Four months ago, when I decided to ‘come out’ as Dalit, I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t know that I would immediately find ‘my people’ – a formidable online (and offline) community of fellow Dalits and Ambekarites who would then help me find pride in my Dalitness. I didn’t know I would discover my history hollowed out by systemic oppression and recognize a society that never stopped hating me or my people for being who we are. I didn’t know I could feel the flaming rage I did when I fully understood why Rohith, Delta, Jisha were killed, raped and brutally murdered. Or the despair on realizing how easily that could have been me.

But I also didn’t know that being Dalit would give me my voice. A voice that will make fellow Dalits reach out to say that they are not scared to ‘come out’ now. A voice that would instigate such pitiful fear among fundamentalists that they would be forced to carry out a 24-hour hate tweet cycle to shut it up. A voice that I had used otherwise but was never as unfettered, assertive or loudly heard as it was when I used it as a Dalit.

That Dalit voice will only become stronger and those who have dared to ignore us forever will be forced to sit down and listen. Soon that voice will be published by Aleph Book Company in a book, to be released early next year. My first book will be about being Dalit and what that means for me and so many others like me. Six months ago, I would never have anticipated either being openly Dalit or writing a book about it. But now, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Delta Meghwal was a 17 year old student at the Jain Adarsh Teacher Training Institute for Girls in Bikaner, a small district in Rajatsthan, India. She was an artist, a brilliant student and an ambitious young woman with big dreams. She also happened to be Dalit. Which is why, her school warden, Priya Shukla, had sent her to ‘clean’ the PT instructor Vijender Singh’s room. Her being Dalit makes it okay for the warden to use her as unpaid labor. It also makes it okay for the said instructor to rape her, in that same room. Her Dalit stauts stops the school from taking any action against the teacher who just raped a student. But it doesn’t not prevent them from forcing her to sign a letter saying the rape was in fact, mutual. That too, only after the terrified child called her father to inform him of the horror. Her ‘lower caste’ guarantees that her dead body will be found in an enclosed, reportedly shallow water tank the next day. And that it will be labeled as suicide. It will also give the ‘school’ permission to have her body be taken away in a GARBAGE TRUCK. Without any evidence or record. Her Dalit identity qualifies the mainstream media to look away, for us to not care, for the insttitution her parents entrusted her safety with to rape and murder her. 

Because it’s normal for Dalits to be treated like this. Because Dalit women’s bodies are never their own. They can be used, abused and killed by any upper caste man, at this will. His caste though, makes sure he gets away. That he is able to do it again. To some other Dalit 17-year-old girl, in another school. Because Dalits, we are used to it.

Delta’s award-winning painting 

My name is Manisha Mashaal. I am a grassroots anti-caste activist, orator, and singer. I am from a small village in Haryana and as a Dalit woman, I have overcome many hurdles to be where I am today. Now, I am a first generation learner in my family. I have two degrees: a Bachelors and Master of Arts in Women’s Studies. And it is from this experience, that I can tell you the battle for #JusticeForRohith is not over.

When I first heard about Rohith Vemula’s suicide, I was heartbroken. The more I got to know about him, the more I appreciated his strength and intelligence. For a courageous soul like Rohith, to commit suicide, it was not because of his “weakness” but because he had been pushed to a level of dehumanization at which he had no more tools available to fight anymore. I know Rohith’s story because it could have been my own. I too have been there. There were many points during my studies when I thought truly it would be better to die.

I want to share my own experiences in detail because we are at a moment where we are still unable to visualize the full extent of the violence of our casteist educational system of this country. People are still engaged in debates about the reservation and the lack of “merit” of the marginalized peoples. But I want us all to ask: What kind of education are we providing to marginalized students at all? An education that is a half-hearted attempt aimed at wounding and pushing us out?

Caste doesn’t just operate in higher education. It is everywhere in our lives and begins to rear its head much earlier in school. When I was kindergarten, I was told by my teacher than that I was “a lower caste” and that I should sit in the back of the class. He would bark, “ How dare you Chude (Valmiki) try to sit in the front? Go to the back! Why do you come to school? Why don’t you cut grass in the fields like you are supposed to?” This was how I found out what caste I was. At the time, I didn’t fully understand what this meant, but because of how angry he was, I realized that being Valmiki meant something bad. Having school teachers discourage you from learning is the reality many first generation learners like myself face. Our families do work in the fields. We are indentured through caste to landlords all through out India. To go to school alongside these oppressors’ children and then to be demeaned in front of them too - is atrocious. As a child, you can barely make sense of it.

The bullying continued for me through high school, the teachers would never address me by my name - Manisha. Instead, they would make up names for me like “late admission wali” or “bindi wali” to highlight my Dalitness and shame me. In contrast, the upper caste girls and boys were addressed by their proper names. After years of abuse, I had had enough. One day I missed school because of a serious incident at home, the next day the teacher hurled abuses at me I asked him “Why do you only reprimand me? Why not ask this upper caste girl who missed school yesterday as well? When I first asserted myself, the teacher could not handle it, he threw my bags and books out of the class and refused to teach me, grade me or allow me into his class ever again. But I did not give up. I came to school every day. I sat outside the class with my bags and books every day and listened in. Despite this, at the end of the school year, he failed me.

Dalit children go through truly toxic casteism before they even land anywhere near the door to an institution of higher education. This is in addition to the social torment our families are subjected to. So it’s fair to ask, do the policies of reservation even begin to neutralize the enormity of oppression that students like myself have had to cross to compete with other students?

As I graduated from high school and began to think about college, I knew it would be difficult. I struggled with preparing myself for the social and economic hurdles. However, I knew that if I didn’t make it to college, my options would be restricted to an early marriage and working in a brick kiln or cutting grass. I knew I was meant for more. I wanted to be a leader who could change the situation for my peoples. So with great difficulty, I enrolled at Indira Gandhi National College in Ladwa, Haryana.

One the very first day of college, I quickly realized that in India’s abodes of higher education, untouchability ran silently rampant. Most students immediately split along caste lines. Upper caste students asked me the name of my caste before they asked me my own name. When they found out I was a "quota” (reservation) student, that was all they wanted to do with me. They refused to talk to me, share notes with me, study with me or eat with me. The three other Dalit girls in my class had the same experience. We stuck together and stayed within ourselves.

The discrimination I was subjected to in college ranged from subtle to direct. During an NSS (National Service Scheme) camp, we were asked to do our own chores, cook, and clean-up. When we were sweeping, an upper caste girl complained that she was being made to do “ the work of ‘Chude’ and 'Chamars’ ”. I was deeply hurt by the bluntness of her abuse and I accused her of casteism. As our argument escalated, professors reprimanded me for being argumentative but did not even attempt to warn the upper caste girl. That day, one Dalit professor took me aside and consoled me saying “Manisha, our battle is larger than this. There’s much we have to do. We have to strategise. Let this go.”

However, I didn’t have the bandwidth to process these instances or explore them politically because, for me, striving to meet financial needs dominated most of my time and energy. While I was surrounded by upper caste upper-class students comfortable in an urban setting, I was struggling with the new set of burdens. Even with scholarships, my family and I had a lot of difficulties paying the fees for the second year. My brother had somehow managed to take out loans to pay for the first year but we did not have enough money for proper clothing, a good bag or even books. The situation was so tough that each day after college, I would rush home to have time to wash the suit to be able to wear it the next day. Some of the students began to call me “phoolon wali suit” (the girl with the flowered dress) because I wore the same suit so much.

At the end of the first year, I thought that like many other Dalit students unable to pay fees, I too would have to drop out. During this time, my uncle told me to go see Assistant Deputy Commissioner Sumita Khataria. Ms. Khataria was a Dalit woman who had struggled hard in her life come up in life through education. When I met with her, I think she may have seen her own younger self in me. She offered to pay my fees and even bought me some books and a bicycle. Even as Ms.Khataria was helping me, I knew that she faced a lot of criticism from other colleagues and upper caste educators who accused her of working along caste lines. But this act of loving empathy from a fellow Dalit woman actually allowed me to have a real chance at higher learning.

But why I was the “lucky” one? I fought through an oppressive society to be educated. Is that not enough by itself? To really address the casteism in our society we must address the casteism in our schools. Otherwise, we will be unable to end this system. Luck should not be the guarantor of success. We should systematize support for Dalit students like myself to help us not only get admission but to thrive.

My experiences in college represent the experiences of a vast section of Dalit students who do not go to “elite” schools in India - the JNUs or IITs. We go to small state and private institutions close to our hometowns. These colleges, including my own, don’t have any state-of-the-art labs or centers. In fact, they often have a very poor infrastructure and insufficient faculty. Dalit students suffer further loss of access due to discrimination. Teachers and administration make it difficult for us to obtain of everything from entry into labs, library books, scholarships to job opportunities. We are made to run around from one office to another for the signatures, for scholarships to be released, for food and everything else. I always felt we were deliberately kept in desperation mode right at the edge of meeting our needs.

By the time I enrolled in Masters (Women’s Studies) at Kurukshetra University, I realized that in many ways, survival at these institutions required both resilience of personality and the empowerment of Ambedkarite politics. I was elected chairperson of DASFI (Dr. Ambedkar Student’s Front of India) and became deeply involved in Dalit women’s activism. But, even as women - Dalit women’s politics are at odds with upper caste women. When Nirbhaya happened, I pointed out in class that these cases of sexual violence happen all the time to Dalit women and are never paid the kind of attention that Nirbhaya received. I referred the case of the young Dalit woman who was raped and killed in Jind, Haryana. The whole class and the professor began disagreeing with me vehemently, arguing that rape is a “gender issue” not a “caste issue”. I thought to myself that this was the rotten level of understanding in a Women’s Studies program. Being women did not mean much when they could not even empathize with the vulnerabilities of a Dalit woman who had succumbed to severe violence.

Because there is not a proper structure to accommodate our acts of stepping out of the caste order, getting an education presents many everyday practical problems. For example, Dalit girls in Haryana don’t have many hostels. When there are hostels, we don’t have the means to pay for them. This means that we have to travel long distances. I used to travel nearly 100 km every day by bus, 50 km each way. To avoid this commute, many Dalit men stayed at dharamsalas for days at a time. But we women had to run back home before it gets too dark. This often meant that that we had to board a particular bus at a particular time. As a consequence, there was then no time to visit the library for reading or take part in extracurricular activities. When we get back home in the evening, the day doesn’t end. We have to wash, clean, cook and see to the care of our siblings and family members. We have to do ALL this and STILL perform well in college. I often ask - is persevering through these conditions, in itself, not meritorious enough?

These problems discouraged Dalit parents from wanting to send their daughters to universities. Many times, they would express that they preferred their daughters alive and uneducated than educated and dead. After, my master’s I started visiting the families of these girls. I convinced their parents that they could stay at my office in Kurukshetra and go to university. That way they weren’t making long and dangerous trips everyday and could focus on their studies. At the office, I walk them through the bureaucracy of the university and give advice. I allow them to accompany me as I go about my activism. By watching me, they learn to be bold. I teach them what I understand about Babasaheb and their constitutional rights. If I start to see a change in their demeanour, they are speaking up, then I know they are beginning to feel more empowered and activated. Truly, I believe this is the real education they get, not the farce they are administered at our universities.

This country is often embroiled in debates about the reservation and “merit”. They want to ask many questions about brothers like Rohith. Without shame, they question his merit too. I want to ask where do upper castes derive their merit from? From their superior abilities or their “superior” caste? Dalit men and women like myself face enough oppression in our lives to scorch any so-called upper caste to a bent and broken down a pile of bones. And still, we not only persist, but are constantly glancing behind us, to lend a hand, to raise another sister, another brother, a mother, a lover - even as we are immersed in the battle to slay the feudal fascist monster on our path. End your false debates. I pronounce, that there is no soul more meritorious, than the radiant Dalit student.

Jai Bhim. 

- Manisha Mashaal, Dalit activist and the Haryana state coordinator of the All India Dalit Women’s Rights Forum (AIDMAM). She has a Masters degree in Women’s Studies from Kurukshetra University. 

Translation credit: Pushpa Yadav and Arvind Shesh

Editorial inputs: Valli Karunakaran

Published with permission from Round Table India 

http://roundtableindia.co.in/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=8496%3Aagainst-the-wind&catid=119&Itemid=132 (for a hindi translation)

This International Women’s Day, we need to hear more stories of routine sexual violence against Dalit women, which often stays limited to headlines and is as easily forgotten. Here, Dalit Camera, a leading Dalit YouTube channel interviews Prof. Vimal Thorat, who is co-convener of the National Campaign on Dalit Human Rights. Prof. Thorat describes cases of gang rape committed against Dalit women and girls, often as young as 11 years old. She goes on to discuss how sometimes the police try to color it as suicide, instead of gang rape, even in cases when the girl’s body has been burnt with cigarette butts and her private parts badly mutilated. They have also been known to make statements like, “She was habitual to sex,” so it doesn’t matter.

THIS is the state of Dalit women in India, especially in the rural areas, where the ‘upper’ castes refute the law and commit heinous crimes against Dalit women almost daily. When we discuss the state of women in India and the crimes and inequalities against them, Dalit women warrant special and immediate attention. We cannot continue ignoring these gross inequalities against Dalit women, along with the crimes against ‘upper’ caste, upper class, urban women, which are finally beginning to get the attention they deserve. This gut-wrenching, horrifying sexual violence is a daily reality for millions of Dalit women across India. And it’s time we start being disgustingly angry about it.

“Bhujang? Bhujang mhanje kon?” (Who are the Bhujang’s?)

If I had a dime for every time someone asked me this question, I’d be so rich, I wouldn’t have to put up with all these questions ever again.. such wishful thinking.

I grew up as a “normal” convent educated kid. Oblivious to caste, religion and all of the so-called societal evils that kids don’t normally care about. Now that I think about it, I have a vivid memory of teachers walking into my fifth standard class for some sort of a convenient SC/ST roll call and announcing ‘all such kids to raise their hands’. Sure enough, there would be 5 or 6 of us. I’d raise my hand like it was something special and go back to the tomfoolery.

I still didn’t make anything of it, because I didn’t know anything about it. As far as I was concerned, my younger brother and I were just like everyone else. I wore the same uniform to school, I did well in school and other things I pursued, we didn’t get everything we asked for, but we got the occasional Barbie doll and roller skates. Books were never denied, music was cultivated like a subject (from early morning Marathi folk songs to ghazals to old Hindi songs and the list goes on). Festivals and food celebrated with aplomb. Clothes and appearances were cared for, shoes were always polished. I had the same assembled computer in ’96 that everyone else did, the same Encarta CD, Rahul Dravid posters adorned my walls and the slow but steady collection of ‘Now That’s What I Call Music’ cassettes before I discovered Napster.

To add to it, my name wasn’t exactly a giveaway. ‘Neha Bhujang’ wouldn’t necessarily ring alarm bells, so I was a happy chameleon.

I’m unable to pinpoint the exact moment I had an existential question, but I would place my bets on the forms that needed to be filled up - the dreadful box that had to be ticked and then the questions came. I reckon this was nothing short of the ‘birds and the bees’ sort of a conversation with my parents and that’s where real life began.

I speak of my parents before I speak of myself because there is no one else to tell their story and also why I call myself a proud Dalit.

 Both my parents were born to Mahar parents in Aurangabad in the 50s when Babasaheb’s life long struggle had fruitfully culminated in an inclusive constitution, we had the reservation in schools and jobs and my grandmother even lives to tell us about the day she converted to Buddhism at Deekshabhoomi in Nagpur way back in ’56. 

We now had rights, but their stories tell me that putting pen to paper does little to wash off a social stigma that is over 2000 years old. The similarities in their stories as kids are staggering - sitting separately while eating, shamed out of innocent temple visits, forbidden to touch the village well to draw water, waiting to be served water in their hands from a distance lest they pollute the vessel, unwelcome in upper caste homes, watching their parent’s salute “Johar Mai Baap” (a salutation invented by the Peshwas which meant “ You are my mother, my father, you are my supremacy and I bow to you”) to the upper castes, some of whom weren’t as economically blessed as us. Confused faces asking, “Why do we have to do all this?” to hear a dejected “because that’s how it is child” reply in return.

This was proof that no matter your economic status, caste is like a tattoo on your face that you cannot hide. Reservation gave my parents the right to higher education, a better life and also the ability to exercise their rights as equal citizens of a free country. Both of them were toppers throughout and were the favorites of their teachers, but they had to earn it the hard way.

As they grew up, there were instances of promotions being held back, jealous colleagues and classmates, being assigned menial assignments, unnecessary firing, transfers to locations where your caste would travel faster than you ever could, colleagues pretending to be collegiate yet no one would eat from your tiffin at lunch. But there were also some Brahmin and upper caste friends who would play with them irrespective, doting principal/teacher who would indulge them with books because they did justice to them, colleagues who didn’t care and became fast friends and bosses who were fair and cared about their growth.

Suffering discrimination is like swallowing a morsel of food with angry tears in your eyes and a lump in your throat. It makes your feel worthless and small but much like their parents, I suspect they found the strength and they passed it on to us. They went out of their way to make us realize that we were not “backward” in any way, just because we were called so. We could be better than anyone we wanted to be and we genuinely believed it. They taught us by example what Babasaheb taught them - to educate oneself, dress impeccably, learn the language, not just to be good, but to be the best at something, to be humble and to work hard and doubly hard to let your merit shine through because that’s what it would take to prove yourself to the world. 

So we grew up proud of saying “Jai Bhim” and who we were. 

I’ve had my fair share of boyfriend’s moms’ freaking out as they found out, teacher’s proclaiming in class “Tumhara admission to kahin bhi ho jayega,” unconcerned that I was one of the handful of girls in 12th standard with an ambition to become an engineer. I was asked in interviews whether I really deserved the reservation, some friendships turned awkward, there office conversations about reservation that I couldn’t partake in, turned a deaf ear to terms like “bhangi” thrown around ‘harmlessly’, heard friends express disbelief when I came out when they said, “But you don’t look like a Dalit”. Fair weather friends who claimed they have ‘so many friends from backward communities and don’t care about caste’ probably couldn’t hold a candle to my husband (and his Tamil Brahmin family) who had the courage to marry me without any unnecessary drama.

I did go on to become an engineer (as a merit student throughout), completed an MBA from a premiere institute and secured a day 1 placement in a multinational bank; while pursuing music on the side.

I’ve also died a hundred times when I couldn’t raise my voice because I had to protect myself against fear of getting ostracized - but the key to feeling powerful is also feeling helpless at first and then find the right platform to voice and fight - because for many of us it’s still a fight every single day.

I know now of Babasaheb’s vision when he said that the only way to truly rid us of this problem is through education, inter-caste marriages, hard work and unquestionable pride…to be so proud that they can’t touch you as you blaze your trail. 

 In any case, I’d take interesting over normal any day.

- Neha Bhujang (@pureshores)

(all posts have been edited lightly for clarity)

When I was very young and went to my village, my neighbours at the water pump asked me not to touch them. I thought it was a game. When I returned to my school, in my hometown, I wanted to play the “untouchable” game but my friends found it boring. We ended up playing name, place, animal and thing. 

“Oh, you are too pretty to be an SC.”

“No one would believe you are an SC.”

“You look like a Brahmin!" 

These are some things that I continued to hear while growing up

My teachers told me that I was very lucky to be an SC because I could get ‘access’ to higher education and top government jobs. I was a straight A’s student in my school, always in the top 5. Then, I was too dumb to know any better. I thought it was OK to be spoken to this way.

I thought my mom was exaggerating when she told me how her possessions were set on fire in the hostel room when her roommate found out that she is Dalit. I thought the stories of discrimination that my mother, grandfather and aunts faced were a thing of a past. 

Then I faced it! 

My Brahmin boyfriend’s mother rang my phone, "I don’t have caste feelings but I can’t let an SC come into my home.” She hung up after threatening to complain to the police (wonder what the FIR would read like, “An SC is in love with a Brahmin!” Gasp!) 

I have received admission in the MA and Ph.D. programs without availing the reservation, as was my right because there was always a nagging voice telling me that everyone might think I only got it because of reservation. The voice got so loud, for a while I believed it and it felt so real and vivid.

Funny, that when caste and its ramifications are discussed, the first thing that everyone decries is the reservation. The outrage, anguish, victimhood and pain are absent and the stories of caste-based discrimination and atrocities are turned a blind eye to.

The only response to even mentioning the word ‘Dalit’ is the reservation.

Would reservations be needed if the same fervor and dedication were displayed against the discrimination on the basis of caste? 

In India, there are many schemes to give impetus to women empowerment. Fellowships for a girl child’s education, lesser interest rates on loans for homes and women entrepreneurs, reservation in jobs, panchayats and numerous schemes regardless of their economic status.

It is needed in a patriarchal society where women are sidelined, discriminated, and subjected to sexual, physical and mental violence - for their security, empowerment, independence, and equal representation. 

And this doesn’t make all women victims and all men abusers. Here men and women come together for the betterment of women’s position and rights in society. The same applies to marginalized sections too. Even though some still continue to oppose these women-centric measures.

You are lucky and privileged if you haven’t faced discrimination, constantly reminded of your ‘lower’ birth hierarchy (race, caste, gender), consistently undermining your capacity, haven’t heard slurs based on your caste (mala munda - SC Bitch, madiga lanja - SC whore), race (N-word, coloured, chimps), gender (cunt, pussy, whore, slut) or religion (cut bulli - half-dicks). And Dalit women, who are ‘double untouchables’, get a double serving of those slurs.

- Deepthi Krishna, Ph.D. Research Scholar, University of Hyderabad.

(all posts have been edited lightly for clarity)

I often read comments, that say that no one cares about caste these days, these Dalits just want to make an issue out of it and so on.  Here are some very recent examples of discrimination around me!

1. My husband’s and my family have known each other since years. The relations were hunky dory till my husband revealed to his folks about his intention to marry me. They very clearly told him that though they agree that the girl and family is educated and cultured and are absolutely fine with a ‘friendship’ with having Dalits as a part of their family is totally unacceptable. They tried to make him understand about what will people say etc. Finally after a prolonged heart-wrenching battle with his family, my husband got married to me but his folks did not attend our wedding nor they kept any communication with us. And this was in year 2008.

2. My uncle was posted in Zhasi on a managerial designation. My grandma died at his house. Forget about paying last respects, not a single person from that locality came forward to give ‘kandha’ to her. Even my uncles juniors and peons hesitated. My dad and relatives took two full days to reach Zhasi from Nagpur due to some train issues and only after that  her last rites were performed. This was year 2007.

3. Two of my upper caste (UC) friends were looking for grooms and their parents agreed to consider guys from other castes too. Being a close friend I accompanied them to marriage bureaus where community wise 'groom registers’ are maintained. They asked me to help them scan the resisters and if I come across guys with xyz criteria show it to them. I was  having fun shortlisting the guys till I showed them one particular guy. Thier excitement died when they saw the register with the heading 'Buddhist grooms’. They told me clearly, please don’t see registers from this community. Only I know how I felt at that moment.  This was year 2009.

4. I was born and raised in a Dalit locality. Though it is in the midst of Nagpur city, very few people know its name. During school, my friends parents asked me where I lived and the moment I explained how to reach there (since no one knew my localities name) I could see the difference in their facial expressions. Never did any of my friend came (or rather were allowed) to come to my house. This was 90’s.

5. When I had applied for my first passport I had to visit the nearest police station for a verification. When the officer saw my address he smirked at me. “Why does a girl from xyz locality need a passport?” ( wish I remembered his name so that I could show him that this Dalit girl is now a globe trotter)

6. Very often we see that even if when an Indian moves abroad they carry and maintain 'Indianess’. When I moved abroad, during the first get together with the Indian community, our host who has lived here for last 22 years played the infamous 'surname game’ with me (the one which brahmins play with UC hindus  and UC hindus play with lower caste hindus and Dalits ) and then majority of us know the aftermaths. I was taken aback but not shocked. This was year 2013.

7. Every Dec 6th, Dalits flock to Mumbai to pay homage to Dr Ambedkar at Chaitya Bhoomi Mumbai. Every year (I remember even when I was in an engineering college) my friends cringe about the difficulties they have to face on that day due to these 'ghati’ people.  “Pata nahi kyu aatey hai, kya milta hai inko is din yaha bheed karke”. But these same friends of mine enjoy the crowd, the gulal and the noise on ganesh utsav and gokulashtmi (big Hindu festivals). This 'ghati’ slur, 'jai bhim waley’ comments from my friends, for the people of my community hurt me a lot, made me angry but I never retaliated  for one simple reason – to confirm to the standards (but now i regret why I didn’t)

8. I was born and raised in Nagpur till I was 17. Every dusshera Buddhist dalits from entire India especailly rural India come to Deekshabhoomi to celebrate 'Dhamma Chakra pravartan din’. My school friends never failed to comment- “Kya ye log aate hai ganda karte hai, pura trafic jam hota hai, gawar log.  Whereas on the same day, Ramnavmi is celebrated in other parts of Nagpur. There the sophisticated UC people gathered to burn the Ravan effigy, enjoy the food and other stalls and of course to litter too. The next day my friends would  happily discuss how they enjoyed their holiday. I could never tell them that I too enjoyed but at  Deekshaboomi. I could never tell them that I am a part of that crowd whom they call 'gawthi’.

9. On numerous occasions my domestic help in Mumbai passed nasty comments about 'Jaibhim waley log’ in her slum. On one occasion my husband told her that your madam is also a 'Jai Bhim wali’ and for the first time in my life the situation was hilarious for me and embarassing for the so called UC person.

10. My first cousin is currently pursuing her BCA in Nagpur. Her late father was an unlicensed coolie at a railway station and her mother is a daily wage worker in packaging factory. She studied in a vernacular medium in a corporation school but always cherished a dream of working in a company and supporting her mother financially. Despite all odd conditions at home, she scored distinction in SSC.  She is the first person in her family to even read and write. She needed financial help and encouragement to go ahead in life. I am helping her with the financial needs. BUT what she needs at this moment is to get her self-confidence back, which she has completely lost after she went to college. She was continuously mocked by her classmates with comments like 'quota wali’ and 'jai bhim wali’. Her corporation school education did not equip her with English language skills, her uncouth family background never allowed her to understand the importance of self-presentation. For this, her classmates singled her out. Is it her fault? In a way yes because she was born in a Dalit family who had never known in last 1000 years what education means, what culture means. (ed: THIS!!!) She is faring badly in her studies. [By the time I realized her mental agony, she had already lost the drive of doing well in her life. Now I talk to her over phone regularly to pep her up]. 

UC people don’t know that it is a privilege to have a cultured and educated family which starts defining your personality from the day you are born. Think before you ridicule other underprivileged. Had she been treated equally, maybe not a class topper but,  at least, she would had the zeal to study like she initially had. She even dreads going to college. This is the year 2015

- Chetna Kamble 

(all posts have been edited lightly for clarity)

I was born in Meerut in a Dalit family and I never knew what a caste was all about until the day I was called chamar. I failed to understand why I was called this. At school, few students discriminated for what we were. I still remember a brahmin boy asked  what my caste was? I told the truth: a Dalit. I still don’t understand why he wouldn’t believe me?He asked me to bring my caste certificate! it’s like they don’t believe that we can be good looking, fair or educated. On my father’s job retirement day my father was given no warm send off or a reception as compared to the other employee, who was also retiring on the same day. I felt a stab of discrimination as everyone was showering attention to the other employee and my father was standing there, with no one to join him. Someone even murmured ‘chamar’

- Nitin Verma

(all posts have been edited lightly for clarity)