Author Archives: notsomeritorios

What do you think Anshul Kumar would think of Spivak being awarded Holberg Prize ?

It’s difficult to say with certainty what Anshul Kumar’s exact opinion would be about Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak receiving the 2025 Holberg Prize, as it would depend on his personal reflections and evolving perspective since their public altercation in May 2024 at JNU. However, based on his previous statements and actions—particularly his critique of Spivak during and after that incident—we can make an educated guess about how he might react.

Kumar, a Dalit sociology student at JNU, has expressed significant frustration with Spivak, not just over the pronunciation dispute (where she corrected his pronunciation of W.E.B. Du Bois’ name), but more broadly over what he perceives as her privileged position and the way she engages with subaltern voices. His question at the seminar challenged Spivak’s claim to a middle-class identity, pointing to her elite background (e.g., her familial ties to Bihari Lal Bhaduri, a notable figure in Bengal’s intellectual history). After the event, Kumar’s social media posts and interviews revealed a deeper critique: he accused Spivak of embodying a “circle of sycophancy” in academia, where established scholars like her are placed on pedestals and shielded from genuine critique, particularly from marginalized voices like his own. He also argued that her focus on his pronunciation was a way to sidestep his substantive question, reinforcing power imbalances rather than dismantling them—ironic, given her seminal work “Can the Subaltern Speak?”

Given this context, Kumar might view Spivak’s Holberg Prize win with skepticism or even disdain. The Holberg Prize, awarded for her “groundbreaking interdisciplinary research in comparative literature, translation, postcolonial studies, political philosophy, and feminist theory,” elevates her status further within the global academic elite. Kumar could see this as another instance of the academic establishment rewarding someone he believes speaks about the subaltern rather than truly amplifying their voices. His critique of Spivak’s scholarship—such as her framing of Sati in “Can the Subaltern Speak?” as a case of “White men saving Brown women from Brown men,” which he contrasted with Ambedkar’s view of it as an upper-caste tool to enforce endogamy—suggests he might question whether her work genuinely serves the marginalized or simply polishes her own intellectual reputation.

On the other hand, Kumar’s reaction might not be entirely negative. He has acknowledged attending Spivak’s seminar out of interest in engaging with scholars he disagrees with, indicating a willingness to grapple with their ideas. He might recognize the significance of an Indian scholar receiving such a prestigious international award, especially one who has worked on postcolonial and subaltern issues, even if he disputes her approach. However, this recognition would likely be tempered by his belief that awards like the Holberg reinforce hierarchical structures he rejects—structures where, as he put it, “scholars are brought in to be placed on the pedestal of a godman or godwoman” and dissent is stifled.

In short, Anshul Kumar would likely have a complex reaction. He might criticize the award as further proof of Spivak’s entrenchment in an elitist academic system that he feels silences subaltern challenges—like his own at JNU—while grudgingly noting her influence. His exact thoughts would depend on how much he’s reflected on the incident since 2024 and whether he sees this accolade as validating her authority over marginalized voices or as a broader commentary on postcolonial scholarship’s place in the world. Without a direct statement from him post-award (as of March 17, 2025), this remains a reasoned speculation based on his prior stance.

A Civilization which can’t prevent rape, It should be imagined, It has been raped by an alien 👽 Civilisation!

And thus guess what? You guessed it right ? Didn’t you?

All their progenies are? Hehe!

It’s an established fashion by now to venerate Ambedkar as a feminist and racialise Dalit Men and Women alike in order to achieve an obscene objectification of the Dalit Self.

Indian Sociology is suffering from a pepsis, a pepsis of always looking at the bottom. Where would one look, if not the bottom most ranks, if placed herself on the pinnacle of social hierarchy? Imagine being so high on the caste ladder that all you can see is what happens in the quarters that exist below your immediate social location, which is always kept hidden and veiled from research objectives.

There are umpteen examples of this racialisation of the Dalit being, being done with the help of new age vocabularies instituted by feminist studies mushrooming in Indian Universities like JNU, DU, TISS, SPPU being the prime suspects.

Here I would like to dissect one such piece by a stolid iniquitous academic Karin Kapadia, an Anthropologist at the London School of Economics, who has published a piece in the leading social science Magazine called EPW titled, “Ambedkar’s Feminism”.

The article begins with a universal appeal against violence faced by women as a universal homogenous category, which in India is always euphemistically used to present the upper caste women as the ideal victim and scores of atrocities and violence faced by Dalit women, by virtue of their caste, manifested against their gender are relegated to margins.

The point being that the typical problems of women or the women’s question when raised are more often than not invoked to talk about the women as a universal homogenous category, and the ideal image of such a woman is, as you suspected it right, an upper caste woman.

So, her article begins with the usual sordid tales of oppression faced by women as a universal homogenous category and then suddenly she jumps to Ambedkar and from thereon fixes her gaze on the Dalit Women.

She keeps Ambedkar’s speech which he delivered in front of the Dalit (read Mahar) sex workers of Kamathipura in erstwhile Bombay, as an object of her opinion on Dalit being.

She writes, “ He ( read Ambedkar) concluded that male control of women’s sexuality was essential to the reproduction of the caste system. Without it, inter caste marriages would ensue and caste identities would slowly wither away.”

Here she is making a reference to Ambedkar’s paper “Castes in India: Genesis, Mechanism and Development”.
And without a proper reading of Ambedkar’s paper, she is resorting to making generalised arguments on gender and sexual control while ignoring the central premise of Ambedkar’s paper.

If one reads Ambedkar’s paper, it is not the male control over female sexuality but Dwij Male control over not just their own female’s sexuality but a transgressive violation of sexuality of women of castes lower to them in caste order.

A cursory extrapolation of Kapadia’s understanding of Ambedkar’s ideation would be somewhat like this:-

“Each Caste’s men control their Women’s sexuality and thus the Caste system perpetuates as it doesn’t allow intermarriage.”

Firstly, Ambedkar has clearly espoused that It was the Brahmins who closed their doors first to enclose themselves into a caste and others found the doors closed, so they had to make their own doors.

Secondly, Caste and Gender in Indian Society doesn’t function in this near categorisation wherein, Each Caste’s men are concerned only with the control of their own women’s sexuality.

It is widely evident that upper caste men leave no chance to exercise their immoral control over Dalit women by violating their chastity and committing atrocities on the Dalit Men by demeaning their women.

Kapadia has gone berserk when she says that,

“Once we recognise the collusion of
Dalit men in the sexual trafficking
of their female kin as the unspoken
backdrop to Ambedkar’s speech.”

Here she is playing neatly into the tactics of Brahmanical Feminism, which puts Dalit Women against Dalit Men.

What can be more disparaging and disgusting for an academician to belittle an entire community by saying that their men are complicit in making their women indulge in prostitution and that too when there is ample evidence that this prostitution was forced in Dalit Women by the Upper Caste men.

In her entire article she has nowhere blamed Upper Caste Men for the control they exercise on their own women and women lower to them in caste hierarchy but berates Dalit Men and inspires Dalit Women to rise above their own ‘Dalit’ men in order to achieve liberation.

Isn’t this a deliberate act of absolving upper caste men of all the evils and mis deeds they commit on Dalit Women and Men alike?

Furthermore, Kapadia never dared to question her own Caste’s men but exhorts Dalit women to revolt against their own men.

So, the paper which is titled “Ambedkar’s Feminism” becomes a ghettoised manifestation of the already existing trope that Ambedkar was a leader of the Dalits, and His feminism is for the liberation of Dalit women from their own men.

Or is it the other way round? Is it that in the name of “Ambedkar’s Feminism”, the stories of oppression of Dalit Women are being used as a fodder to make way for an upper caste women’s feminism which is about restricting Dalit women to question for their oppression, only their own men and at the same time Dwij Feminist’s keep on absolving their own men from their acts of oppression against Dalit Men and Women, so that they can bargain with them to seek equality at par with their own men.

जवाहर लाल नेहरू विश्विद्यालय Jawahar Lal Nehru University: The Deathbed of Dalit Intellegentsia

If one needs to single out one cause for the abysmal state of Dalit being in India, JNU will take the first and foremost place in every realm.

This University is foremost in producing Dalit Thulle Dalala who think they are beyond their own people and can dictate how Dalits should behave and live.

It will be my Life’s biggest achievement the day I piss on this University!

If you consider me serious enough, don’t take JNU Dalit Intellegentsia for granted, they are the biggest hurdle in your advancement.

JNU Dalits are nothing but sympathetic products of Congress Left Upper Caste’s collective guilt!

Just Destroy this University if you have to leap forward!

I am here rewriting Mahashweta Devi’s short story Draupadi as translated by Gayatri Chakroborty Spivak.

The ending here is different and it’s a Dalit Retelling of the same. I am taking the Literary privilege or you may say poetic licence of using the entire story as copied from the original English Translation of Gayatri Chakroborty Spivak and in the end adding a paragraph which completely changes the entire meaning of the story, thus making it not only a reproduction but a rewritten
original work, which is entirely new in meaning . Since Devi’s work is a literary artefact, I am replying in the same genre without going into the scholarly hermeneutics. Still, for someone
uninitiated into reading Devi’s short story, I would like to delineate that in Devi’s story Draupadi, the central character as the reading suggests is Draupadi, a tribal naxalite woman who is captured
by Senanayak, a police official. The story if read between the Iines is being told through the eyes of Senanayak and It’s Senanayak’s guilt which Devi masquerades as Draupadi ‘s resistance against Senanayak ( representative of the Indian state, and thus representing an upper caste character, and his guilt). The reason I have not tried to write a new story and then add my paragraph can be well understood, if the original story by Devi is ready in its detailed character sketch of its Villain Senanayak. In my rendition of Devi’s story, I have therefore renamed it as Senanayak’s Dream,
which makes it seem like, he is the protagonist, but if read astutely with the addition of a paragraph written by me towards the end, one should realise that, the real protagonist is actually Draupadi
whereas in Devi’s original story even though the title and protagonist is both Draupadi, the story flows and renders an expression that is an outpour of upper caste’s imagination of Dalits, as seen
through the eyes of Senanayak. It should also be noted here that, Devi’s work is a fiction, fiction is something that is imagined, even though it may be based on the real world, but it is still an
imagination. Why is it that even in imagination, in works of fiction, the portrayal of Dalits is wretched and someone always exploited. If it’s fiction, there can be a happy ending too, no? In
In case the reader doesn’t want to take the pain of going back to reading the original English translation of Draupadi as written by Spivak, I must mention here that the text which I am producing here is that story only, up until the last paragraph, which has been added by me.

So for an uninitiated reader, read the entire story just before the last paragraph as if they are reading Draupadi as written by Devi, translated by Spivak, because it is exactly the same text. Pause for a
moment, and then read the last paragraph which I have added. Now read the entire story again in a flow including the paragraph which I have added.

The Story Begins :-

Draupadi Name Dopdi Mejhen, age twenty-seven, husband Dulna Majhi (de- ceased), domicile Cherakhan, Bankrajharh, information whether dead or alive and/or assistance in arrest, one hundred rupees. . . An exchange between two liveried uniforms. FIRST LIVERY: What’s this, a tribal called Dopdi? The list of names I brought has nothing like it! How can anyone have an unlisted name? SECOND: Draupadi Mejhen. Born the year her mother threshed rice at Surja Sahu (killed)’~ at Bakuli. Surja Sahu’s wife gave her the name. FIRST: These officers like nothing better than to write as much as they can in English. What’s all this stuff about her? SECOND: Most notorious female. Long wanted in many. . . Dossier: Dulna and Dopdi worked at harvests, rotating between Bir- bhum, Burdwan, Murshidabad, and Bankura. In 1971, in the famous Operation Bakuli, when three villages were cordonned off and machine gunned, they too lay on the ground, faking dead. In fact, they were the main culprits. Murdering Surja Sahu and his son, occupying upper-caste wells and tubewells during the drought, not surrendering those three young men to the police. In all this they were the chief instigators. In the morning, at the time of the body count, the couple could not be found. The blood-sugar level of Captain Arjan Singh, the architect of Bakuli, rose at once and proved yet again that diabetes can be a result of anxiety and depression. Diabetes has twelve husbands-among them anxiety. Dulna and Dopdi went underground for a long time in a Neanderthal darkness. The Special Forces, attempting to pierce that dark by an armed search, compelled quite a few Santals in the various districts of West Bengal to meet their Maker against their will.

By the Indian Constitution, all human beings, regardless of caste or creed, are sacred. Still, accidents like this do happen. Two sorts of reasons: (I), the underground couple’s skill in self-concealment; (2),not merely the Santals but all tribals of the Austro-Asiatic Munda tribes appear the same to the Special Forces. In fact, all around the ill-famed forest of Jharkhani, which is under the jurisdiction of the police station at Bankrajharh (in this India of ours, even a worm is under a certain police station), even in the southeast and southwest corners, one comes across hair-raising details in the eyewitness records put together on the people who are suspected of attacking police stations, stealing guns (since the snatchers are not invariably well educated, they sometimes say “give up your chambers” rather than give up your gun), killing grain brokers, landlords, moneylenders, law officers, and bureaucrats. A black-skinned couple ululated like police sirens before the episode. They sang jubilantly in a savage tongue, incomprehensible even to the Santals.

Such as:

Samaray hijulenako mar goekope

and.

Hende rambra keche keche Pundi rambra keche keche

This proves conclusively that they are the cause of Captain Arjan Singh’s diabetes. Government procedure being as incomprehensible as the Male Principle in Sankhya philosophy or Antonioni’s early films, it was Arjan Singh who was sent once again on Operation Forest Jharkhani. Learning from Intelligence that the above-mentioned ululating and dancing couple was the escaped corpses, Arjan Singh fell for a bit into a zombielike state and finally acquired so irrational a dread of black-skinned people that whenever he saw a black person in a ballbag, he swooned, saying “they’re killing me,” and drank and passed a lot of water. Neither uniform nor Scriptures could relieve that depression. At long last, under the shadow of apremuture and forced retirement, it was possible to present him at the desk of Mr. Senanayak, the elderly Bengali specialist in com- bat and extreme-left politics. Senanayak knows the activities and capacities of the opposition bet- ter than they themselves do. First, therefore, he presents an encomium on the military genius of the Sikhs. Then he explains further: Is it only the opposition that should find power at the end of the barrel of a gun? Arjan Singh’s power also explodes out of the male organ of a gun. With- out a gun even the “five Ks” come to nothing in this day and age. These speeches he delivers to all and sundry. As a result, the fighting forces regain their confidence in the Army Handbook. It is not a book for every- one. It says that the most despicable and repulsive style of fighting is  guerrilla warfare with primitive weapons. Annihilation at sight of any and all practitioners of such warfare is the sacred duty of every soldier. Dopdi and Dulna belong to the category of such fighters, for they too kill by means of hatchet and scythe, bow and arrow, etc. In fact, their fighting power is greater than the gentlemen’s. Not all gentlemen be- come experts in the explosion of “chambers”; they think the power will come out on its own if the gun is held. But since Dulna and Dopdi are illiterate, their kind have practiced the use of weapons generation after generation. I should mention here that, although the other side make little of him, Senanayak is not to be trifled with. Whatever hispractice, in theory he respects the opposition. Respects them because they could be neither understood nor demolished if they were treated with the attitude, “It’s nothing but a bit of impertinent game-playing with guns.” In order to destroy the enemy, become one. Thus he understood them by (theoretically) becoming one of them. He hopes to write on all this in the future. He has also decided that in his written work he will demolish the gentlemen and highlight the message of the harvest workers. These mental processes might seem complicated, but actually he is a simple man and is as pleased as his third great-uncle after a meal of turtle meat. In fact, he knows that, as in the old popular song, turn by turn the world will change. And in every world he must have the credentials to survive with honor. If necessary he will show the future to what extent he alone understands the matter in its proper perspective. He knows very well that what he is doing today the future will forget, but he also knows that if he can change color from world to world, he can represent the particular world in question. Today he is getting rid of the young by means of “apprehen sion and elimination,” but he knows people will soon forget the memory and lesson of blood. And at the same time, he, like Shakespeare, believes in delivering the world’s legacy into youth’s hands. He is Prospero as well. At any rate, information is received that many young men and women, batch by batch and on jeeps, have attacked police station after police station, terrified and elated the region, and disappeared into the forest of Jharkhani. Since after escaping from Bakuli, Dopdi and Dulna have worked at the house of virtually every landowner, they can efficiently inform the killers about their targets and announce proudly that they too are soldiers, rank and$le.Finally the impenetrable forest of Jharkhani is surrounded by real soldiers, the army enters and splits the battlefield. Soldiers in hiding guard the falls and springs that are the only source of drinking water; they are still guarding, still looking.

On one such search, army informant Dukhiram Gharari saw a young Santal man lying on his stomach on a flat stone, dipping his face to drink water. The soldiers shot him as he lay. As the .303 threw him off spread-eagled and brought a bloody foam to his mouth, he roared “Ma-ho” and then went limp. They realized later that it was the redoubtable Dulna Majhi. What does “Ma-ho” mean? Is this a violent slogan in the tribal language? Even after much thought, the Department of Defense could not be sure. Two tribal-specialist types are flown in from Calcutta, and they sweat over the dictionaries put together by worthies such as Hoffmann-Jeffer and Golden-Palmer. Finally the omniscent Senanayak summons Chamru, the water carrier of the camp. He giggles when he sees the two specialists, scratches his ear with his “bidi,” and says, The Santals of Maldah did say that when they began fighting at the time of King Gandhi! It’s a battle cry. Who said “Ma-ho” here? Did someone come from Maldah? The problem is thus solved. Then, leaving Dulna’s body on the stone, the soldiers climb the trees in green camouflage. They embrace the leafy boughs like so many great god Pans and wait as the large red ants bite their private parts. To see if anyone comes to take away the body. This is the hunter’s way, not the soldier’s. But Senanayak knows that these brutes cannot be dispatched by the approved method. So he asks his men to draw the prey with a corpse as bait. All will come clear, he says. I have almost deciphered Dopdi’s song. The soldiers get going at his command. But no one comes to claim Dulna’s corpse. At night the soldiers shoot at a scuffle and, descending, discover that they have killed two hedgehogs copulating on dry leaves. Improvidently enough, the soldiers’ jungle scout Dukhiram gets a knife in the neck before he can claim the reward for Dulna’s capture. Bearing Dulna’s corpse, the soldiers suffer shooting pains as the ants, interrupted in their feast, begin to bite them. When Senanayak hears that no one has come to take the corpse, he slaps his anti-Fascist paperback copy of The Deputy and shouts, “What?” Immediately one of the tribal specialists runs in with a joy as naked and transparent as Archimedes’ and says, “Get up, sir! I have discovered the meaning of that ‘hende rambra’ stuff. It’s Mundari language.” Thus the search for Dopdi continues. In the forest belt of Jharkhani, the Operation continues-will continue. It is a carbuncle on the government’s backside. Not to be cured by the tested ointment, not to burst with the appropriate herb. In the first phase, the fugitives, ignorant of the forest’s topography, are caught easily, and by the law of confrontation they are shot at the taxpayer’s expense. By the law of confrontation, their eyeballs, intestines, stomachs, hearts, genitals, and so on become the food of fox, vulture, hyena, wildcat, ant, and worm, and the un- touchables go off happily to sell their bare skeletons. They do not allow themselves to be captured in open combat in the next phase. Now it seems that they have found a trustworthy courier. Ten to one it’s Dopdi. Dopdi loved Dulna more than her blood. No doubt it is she who is saving the fugitives now. “They” is also a hypothesis. Why?  How many went originally? “Draupadi” The answer is silence. About that there are many tales, many books in press. Best not to believe everything. How many killed in six years’ confrontation? The answer is silence.

Why after confrontations are the skeletons discovered with arms broken or severed? Could armless men have fought? Why do the collar- bones shake, why are legs and ribs crushed? Two kinds of answer. Silence. Hurt rebuke in the eyes. Shame on you! Why bring this up? What will be will be. . . . How many left in the forest? The answer is silence. A legion? Is justifiable to maintain a large battalion in that wild area at the taxpayer’s expense? Answer: Objection. “Wild area” is incorrect. The battalion is provided with supervised nutrition, arrangements to worship according to religion, opportunity to listen to “Bibidha Bharati” and to see Sanjeev Kumar and the Lord Krishna face-to-face in the movie This Is Life. No. The area is not wild. How many are left? The answer is silence. How many are left? Is there anyone at all? The answer is long. Item: Well, action still goes on. Moneylenders, landlords, grain bro- kers, anonymous brothel keepers, ex-informants are still terrified. The hungry and naked are still defiant and irrepressible. In some pockets the harvest workers are getting a better wage. Villages sympathetic to the fugitives are still silent and hostile. These events cause one to think. . . . Where in this picture does Dopdi Mejhen fit? She must have connections with the fugitives. The cause for fear is elsewhere. The ones who remain have lived a long time in the primitive world of the forest. They keep company with the poor harvest workers and the tribals. They must have forgotten book learning. Perhaps they are orienting their book learning to the soil they live on and learning new combat and survival techniques. One can shoot and get rid of the ones whose only recourse is extrinsic book learning and sincere intrinsic en- thusiasm. Those who are working practically will not be exterminated so easily. Therefore Operation Jharkhani Forest cannot stop. Reason: the words of warning in the Army Handbook. Catch Dopdi Mejhen. She will lead us to the others. Dopdi was proceeding slowly, with some rice knotted into her belt. Mushai Tudu’s wife had cooked her some. She does so occasionally. When the rice is cold, Dopdi knots it into her waistcloth and walks slowly. As she walked, she picked out and killed the lice in her hair. If she had some Kerosene, she’d rub it into her scalp and get rid of the lice. Then she could wash her hair with bakingsoda. But the bastards put traps at every bend of the falls. If they smell kerosene in the water, they will follow the scent. Dopdi! She doesn’t respond. She never responds when she hears her own name. She has seen in the Panchayat office just today the notice for the reward in her name. Mushai Tudu’s wife had said, “What are you looking at? Who is Dopdi Mejhen! Money if you give her up!” “How much?” “Two-hundred!” Oh God! Mushai’s wife said outside the office: “A lot of preparation this time. A-1 1 new policemen.” Hm. Don’t come again. Why? Mushai’s wife looked down. Tudu says that Sahib has come again. If they catch you, the village, our huts . . . They’ll burn again. Yes. And about Dukhiram . . . The Sahib knows? Shomai and Budhna betrayed us. Where are they? Ran away by train. Dopdi thought of something. Then said, Go home. I don’t know what will happen, if they catch me don’t know me. Can’t you run away? No. Tell me, how many times can I run away? What will they do if they catch me? They will counter me. Let them. Mushai’s wife said, We have nowhere else to go. Dopdi said softly, I won’t tell anyone’s name. Dopdi knows, has learned by hearing so often and so long, how one can come to terms with torture. If mind and body give way under tor- ture, Dopdi will bite off her tongue. That boy did it. They countered him. When they counter you, your hands are tied behind you.

All your bones are crushed, your sex is a terrible wound. Killed by police in an encounter. . .unknown male . . . age twenty-two . . . As she walked thinking these thoughts, Dopdi heard someone calling, Dopdi! She didn’t respond. She doesn’t respond if called by her own name. Here her name is Upi Mejhen. But who calls? “Draupadi” Spines of suspicion are always furled in her mind. Hearing “Dopdi” they stiffen like a hedgehog’s. Walking, she unrolls the film of known faces in her mind. Who? Not Shomra, Shomra is on the run. Shomai and Budhna are also on the run, for other reasons. Not Golok, he is in Bakuli. Is it someone from Bakuli? After Bakuli, her and Dulna’s names were Upi Mejhen, Matang Majhi. Here no one but Mushai and his wife knows their real names. Among the young gentlemen, not all of the previous batches knew. That was a troubled time. Dopdi is confused when she thinks about it. Operation Bakuli in Bakuli. Surja Sahu arranged with Biddibabu to dig two tubewells and three wells within the compound of his two houses. No water anywhere, drought in Birbhum. Unlimited water at Surja Sahu’s house, as clear as a crow’s eye. Get your water with canal tax, everything is burning. What’s my profit in increasing cultivation with tax money? Everything’s on fire. Get out of here. I don’t accept your Panchayat nonsense. Increase cultivation with water. You want half the paddy for sharecropping. Everyone is happy with free paddy. Then give me paddy at home, give me money, I’ve learned my lesson trying to do you good. What good did you do? Have I not given water to the village? You’ve given it to your kin Bhagunal. Don’t you get water? No. The untouchables don’t get water. The quarrel began there. In the drought, human patience catches easily. Satish and Jugal from the village and that young gentleman, was Rana his name?, said a landowning moneylender won’t give a thing, put him down. Surja Sahu’s house was surrounded at night. Surja Sahu had brought out his gun. Surja was tied up with cow rope. His whitish eyeballs turned and turned, he was incontinent again and again. Dulna had said, I’ll have the first blow, brothers.

My greatgrandfather took a bit of paddy from him, and I still give him free labor to repay that debt. Dopdi had said, His mouth watered when he looked at me. I’ll pull out his eyes. Surja Sahu. Then a telegraphic message from Shiuri. Special train. Army. The jeep didn’t come up to Bakuli. March-march-march. The crunch-crunch-crunch of gravel under hobnailed boots. Cordon up. Commands on the mike. Jugal Mandal; Satish Mandal, Rana alias Prabir alias Dipak, Dulna Majhi-Dopdi Mejhen surrender surrender surrender. No sur- render surrender. Mow-mowmow down the village. Putt-putt putt-putt- cordite in the air-putt-putt-round the clock-putt-putt. Flame thrower. Bakuli is burning. More men and women, children . . .fire- fire. Close canal  approach. Over-over-over by nightfall. Dopdi and Dulna had crawled on their stomachs to safety. They could not have reached Paltakuri after Bakuli. Bhupati and Tapa took them. Then it was decided that Dopdi and Dulna would work around the Jharkhani belt. Dulna had explained to Dopdi, Dear, this is best! We won’t get family and children this way. But who knows? Land- owner and moneylender and policemen might one day be wiped out! Who called her from the back today? Dopdi kept walking. Villages and fields, bush and rock-Public Works Department markers-sound of running steps in back. Only one person running. Jharkhani Forest still about two miles away. Now she thinks of nothing but entering the forest. She must let them know that the police have set up notices for her again. Must tell them that that bastard Sahib has appeared again. Must change hideouts. Also, the plan to do to Lakkhi Bera and Naran Bera what they did to Surja Sahu on account of the trouble over paying the field hands in Sandara must be cancelled. Shomai and Budhna knew everything. There was the urgency of great danger under Dopdi’s ribs. Now she thought there was no shame as a Santal in Shomai and Budhna’s treachery. Dopdi’s blood was the pure unadulterated black blood of Champabhumi. From Champa to Bakuli the rise and set of a million moons. Their blood could have been con- taminated; Dopdi felt proud of her forefathers. They stood guard over their women’s blood in black armor. Shomai and Budhna are half- breeds. The fruits of the war. Contributions to Radhabhumi by the American soldiers stationed at Shiandanga. Otherwise, crow would eat crow’s flesh before Santal would betray Santal. Footsteps at her back. The steps keep a distance. Rice in her belt, tobacco leaves tucked at her waist. Arijit, Malini, Shamu, Mantu-none of them smokes or even drinks tea. Tobacco leaves and limestone powder. Best medicine for scorpion bite. Nothing must be given away. Dopdi turned left. This way is the camp. Two miles. This is not the way to the forest. But Dopdi will not enter the forest with a cop at her back. I swear by my life. By my life Dulna, by my life. Nothing must be told. The footsteps turn left. Dopdi touches her waist. In her palm the comfort of a half-moon. A baby scythe. The smiths at Jharkhani are fine artisans. Such an edge we’ll put on it Upi, a hundred Dukhiram- Thank God Dopdi is not a gentleman. Actually, perhaps they have understood scythe, hatchet, and knife best. They do their work in si- lence. The lights of the camp at a distance. Why is Dopdi going this way? Stop a bit, it turns again. Huh! I can tell where I am if I wander all night with my eyes shut. I won’t go in the forest, I won’t lose him that way. I won’t outrun him. You fucking jackal of a cop, deadly afraid of death, you can’t run around in the forest. I’d run you out of breath, throw you in a ditch, and finish you off. Not a word must be said. Dopdi has seen the new camp, she has sat in the bus station, passed the time of day, smoked a “bidi” and found out how many police convoys had arrived, how many radio vans. Squash four, onions seven, peppers fifty, a straightforward account. This information cannot now be passed on. They will understand Dopdi Mejhen has been countered. Then they’ll run. Arijit’s voice. If anyone is caught, the others must catch the timing and change their hideout. If Comrade Dopdi arrives late, we will not remain. There will be a sign of where we’ve gone. No comrade will let the others be destroyed for her own sake. Arijit’s voice. The gurgle of water. The direction of the next hideout will be indicated by the tip of the wooden arrowhead under the stone. Dopdi likes and understands this. Dulna died, but, let me tell you, he didn’t lose anyone else’s life. Because this was not in our heads to begin with, one was countered for the other’s trouble. Now a much harsher rule, easy and clear. Dopdi returns-good; doesn’t return–bad. Change hideout. The clue will be such that the opposition won’t see it, won’t understand even if they do. Footsteps at her back. Dopdi turns again. These 3% miles of land and rocky ground are the best way to enter the forest. Dopdi has left that way behind. A little level ground ahead. Then rocks again. The anny could not have struck camp on such rocky terrain. This area is quiet enough. It’s like a maze, every hump looks like every other. That’s fine. Dopdi will lead the cop to the burning “ghat.” Patitpaban of Saranda had been sacrificed in the name of Kali of the Burning Ghats. APehend! A lump of rock stands up. Another. Yet another. The elderly Senanayak was at once triumphant and despondent. Ifyou want to destroy the enemy, become one. He had done so. As long as six years ago he could anticipate their every move. He still can. Therefore he is elated. Since he has kept up with the literature, he has read First Blood and seen approval of his thought and work. Dopdi couldn’t trick him, he is unhappy about that. Two sorts of reasons. Six years ago he published an article about information storage in brain cells. He demonstrated in that piece that he supported this struggle from the point of view of the field hands. Dopdi is a field hand. Veteran fighter. Search and destroy. Dopdi Mejhen is about to be apprehended. Will be destroyed. Regret. Halt! Dopdi stops short. The steps behind come around to the front. Under Dopdi’s ribs the canal dam breaks. No hope. Surja Sahu’s brother Rotoni Sahu. The two lumps of rock come forward. Shomai and Budhna. They had not escaped by train. Arijit’s voice. Just as you must know when you’ve won, you must also acknowledge defeat and start the activities of the next stage. Now Dopdi spreads her arms, raises her face to the sky, turns to- ward the forest, and ululates with the force of her entire being. Once, twice, three times. At the third burst the birds in the trees at the outskirts of the forest awake and flap their wings. The echo of the call travels far. Draupadi Mejhen was apprehended at 6:53P.M. It took an hour to get her to camp. Questioning took another hour exactly. No one touched her, and she was allowed to sit on a canvas camp stool. At 8:57 Senanayak’s dinner hour approached, and saying, “Make her. Do the needful,” he disappeared. Then a billion moons pass. A billion lunar years. Opening her eyes after a million light years, Draupadi, strangely enough, sees sky and moon. Slowly the bloodied nailheads shift from her brain. Trying to move, she feels her arms and legs still tied to four posts. Something sticky under her ass and waist. Her own blood. Only the gag has been removed. Incredible thirst. In case she says “water” she catches her lower lip in her teeth. She senses that her vagina is bleeding. How many came to make her? Shaming her, a tear trickles out of the corner of her eye. In the muddy moonlight she lowers her lightless eye, sees her breasts, and understands that, indeed, she’s been made up right. Her breasts are bitten raw, the nipples torn. How many? Four-five-six-seven-then Draupadi had passed out. She turns her eyes and sees something white. Her own cloth. Noth- ing else. Suddenly she hopes against hope. Perhaps they have aban- doned her. For the foxes to devour. But she hears the scrape of feet. She turns her head, the guard leans on his bayonet and leers at her. Draupadi closes her eyes. She doesn’t have to wait long. Again the pro- cess of making her begins. Goes on. The moon vomits a bit of light and goes to sleep. Only the dark remains. A compelled spread-eagled still body. Active pistons of flesh rise and fall, rise and fall over it. Then morning comes. Then Draupadi Mejhen is brought to the tent and thrown on the straw. Her piece of cloth is thrown over her body. Then, after breakfast, after reading the newspaper and sending the radio message “Draupadi Mejhen apprehended,” etc., Draupadi Mejhen is ordered brought in. Suddenly there is trouble. Draupadi sits up as soon as she hears “Move!” and asks, Where do you want me to go? To the Burra Sahib’s tent.  Where is the tent? Over there. Draupadi fixes her red eyes on the tent. Says, Come, I’ll go. The guard pushes the water pot forward. Draupadi stands up. She pours the water down on the ground. Tears her piece of cloth with her teeth. Seeing such strange behavior, the guard says, She’s gone crazy, and runs for orders. He can lead the prisoner out but doesn’t know what to do if the prisoner behaves in- comprehensibly. So he goes to ask his superior. The commotion is as if the alarm had sounded in a prison. Senanayak walks out surprised and sees Draupadi, naked, walking to- ward him in the bright sunlight with her head high. The nervous guards trail behind. What is this? He is about to cry, but stops. Draupadi stands before him, naked. Thigh and pubic hair matted with dry blood. Two breasts, two wounds. What is this? He is about to bark. Draupadi comes closer. Stands with her hand on her hip, laughs and says, The object of your search, Dopdi Mejhen. You asked them to make me up, don’t you want to see how they made me? Where are her clothes? Won’t put them on, sir. Tearing them. Draupadi’s black body comes even closer. Draupadi shakes with an indomitable laughter that Senanayak simply cannot understand. Her ravaged lips bleed as she begins laughing. Draupadi wipes the blood on her palm and says in a voice that is as terrifying, sky splitting, and sharp as her ululation, What’s the use of clothes? You can strip me, but how can you clothe me again? Are you a man? She looks around and chooses the front of Senanayak’s white bush shirt to spit a bloody gob at and says, There isn’t a man here that I should be ashamed. I will not let you put my cloth on me. What more can you do? Come on, counter me-come on, counter me-? Draupadi pushes Senanayak with her two mangled breasts, and for the first time Senanayak is afraid to stand before an unarmed target, terribly afraid.

Suddenly, there is a loud explosion and Senanayak wakes up exasperated, gasping for breath, he barely manages to wear his slippers, slips and falls on the ground with blood pouring out of his head, he loses consciousness. Everything is hither and tither and the prison complex is in flames with two of the guards burnt like charcoal lying on the ground. Dopadi and Arijit are walking deep within the forests. She is neatly dressed in a Saaree draped around her waist. Dopadi, calls Arijit and she doesn’t respond to being called Dopadi, as if Dopadi is not her name.

The Travesty of Dalit Autobiographies: Being Seen without Seeing

“Here are black men standing, looking at us, and I hope that you?like me?will feel the shock of being seen. For
three thousand years, the white man has enjoyed the privilege
of seeing without being seen”

• Jean Paul Sartre, Black Orpheus

“The first Dalit autobiography to be published, Baluta caused a sensation when it first appeared, in Marathi, in 1978. It quickly acquired the status of a classic of modern Indian literature and was also a bestseller in Hindi and other major languages. Set in Mumbai and rural Maharashtra of the 1940s and ’50s, it describes in shocking detail the practice of untouchability and caste violence. “

-https://guides.library.illinois.edu/c.php?g=532151&p=3641370

Dalit autobiographies have a very strange status in Indian academia. They are both present and absent at the same time much like the Dalit Author’s Self, which is both present and absent at the same time in the Hindu Social Order.

Here, the absence of Dalits in academia is marked by the presence of these autobiographies. These autobiographies are tales of being seen without being able to see.

It’s only the Brahmin Self that have enjoyed the privilege of seeing without being seen and thus It was never required of him to write about his self.

When it comes to the Dalit Self, almost all autobiographies are acts of seeking to be seen in the eyes of the Brahmin, but they are already being seen in the eyes of the Brahmin, wretched, uncouth, helpless, illicit, incapable, maimed, the other. These autobiographies reproduce that gaze and offer nothing worth challenging the structure. If Dalits are of the view that if they make the Upper Castes read what dishonour they commit on them, the Upper Castes will have a change of heart, then I am sorry to say they don’t understand the battle in the first place. You don’t ask the man who beat you, why did he beat you, you should beat him back. Dalit Autobiographies on the other hand only ask the question “why did you beat me?”

Why do you need a hearing in their courts?

Why don’t you reign in Hell than to serve in their paradise?

Dalit autobiographies thus are only pandering to that Brahmin Gaze and seeking it’s attestation. Where is that assertion, where is that negation of being seen without being able to see?

An ugly culmination of these autobiographies is the entire industry created around this wretched identity of being a dalit, a helpless victim, who only has traumas in his life. This emotional appeal to subjugate ones own identity to that of an eternal victim seeking justice does disservice to the untouchable cause,for it will only create forebearers who “Write about Dalits”, “Voice of the Marginalised” etc.

As Dr Ambedkar apty put once

“I remember to have read a conversation between an American and an English soldier during the last World War. I find it most appropriate at this juncture. How long the war should be continued, was the subject of discussion. In reply to a question, the Englishman said with great pride, “We shall fight the war till the last Frenchman dies.” When the Hindu social reformers proclaim that they shall fight to the last for the cause of the Untouchables, it means that they propose to fight till the last Untouchable dies. This is the meaning, as I understand it, of their proclamation. One who fights for a cause at the cost of the lives of others cannot be expected to win the battle.”

The more the cries of humiliation and trauma the more this industry of people fighting for a cause at the cost of lives of others will rise.

Dalit Autobiographies might have served a purpose but the time has come to start seeing without being seen!

Do you have that guts?

On Surplus Men and Women; Enclosing Classes into Castes to Devalue Lower Caste Women

Ambedkar in his seminal paper Castes in India, has explained in great detail how brahmins were the first to create an enclosed class of themselves and turn into a caste which led to other classes to turn themselves into Castes as well and thus emerged the system of castes which was honoured because it was practised.

Ambedkar argued that the problem of surplus men and women was at the centre of imposition of endogamy.

While Ambedkar only delineated the origin of caste, I would like to take his argument further to make a point that clear demarcation and compartmentalisation of classes into castes created a relative scarcity of women belonging to upper castes and thus inflated their relative value in the Hindu social order as compared to the lower caste women, where endogamy was not as prevalent as among the upper castes. This relative value leads to a perceived desirability and value because of restrictions imposed on their sexuality.

The scarcity and exclusivity associated with closed social groups can make higher-class women seem more valuable simply because they are less accessible, increasing their perceived worth.

Post Rohith Vemula’s suicide, there has been a slurry of discussions in academic and social world on Caste but this discussion has often been limited to talk about victimhood of Dalits as opposed to the domination of the Indian ruling castes.

There was a huge uproar even in Indian Parliament over Vemula’s suicide and struggle of Dalit students in India’s higher education campuses.

In this chaos, something which could have been unimaginable in the past decade has emerged in academic world.

The academic world dominated by upper castes has now accomodated the dalit being as long he is a prisoner of his identity.

Too much is being written on Caste and Campus and the focus, the gaze as usual is always the dalit identity.

This Gaze is so all pervasive, that at times a dalit can’t even think of anything but being a dalit. He can’t think of being a sociologist, an engineer or a doctor or a journalist or an author or a poet. He is relegated to the prison of his identity as if there is no escape from that identity.

One of the most interesting case being that of Yashica Dutt, who wrote her autobiography titled, coming out as a dalit and Suraj Yengde’s Caste Matters.

The focus of both these works by “Dalit” authors was, you guessed it right, what it means to be a dalit, in Post Vemula era.

These two books are now very often cited in academic spaces as resource materials to study caste.

Dalit has now become a subject of Brahmin fantasy, which exists as an object only as long as it panders to the Brahmin Gaze, an objective subject of perpetual victimhood in the eyes of the Brahmin.

Isn’t it strange that What Ambedkar talked about was annihilation of caste, is now being subverted into a discourse, where Dalits are given space and columns as long as they speak only about “themselves”.

With increasing intereference of American Social Justice policies of Diversity, Equity and Inclusion in Indian reality, Dalits are becoming a Neoliberal Subject, and their identity is being commodified to pander to the needs of the market.

As long as you will write about your pain, your humiliation you will be given space, but the moment you write about something that can’t evoke a vicarious sense of being an ideal subject of victimhood, you will never find mention anywhere.

Another case can be made of another book called Traumas of Caste published in America by Equality Labs.

Such a pathologisation of Dalit Identity has led to springing up of so many counselling and psychological interventions as if we are a medical subject. Again, the focus of Caste Society’s ignominy is the Dalit Identity.

Tales of  Socio Analysis; The Empirical Brahmin waging an Epistemic War

You all must be aware of Gopal Guru’s articulation whereas he has split the academic world into Empirical Shudras and Theoretical Brahmans.

Guru has went to a great extent to berate Dalits of lacking the discipline and rigor of doing theory and on the other hand in a sense of academic superiority he places unto himself seems to be in awe of the theoretical rigor of Brahmins.

What shall I say? He goes on to say Poetry written by Dalits might not be Theoretical enough for Indian Social Sciences. He has relegated the Untouchables into a realm of phenomenological angst. A people who can’t produce high theory like Guhas and Chatterjee.

In doing so, he has gravely overlook his own people’s history.

This is what happens when you try to pander to the Brahmin Gaze in academia and try to project yourself as some sort of a high theorist as against their own people’s history of Epistemic Battles against the Brahmin.

This is a problem with a section of Mahars who have inculcated western imperial academic notions without apt scrutiny.

What is theory? The articulation Guru tries to situate reeks of Brahmin appeasement . Maybe for him, high theory is writing articles in EPW and not irking the ganglords of Brahmin Academia. He has this becomes a victim of his own identity shoved into him by the Brahmin.

I have read Ambedkar closely, he has nowehere expressed his concern for Dalits lacking expertise to do theory. On the other hand Ambedkar’s articulation are a condensation of his allegiance to how own people. It is not for nothing that he dedicates his writings to Raidas and Chokhamela.

Trained in a Marxist infested Brahmin Academia, Guru has limited Dalits into their material conditions. It is a very sorry understanding that those who labour and are materially bereft can’t produce theory.

The very demarcation of theory from labour is a Brahmin enterprise.

Kabir and Raidas were both into labour to earn their livelihood and produced theories which the Indian Academia can’t even think even in their orgasmic dreams.

कुछ तो मजबूरियां रहीं होंगी गुरु,
यूं ही कोई अपनों के प्रति बेवफा नहीं होता!

To keep quiet or Implode?

It was in class three that I found that my people, my identity is that of untouchables. I have not even read Shakespeare or Flaubert, nor have I read Premchand or Mahashweta Devi but I was made aware of my own existence in such a brutal manner.

I don’t know how others might react to this awareness, but for me it was always uncomfortable. I was a student in a Jesuit school where I never had to face my identity head on. I had enough resources as compared to the rest of my people and was equally motivated to study hard by my teachers but deep down the very fact that I carry such an identity even though I might not have to face the physical brunt in a very obscene manner as do so many of untouchables in India even today.

The question in front of me was whether to speak and make my surroundings uncomfortable or keep my discomfort within me and just study and perform well and keep the burden of my identity aside. All throughout my school life, I chose to keep my discomfort within me.

Something very interesting happened with me while I was in my class tenth, I came across Narendra Jadhav’s acclaimed autobiography and at that time it was translated into English as ‘Untouchable: My family’s triumphant escape out of the Caste system. Soon I found myself deep within the realms of Dalit Autobiographies. I still remember reading Bama Faustina’s Karukku, in which she described her struggle in a caste society in the state of Tamilnadu.

No sooner than that I have put my hands on Sheoraj Singh Bechain’s “Mera Bachpan Mere Kandhon par” and Om Prakash Valmiki’s jhoothan. It was as if I was obsessed with reading it all that I used to scourge internet for every little snippet I could find if I was not able to buy the hard copy.

Be it Nangeli, or Phoolan or be it I was reading about Everything I could get my hands off and I was still keeping my discomforts within me, waiting to Implode.

I had a very bright career infront of me as I was about to study engineering at Delhi Technological University but somehow I was made to feel I didn’t deserve despite my competencies. This was a moment of implosion and deep unrest and I chose to delve deep into what piqued me and I chose to study sociology at St Xavier’s College Mumbai.

There I found a voice, I used to speak a lot and fight a lot. When it comes to questioning caste you can’t speak without fighting. But a question always lingered infront of me what if I speak too much, will I be failed, my career jeopardized? But I was reckless back then, and only used to speak my mind as if I was trying to throw away my inner discomforts back towards the world that made me uncomfortable for my identity in the first place.

My personal callous attitude led me to flunk in Sociology: An Introduction Course paper thrice as I used to feel what is even the point of writing answers if nobody is even listening and I am just shouting.

At that time Rohith Vemula died by suicide and I wrote an article for round table India, which helped me in cathartically releasing my pain.

Academic writing has always made me feel pointless. I have always felt that if you can’t bleed within while writing, it’s of no use.

All my writings are angst and frustrations directed against a world of disgusting incingrueties of life. One of my teachers, a graduate from CHS JNU said my writings lack scholarship and reek of sensationalism.

Should I have spoken or kept quite? Should I have written scholarly or expressed my angst?

The point I am trying to make here is no wonder however hard our people try to be scholarly, their immanent lived realities will always collide which will give a pass to upper caste scholars to shun them as senstationalists.

Do you see how even in academic world, we are not allowed to be judged on our scholarship but are made prisoner’s of our own identities whereas Upper Caste Scholars never have to deal with this ignominy. Why would they? They are objective, carry scholarship, don’t reek sensationalism, are beyong their identities and true scholars.

The burden of identity is an artefact for the upper castes but iron shackles for us