the way, they gave us a notebook, a pencil, and a cotton sling bag.
‘Our bus reached the school at 7:30 am. We gushed out and dashed through the iron-gate, hustling and bustling. The other students poured in and stared at us with raised brows. They greeted their friends and meandered around, gossiping. The seniors ambled tall with jackets tied around their waists.
‘The volunteers guided us into a filthy classroom with a patchy concrete floor. Manoj hooked his arms with mine and hid his face into my shoulders. He looked like my school bag. I stepped into the room first and bumped into a cobweb. I cleaned the gauzy fibres from my face and hair. Spiders continued their spinning jobs, and like a warrior, I sliced the nets with my hands. I skipped the endless queues of red-ants and squinted at the lazy cockroaches in the corners. The other students entered hustling, and their noisy chatter filled the classroom. They raced to occupy the window seats. “Aeroplane,” shouted one, and the guys assembled to gaze at the sky through the windows. They clapped and jumped in joy, sighting an aeroplane trail. We settled in our selected places and kept our sling bags next to us. I sat in the middle of the last row, and Manoj next to me.
‘The bare classroom walls and the jammed glass windows matched our destinies. For Manoj, it resembled a prison. The lizards from the window frames peeped out at the social rodents who emerged at this odd time of the year. A small broken plastic bucket, surrounded by litter in a corner, was the dustbin. Students threw their waste from a distance. If it landed inside, they cheered. Else, it remained outside as an inspiration to precise aiming.
‘The volunteers, along with a few unenthusiastic schoolteachers, guided us to the field where the assembly was being held. Hundreds of students in uniform queued up haphazardly, class wise. They belonged to the lower middle class and poor families of mainly Hindu communities. Everyone gaped at us. We smelled the air of discrimination and plodded on, staring at the ground. The teachers made us stand in the last row. The pupils mocked us. One boy commented, “Guys, we will relish the liquor in our tiffin break.” And the rest burst out laughing. Post assembly, we returned to the allotted classroom. I found a mouse behind me, nibbling on a leftover apple.
‘An NGO volunteer came and addressed us. He encouraged us to attend school daily, study well and progress in life. His words inspired me.
‘After he left, a fat, dark and rectangular-figured mistress, aged around 40, stomped in. Wearing a yellow saree and a bright red lipstick, she walked like an elephant, her cheap sandals making a whoosh sound at every step. She dragged the chair, flumped on it, and sat like a mountain. From her faux leather purse, most probably bought form the roadside, she removed a round mirror, a comb, and a lipstick. She raised her hands to pull out her hairband, and this made her biceps protrude under the tight sleeves of her blouse. Clutching her elastic band between her lips, she jerked her comb through her locks to straighten them. Her local jasmine perfume failed to camouflage the stink from her armpits. She tied her hair with the rubber band again. In the mirror, she observed her face, brightened her lips and smacked them, and cleaned her ears. We, students, glanced at each other in amusement. She dumped her stuff back into the purse and kept it on the table. Like an owl, she stared at us and began her dictation, which punctured our hopes. She roared in Gujarati.
“So, the criminals want education, huh?” We gaped. “Your parents execute crimes and you want knowledge? How long will you learn? You will soon return to your regular work,” she said.
‘We swallowed the lump in our throats. Our aspirations were going to be crushed by society.
“Now listen to an important rule,” she said.
‘We stared at her like frightened puppies. “You belong to a lower caste. You are Chharas,” she said, pointing her index finger at us. “And students from a community higher than yours study here. Dare not to go near them. You understand?”
‘We sat frozen. The mouse hopped farther away from us.
“Note down the ‘Drinking Water’ instructions,” she continued. “Ten metres ahead from the entrance, you’ll find a rectangular area on your right hand side. There is a slab with two taps installed. That is the ‘Drinking Water’ provision. You bring your water container from home. But I know you poor scum, you’ll use the school facility. Then, beware. Don’t dare touch the taps. If you need water, ask the gardener or his assistant. He’ll attach a hosepipe and release water from a distance. You drink with your hands or your bowl. I repeat, never touch the tap. Clear?”
‘With heavy hearts, we nodded.
“And never go near if any person is drinking water. Wait for others to leave,’ she said. ‘When the school gets over, don’t barge out. Your parents won’t die if you reach a few minutes late. Exit after everyone has left,” she added. We glance
d at each other. “Schooling is not your destiny, yet you have landed here. Our society has already branded your category and we must accept it. Don’t cross your cheap limits,” she said. “Follow these rules or else the management will dismiss you. Clear?”
‘We nodded again.
‘The school’s treatment shattered our dream of education and a decent life. With so many restrictions, the school resembled a prison. Everyone rolled their eyes.
“Learning English has no benefit for you, but I need to teach you. So, pay attention and don’t make me break my head for you.” She spoke in English with a Gujarati accent.
Everybody, say loudly, Ae phor Aeppal.”
‘Hahaha. Aeppal. Typical Gujarati accent,’ said Zaheer.
‘Yeah. But nobody replied because nobody understood what she said.
She growled. “Are you all deaf? Can’t you understand what I said? Say aloud: Ae phor Aeppal.”
No answers. She spoke in Gujarati, which helped us to understand.
“Jor thi bolo, Ae phor Aeppal.”
‘We attempted in fear. Few said “ye” and “ay” and a few said “fo” and “phar.” No one could utter Aeppal, or anything similar. She banged the desk and yelled, pointing her index finger at us, “Listen correctly, you donkeys. This is not your Chharanagar.” Her bellow shook the classroom.
‘A lizard popped out from behind a photo frame of Mahatma Gandhi, and the spiders in the corners of the room stopped spinning their webs. The roaches rushed into the nearest corners. A mouse gazed at her. A small cockroach dashed out and sped around her desk for safety.
‘It terrified us. Our expectations were crushed on the first day’s first hour. How could children alien to a language speak out instantly? The attitude and teaching method mattered. The teacher realised our helplessness. She conversed in Gujarati and broke her sentence into parts to help us understand.
The Branded Criminal: In Search of Liberation Page 6
