I am Chandra Bhan Prasad. A self-trained anthropologist and social psychologist, I was born circa 1960. I was born in this house. The house has a story.

Built on a landmass of 6000 square feet, the construction began a couple of years before the German invasion of Poland. The clay made inner walls of the house are 36 inches in width. Outer walls are brick made. At that time most brick houses will have clay made walls inside, and brick made walls outside. About half a decade may have gone in planning and tackling controversies that followed before actual construction of the house begun.

Despite money in the family, there were several constraints, logistical and social both. At that time- before the start of the World War II, in my part of eastern Uttar Pradesh, bricks were rarely commercially sold. To make a brick house thus, one needed to create a make shift brick kiln factory. That required not only a decent disposable income but also patience.

My one uncle Indrajeet had landed up a job with the Railways in Burma in circa 1932. He had joined as a coal filling man at the rail engine, but graduated into an assistant train driver. Before, he had tried his luck in Dhakha. The family smelt the cash. My uncle Dileep too followed and landed up in Burma. My father was to not to be left behind as he too reached Burma. Eldest and the fourth uncle Baldev managed the house and was a community leader.

I have grown hearing story of the house. Hectic activities preceded the actual construction. With some Hindu kind of ceremony, the construction of the brick kiln factory begun. The same day it became news and spread like wild fire. Never before any Dalit had set up a brick kiln factory.

The Zamidar- an upper Caste Bhumihar-equal to Thakurs, of the village got alerted. He had to act.

Locals would differ over color of the horse the Zamidar rode that day. But most agree that he came on a white horse- a rarity at that time. Whatever the color, he rode a horse to cover a distance less than three hundred meters to reach out to our house.

“The height of your house should not surpass mine”, he told Baldeb. It was an advisory laced with threat. The Zamidar however didn’t issue an official threat because of an event in the past.

Before fleeing to Burma, my family had engaged with another landlord- a rival of our Zamidar, in a bloody fight. A young Dalit man had refused go on a Begar to the landlord’s land. “Begar” is a term used for labor supplied to landlords without any wages. As per the tradition, Zamidars and bigger landlords had rights over Dalits’ labor. At least two to three days in sowing and harvesting seasons, each Dalit family was expected to provide free labor. But, this particular landlord was breaking the social contract he himself had set up- he was asking the young Dalit for more days of Begar. The Dalit youth in question had already gone on Begar for more than half a dozen time in that particular season. He refused. He probably thought that there would be no end to it.

Meanwhile, within the same week when the young Dalit had defied the landlord, a baby boy was born in his family. All the dirt was thrown on a piece of land owned by that landlord. Since that piece of the land was in the Dalit hamlet, the landlord had no use of it. Just because there were bamboos on that land, the landlord cared for the land. All Dalit families used that piece of land to dump the household trash.

The landlord came to know of it. The landlord was waiting for an opportunity. He summoned the young Dalit, and thrashed him. The young Dalit approached my uncle Baldev with tears in his eyes. Being a leader of Pasis, he had to act against a strong adversary. That particular landlord was harassing Dalits more often.

Accompanied by a dozen Pasi youths, Baldev along with his three brothers led the charge, and chased the landlord who was visiting his paddy fields a kilometer away from the village. Sensing blood in Dalits’ eyes, the landlord ran and finally jumped into a pond adjutant to his farm. The Pasis had surrounded him. Chamars of the village stood by in a near by field as a ‘reserve’ force. The landlord was pleading and threatening both. Led by Baldev, Pasis too jumped into the pond, and brought the landlord back to an open field. The landlord was left bleeding.

The same evening, barring Baldev, the house manager and the community leader, Indrajjet along with my father and the third uncle, fled the village. Baldev was left alone to safeguard the house. Helped by Pasis and Chamar youth who guarded the Dalit hamlet, a massacre was prevented. That’s how Indrajeet reached Burma. Uncle Dileep and my father Saleep returned home though after wandering for days in the area.

It was “breaking news” in the area. Dalits attacked a big landlord. The British Police descended taking control of the village. Dalits some how, escaped wrath of the Police. A case however was registered against a dozen Pasis including my father and his three brothers.

Listening to this story in the childhood, I developed my own doubts. I have recalls of the late 1960s’ and afterwards, I find it extremely difficult to believe in the story that after beating a landlord, the family could escape Police and landlords’ brutality. None in the family and neighbourhoods would agree with me, I tend to believe that the rival Zamidar had extended a silent support to my family. Or, the Police was lenient toward the family as my grand father had been in the British Police. Or it was just a British sense of justice. Or, the landlord was already in the bad book of the administration. My family however, takes pride in their action.

The Zamidar thus may have taken all such factors into account and hence, didn’t physically prevent construction of the house. He could have done that keeping the kind of clout Zamidars had at that time.

Baldev deployed his own wisdom. He assured the Zamidar that the ‘height” of the house will not surpass his. He made a compromise, but catered to the family pride as well. He asked the workers to elevate the ground on which the house was to come up. The house came up. Height of the house still lower than that of the Zamidar, the house looked taller than the Zamidar’s. In addition to that, he constructed yet another building adjutant to the house- a large hall for the male members of the family, and also a meeting place for the community. The building was further extended to accommodate cattle.

The house I was born in got the nomenclature of Bada Ghar meaning ‘Big House’ or the house of the ‘Big’ in the community. He also constructed a brick made well in front of the house.

The Zamidar’s greed side deserves a mention. My uncles would send a host of worldly goods back home from Burma. Most popular were umbrellas- a symbol of pride those days. On one occasion, my uncle sent a bronze made big cooking vessel for the family. Big cooking vessels were prized possession those days. Needed for community dinners on occasions of marriages or festivals, vessels were sourced from far away places-mostly from relatives. Having got a privileged bronze vessel identified with Upper Caste landlords, uncle Baldev organized a community dinner to celebrate arrival of that vessel. As the story goes, a pig weighing over forty kilogram was butchered. My sub-caste Pasi is identified with pig rearing as the caste occupation, and the community relished pig meat much.

While the pig meat was being cooked, the Zamidar arrived. He arrived under darkness late in the evening, and didn’t ride the horse he was fond of. Anxious about the mystery vessel, he had just walked.

Whispering in the ears of Baldev, the Zamidar wanted possession of the vessel. He promised some land in lieu of the vessel. “But we are cooking pig meat in the vessel”, Baldev is said to have told the Zamidar. Since pig meat is the only-Dalit-meat in my part of the country, my uncle couldn’t anticipate that the Zamidar would still want the vessel. “Who knows that the vessel was used and pig meat cooked except your family and relatives”, the Zamidar is said to have reasoned with my uncle. The issue was settled in favour of the Zamidar. After washing with burnt wooden ash, the bronze vessel was transported to the Zamidar’s house before dawn the next day. The greed side of the landlord holds a mirror to the caste order. The ritual hierarchy could cave in under weight of the material goods.

It would be unfair to the Zamidar without talking about human element in him. Once a cousin of mine was preparing to hunt fish in the pond nearby our house. He had cut his finger while sharpening some fish catching instrument. As he was bleeding and crying the Zamidar happened to be passing by. Hearing cries of the child, he stopped and de-boarded the horse. The Zamidar was fond of wearing a turban involving fine fabric running into seven meters. He tore a part of his headgear, and tied that around my cousin’s finger in order to check the bleeding. That human aspect of the Zamidar is still mentioned whenever the family elders recall days of the Zamidar.

Growing with a sense of pride was often punctured with stories of hurt. While my grand father became a chaukidar- meaning Guard, the lowest post in the British-India Police hierarchy, his elder brother died in the Benaras Central Prison. He was a known ‘Bandit’ of the area- but in our community imagery, he didn’t practice banditry for a living. ‘He was a social bandit’, my family elders would recall. ‘He fought with upper Caste landlords’, family elders say with pride. He once broke the Gorakhpur prison, and escaped. A massive Police manhunt was launched. Wandering around for months, he arrived home one evening. The next morning, he was roasting a piglet to celebrate his escape. Police came know of his moves and surrounded our house. He was captured. How far it is true, but the story refuses to die down. The Police officer asked him as how he could escape the high security prison of Gorakhpur. ‘Want to know’, he asked the Police officer. The officer gestured in affirmation. ‘Follow me’, and he began running. Before the police team could realize, he was lost in the by lanes of the village, and escaped once again. Years latter, he was captured, and placed in the high security Benaras Central prison where he died. It hurts me, as the family could not rescue him. Stories of pride and hurt apart, my childhood witnessed a phase of poverty as well. Pre-Hiroshima bombing, the Japanese were advancing. Indian ‘immigrants’ working in Burma were asked to return back to their homes. Uncles Indrajeet, Dileep and my father returned from Burma. In war times, they walked hundreds of miles; rode trucks and used trains to return home safely.

Fresh from Burma, they had some money. During their exposure to an alien social set up, they had smelt blood of anonymity- and a relative social freedom in Burma.

Back home, they confronted landlords on silliest of the issues. While the family had lost flow of cash, their newfound sense of freedom didn’t. Meanwhile, India achieved independence and birth of the Republic followed. The Zamidari Abolition Act was carried out. The village landlords on the other hand, had lost their clout due to new developments, yet they continued living with their arrogance. Litigation followed. Post independence, the village Zamidar and my family fought prolonged legal battles. Both suffered financial losses. More so, uncle Baldev contested the 1952 Assembly election from a general seat. He lost. Plenty of money too was lost in the election campaign. Family became financially distressed for over a decade.

Primarily because of the economic distress, the family split. All the four sons of my grand father separated. I was born in that phase of want. As I can recall through my parents, my father worked for a landlord for few years to ensure education of my elder brother, who became a Police officer in 1969.

Braving the new found poverty; I have faint recalls of eating dry pea made Roti- Indian variant of bread. Dry peas were grinded into flour and made into bread. The bread would not be only tasteless but too hard to eat. If left for few hours, the bread would turn into virtual stone. Fortunately, the family had some land and my father grew pulses as well. We would break the bread into several parts and immerse them in the cooked pulse. Eating became a bit easier. We often prayed for wheat made bread. Eating rice was a delicacy and we got to eat rice during weddings and festivals. The family, like most Dalit families in the area however, had a substitute to rice. The family grew barnyard millet from which mustard sized white seeds were separated and cooked as rice. Elsewhere in the world, barnyard millet is grown as a green manure. The family seems to have escaped eating more humiliating pearl millet and finger millet on a regular basis. But, we certainly ate finger millet for days during the season. The finger millet went very well with a small variety of locally hunted fish.

While aged less than ten, I too would join the band of rat catchers. As per the tradition, only those who hunted rats had the right to eat rat meat. Since I was too young to hunt rats on my own, I would join the rat catchers and run around with them to justify my claim. I was given a bit of rat meat to eat- often the baby rats. The only Dalit meat, field rats were a great source of protein- though we didn’t hunt rats with any protein calculation in mind. We waited three seasons to arrive- harvesting of wheat in April, harvesting of paddy in October and first rain in the final week of June as that the main rat catching seasons.

There were two ways of hunting rats during harvesting season. Either we dig the land following tunnels rats would make and live there, or fill the tunnels with water. We carried digging instrument and buckets both. If the land was dry- more often in the month of April, we deployed water to choke oxygen flow to the rats. Once the tunnels were filled with water drawn from nearby ponds, the rats would come out one by one. Before rats actually arrived, there would be signals of their arrival. The water at the top would develop movements and we would wait breathlessly. The moment a rat came out; either the animal would be caught by hand, or he would start running. We would chase rats with sticks in our hands. Within a couple of years, I had developed into a ‘master catcher’.

After the first rain, groups of Dalit boys would fan out all over the fields. Due to flooding of lower areas of fields, rats would leave their tunnels and dig small tunnels running into a couple of feet at elevated landmass. We could identify them easily.

Eating and distributing the game followed a pattern. For the record, rat meat was never cooked into a curry. The rat would neither be brought home, as elders would shout at us. We carried matchboxes, and the rat was roasted in the fields itself using dead plants. With a bit of salt, we ate the roasted rats. The ‘master catcher’ had the first right over the game, and distributed the meat according to age of the group members. Often, the ‘master catcher’ would take head and legs of the rats. In harvesting season, we would get plenty of baby rats. The younger members of the team were often given baby rats. I cant’ remember a Dalit of my age who didn’t hunt rats in the locality I was born. There was no way to keep count of the numbers of rats I ate. As I talk to my contemporaries today, they all think that we must have eaten at least a thousand rats each in our lives.

Even though my family had prospered within years of my brother joining the Police force, I continued eating rats. Once an upper caste friend of mine asked me a pointed question- why do you continue eating rat and pig meat when your economic situation so good now? I wished I had asked him- why I am still separated during public dinners at your place when I wear as good cloths as you wear!

I can vividly recall how we ate separately in public dinners organized by upper caste families. As per the tradition, the upper caste families would throw public dinners on occasion of their children’s weddings and death of elderly members of the family. A male member from all the families of the village irrespective of caste would be invited. Often, Dalit children would join the feast uninvited.

Some times, few select Dalit families were given right to collect food for the entire family. That wouldn’t be the leftover, but proper food, which has been cooked in anticipation that a certain number of families would carry food for the entire family back home.

I can recall at least one such incidence when my family brought food from a landlord’s house on the occasion of his son’s wedding. Keeping the family pride in mind, my father didn’t bring food himself. Some one else brought the food to my home. Poorer Dalit friends of mine waited for weddings to take place in upper caste families, and prayed for elderly upper caste men and women to die.

My childhood was witness too more dehumanising practices of Untouchability at work. The day the news came that my brother had qualified for Police Service, my father along with his few colleagues visited the only liquor shop in the village. An upper Caste family without any feudal ancestry ran a liquor shop illegally. At that time, buying a full bottle of liquor was not in fashion. Customers would go to the liquor shop and take few drinks sitting outside the house of the liquor seller. Delighted by the news of my brother’s selection in Police force, he took me on his shoulders to the liquor shop. I had my first drink before I was ten years of age. Once my brother joined the Police training college, my father would often frequent the liquor shop. Some time, I would just follow him against his will. I got quarter of a peg. Since my brother was a Police officer the liquor shop owning upper caste family would treat me kindly. They were often harassed by Policemen of the area and probably thought my brother could be of some help in the future. Taking advantage of my new status, I would often sneak into the house of the liquor man. I would play with children in his family- at least three of them being my age, and one studying with me in the same school I studied.

One evening, I accompanied my father to the liquor man’s house. While my father joined the drinking session, I went inside the liquor man’s house to play with his kids. It was a winter evening. All the kids in the family were eating fried green peas. A kind lady in the liquor man’s family wanted to give me fried peas, too. Her elder son became a friend of mine. We are still friends.

However, there was a problem. There wasn’t any caste neutral plate in their house. Bizarre as it may appear, the upper castes in my locality had found out caste neutral cups and plates. Most culturally ‘advanced’ upper caste families would have a set of ceramic made white coloured cups and plates called ‘Chini mitti plates/cups’- literally meaning ‘Plates and Cups made up of Chinese clay’. Initially, this was meant for Muslim guests. Latter, Dalits too were served tea/snakes and food in the Chinese clay plates and cups.

By late 1960s’, Dalits had become visible in lower level government jobs- revenue officials and policemen in particular. As part of their duties, they would visit villages. They were important, as often, the upper caste landlords would be at fault- either manipulating statement over land records or harassing commoners. These plates came in handy in entertaining Dalit officials and the practice extended to their educated Dalit friends as well. The upper Caste landlords would too be eating or drinking tea in similar plates/cups as offered to their Dalit guests. Dalits would be happier with ‘disappearing’ practice of Untouchability. The Chinese clay cup/plate however, has a mystery side to it.

In most villages inhabited by upper castes, there would be few lower OBC families with occupations of maids. Called Kahars, the women would wash plates and vessels, some times even cook food as well in upper caste homes. A Kahar friend of mine unveiled the upper caste cup/plate ‘secularism’. As he told me much latter, the upper castes would ‘mark’ the cup/plates served to their Dalit guests. The ‘marker’ would be at the bottom of cup/plates- often, paint or scratches. As per the tradition, the guests had no right to choose cups/plates. The host would place cups/plates in front of the Dalit guests. Once Dalit guests are finished with their drink/food, those cup/plates would be kept separately. Dalit guests on the other hand would develop a sense of gratitude toward their upper caste host who too ate in ‘similar’ plates.

Coming to my share of green peas, the plate problem was resolved. The liquor man served liquor to his customers in clay made round shape cups. Three cups were brought and I was served fried peas in those cups. They served me three cups, as cups were too small looking like ‘baby cups’. Those little cups were popular in entire northern Indian country-made liquor shops. While the upper caste kids- at least one studying with me in the same class and same schools, ate in steel plates, I ate in clay made cups. I could hear how nasty the upper castes men, women and kids talked about Dalits. Instead of developing a sense of hurt and humiliation, I developed a sense of uplift (social acceptance and pride) as I was at least eating with upper caste children. The Caste Order too makes adjustments when confronted with situations of distress. Less than a mile south to my village, there were a school and a College catering to students from class VIth to BA. There were few villages north to my village inhabited by upper castes. In that sense, my village was like London between Delhi and New York.

A good number of boys and girls from northern side of my villages studied in the Degree College. To reach the College they had to cross my village. At that time, the thoroughfare to the College would go in front side of my house. Centrally located, students would take shelter in my house during rains or storms. After the rains/storm stopped, they would leave for their respective villages. At least on three to four occasions, they had to stop for hours at my home in the evenings. Those days evening shift of examinations were from 15.00 hours to 18.00 hours. So, even two hours of bad weather was bad enough for girl students to go home unescorted.

It comes as lightening to me when I recall those events. Often, my mother would ask the stranded young girls to eat some thing, as it would be dinnertime for us. She would assure them that lower OBC women would cook food and they would bring plates as well. The upper caste girl students hesitated initially, but finally agreed and accepted tea/snakes/food cooked in the family using our own vessels and plates. Latter it became a routine.

Two things puzzled me most. Why didn’t the girl students take shelters in the upper caste houses less than a hundred meters away from mine? Why didn’t they accompany boys belonging to their own castes and from same villages who returned home after rain/storm had stopped or subsided? Why did they wait for their father or brother to arrive and take them?

As I grew older, I could decode the mystery. They were not comfortable taking shelter in upper caste houses or being accompanied by boys of their own caste. As they would confide to one of girl students of my family- “Most of these boys are threat to our dignity”. “We always felt safe in your house”. My family on the other hand felt elevated in serving the upper caste girl students. The family took pride in the fact that the upper caste girls are accepting our hospitality.

There is another story of distress driven flexibility within the caste order. Around 1972, one of my cousins was in the second stage of his marriage. Amongst Dalits and lower OBC, marriage took place in three stages. Now a rarity, the first stage occurs below the age of ten- some times even below the age of five when children get married. However, the bride and the groom would never meet or see each other after the marriage. The second stage takes place after the children have crossed their teen-hood- and that is when the bride comes to the groom’s house. That’s called gawana in my part of the country. The bride stays for few days- often two to three days, and returns to her parental place. The third stage is called tenga when the groom leads few of his family members to the bride’s house. The bride now comes to her husband’s house to settle for life. She keeps going to her parental place though, but more as a guest than a member of the family.

My cousin was in the second stage of his marriage. Fresh from Delhi, he dressed well. He had dropped out of his studies, and fled to Faridabad, an industrial city near Delhi to become a factory worker. He became a trade union leader instead.

He had come back home with some money, and a car was hired to bring the bride home. As a kid, I too was accommodated in that Ambassador car. The car belonged to the son of an ex-landlord of the village. He too was into illegal liquor business.

Upon reaching the bride’s house, the car owner upper caste man decided to cook his own meal separately. Few more non-Dalits had joined him, as they too needed to cook food separately. By tradition, some times the upper caste men would attend Dalit weddings and accompany the groom’s party to the bride’s house where they stayed over night. The non-Dalit guests would however, cook their food separately. Either some one from them knew cooking or the bride side provided a cook- often some lower OBC man from the village. They would be given raw grains, wheat floor, pulses and vegetables. More often than not, they were given better quality of foodstuff than served to the Dalit wedding party members.

The non-Dalit guests would use clay made vessels to cook their food. The clay made vessels- quasi-Chinese clay made plates, are baked on a high temperature and become strong enough to be used as cooking vessels. But there was caution involved. To avoid breaking the vessels, the food is cooked using a fuel material, which doesn’t produce flames. That is dried cow dung cake- a phenomenon in the countryside. The dried cow dung cakes are arranged on the ground into a platform, and lit. It takes time to burn, but soon flames would die down and the cow dung cakes would resemble burning coal. On that simmering cow dung platform, the clay made cooking vessel would be set up.

In this case, the village upper caste man and his guests were given a chicken as a gesture of good hospitality. For the first time, the Dalit bride taken in a car. At that point of time, broiler chickens were not known in my part of the country. The deshi chickens- literally, the country chicken, had hard meat. Feathers taken off, un-skinned chickens would be part roasted before the actual cooking. The non-Dalit guests were drunk. In a hurry to eat they kept inserting more cow dung cakes, which produced flames. The clay made cooking vessel broke into pieces. The chicken meat came in direct contact with cow dung cakes. There was no way any body could eat that. Numbering around six, the non-Dalit guests betrayed their caste tradition, and ate pulses and vegetables cooked by Dalits and for Dalit guests.

Coming to my upper caste friend’s question- why I still ate rat and pig meat when my family had prospered?

Similar questions were being asked by Dalit social workers of the time. I can clearly recall two groups of social workers that frequented our area. A group of five to six people would come to my village and stay at my house for a couple of days. They often came from neighbouring Ghazipur district. They would be all Pasis. Of twenty-five odd Pasi families in my village, five of them raised pigs for a living. The reformers would narrate stories as how those Pasi families who raised pigs could not get into education and thus out of the government jobs. ‘Pig rearing is reason for your backwardness’ they would say. ‘Because of our caste’s association with pigs, we are untouchables’, they would add. ‘Because few Pasi families raised pigs, all Pasis are despised’ they would lament.

Almost blaming the community for its untouchable status, and not the caste order or Brahmanism, the Pasi reformers would also issue threats of ex-communication of pig rearing Pasi families. The Pasi reformers would move to other villages, often taking a member or two from the village. Today, no Pasi family raises pigs in my village any longer. The practice stopped a decade ago.

Adjacent to the Pasi hamlet lived fifty odd Chamar families. I can recall Chamar reformers visiting the Chamar hamlet- and they would visit my house as well There were three members in my family with government jobs- my brother in Police service, one cousin in Postal service, and another cousin in the Indian Railways. They had their contemporaries in the Chamar hamlet that would return to the village during festivals. They would eat and drink together. They were all enlightened with the ideas of Babasaheb Dr. Ambedkar, and enthralled by the Dalit Panthers movement.

The Chamar reformers were asking Chamar families to stop lifting and skinning dead cattle. As per the tradition, whenever cattle died in the village, Chamars would be asked to lift the dead cattle and dump it in open fields outside the village. There was one Chamar family engaged in the occupation of skinning the dead cattle- and all suspected that family of eating beef.

Like Pasi reformers, the Chamar reformers too were blaming community’s association with leatherwork as the reason of their untouchable status. Long back, Chamars of the village stopped lifting dead cattle, and the lone family engaged in skinning dead cattle too withdrew from the occupation. The message of reform amongst Chamar had quicker results than amongst Pasis.

In terms of awareness, by the time I passed my High School exam in 1975, most Dalits had stopped hunting rats. Half of the Dalit families, which raised pigs, had withdrawn from the occupation. Pig meat would be brought to my home secretly. Chamars had begun refusing to lift dead cattle. The lone Dalit family skinning dead cattle had withdrawn from the occupation. Most Dalit families however, still faced grinding poverty and depended primarily on millets. One fond memory of the childhood- my Dalit elders had formed “Dr. Ambedkar Kirti Club” to promote sports amongst the community. The Ambedkar Club was a virtual branch of Dalit Panthers as it addressed caste related issues as well. Incidentally, one Munoo Rai, a Bhumihar with no feudal ancestry, too accompanied Dalit youth who would go playing matches in far away villages and schools. Kabaddi was the main sport then.