Caption below: Representative image. Courtesy: Herstory
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n 1997, Sharankumar Limbale, a prolific Dalit Marathi writer best known for his autobiographical work, Akkarmashi (Half-caste), wrote a short story, Aatmakatha (2007: 32-38), about a Dalit youth who sets out to write his autobiography. Read along with Limbale’s review of Dalit Marathi autobiographical works (2008a)—which constitute the dominant genre in Dalit Marathi literature—his story draws attention to debates around the production and consumption of these works which have been glossed over in scholarly studies of Dalit Marathi literature.
‘Autobiography’ to ‘testimonio’
The title of Limbale’s story itself points to a large area of debate. The narrator of the story wants to write what he calls an aatmacharitra, an autobiography. However, using the authorial voice in the title, Limbale defines his narrator’s work as aatmakatha, or autobiographical story. Limbale also used this term in his review of Dalit Marathi autobiographical works.
The variation in terminology raises basic questions: How should these works be categorized and read? Which works should be included in the category?
If ‘Dalit’ is understood only as a synonym for ‘scheduled caste’ (SC), then the autobiography of cricketer Vithal Palwankar, published in 1948, would probably rank as the first work in the category. However, this book is usually not mentioned in reviews of Dalit literature. The genealogy of Dalit Marathi autobiographical works is often traced to some reminiscences written by Babasaheb Ambedkar, which were published in the magazine of the Siddharth College, Mumbai, founded by him in 1946. In the late 1970s, after the rise of the Dalit Panthers and a spurt of Dalit Marathi poetry, some young writers wrote autobiographical pieces which were published in a few magazines, but these are usually mentioned only in passing in reviews of Dalit literature.
Daya Pawar’s Baluta (Village servant), published in 1978, was the first Dalit Marathi autobiographical work to appear in the form of a book and receive considerable attention from critics and readers of mainstream Marathi literature. Baluta was followed by a spate of Dalit Marathi autobiographical works. By 1990, over 30 such works were published.
Initially, the works were slotted in the category of ‘autobiography’. However, within a few years, the term, which refers simply to ‘an account of a person’s life by himself—or herself’ (Cuddon: 63), was found to be misleading by many Marathi litterateurs, Dalit and non-Dalit.
One of the concerns was that while ‘autobiography’ suggests an account of a full life, many Dalit Marathi autobiographical works were written by individuals who were middle-aged or younger (Kulkarni: 31). As Limbale observed, these works usually start with the writer’s early life in a village and end at the point he establishes a new life in an urban setting, with higher education or a job (2008a: 130). Of the over 100 Dalit Marathi autobiographical works that have been published till date—Limbale puts the figure at nearly 200 (ibid: 134)—, perhaps only two works, Taraal Antaraal1 by Shankarrao Kharat and Mootbhar Maati (A handful of soil) by Janardhan Waghmare, are accounts of something close to a full life. Even here, there is room for debate. Taraal Antaraal ends with Kharat’s appointment as vice-chancellor of the Marathwada University—later renamed Babasaheb Ambedkar Marathwada University—and does not reveal anything about his experiences as an occupant of this post. And though Janardhan Waghmare is well-known for his contributions to Dalit literature as an academic, and Mootbhar Maati is discussed by Limbale in his review of Dalit autobiographical works, the book may not be considered an example of Dalit writing at all, as the author is not from an SC group.
Another ground for rejecting the term ‘autobiography’ was that some of the works were not accounts by easily identifiable individuals who appear to be making conscious efforts to be true to facts. Baluta had two narrative voices, and though both refer to the same individual, the author, at different life positions, the work has a novelistic feel. Ashok Vhatkar, the author of an autobiographical work, 72 Mayl (72 miles), published in 1989, asked about his own book, ‘Should this work be considered an autobiography or a novel?’ (Limbale 2008a: 39). The matter was further complicated by a critic, Aarti Kulkarni, who included autobiographical novels in a pioneering study of Dalit Marathi autobiographies (Kulkarni: 52-3).
Aaatmakatha, or autobiographical story, seemed an appropriate substitute for aatmacharitra, or its less frequently used synonym, aatmavrita. However, Gangadhar Pantawane, the long-time editor of Asmitadarsh (Mirror of identity), a magazine that has provided a platform for many new Dalit Marathi writers, argued that while a ‘katha’ has closure, the autobiographical works of Dalit writers is part of a continuing process, and hence are best described as aatmakathan, or autobiographical narration (1986: 7). Another Dalit litterateur, Yashwant Manohar, did not like the aatma prefix, as it referred to a ‘dubious concept’ which stood against the ‘atheistic inspiration’ of the Dalit writers; hence he proposed svakathan, or self-narration (Kulkarni: 31). The term did not gain currency. It was not listed in an official English-Marathi-English dictionary of literary and literary-criticism terms published in 1987 and 2013 (Bhasha Sanchalnalay)—which does not list ‘aatmakatha’ or ‘aatmakathan’ either.
There was a more substantial argument against use of ‘aatmacharitra’: Whereas autobiographies are written to give an account of a life, the Dalit autobiographical works were the voices of people who had been silenced for generations; they were writing not merely to give an account of their lives, but to give expression to thoughts and emotions that had been suppressed by Hindu society for centuries (Kulkarni: 31).
From many autobiographical works it was also clear that the writers were not staking a claim to a position in mainstream literary culture; nor were they interested in pursuing a literary career. Baby Kamble, author of what is said to be the first Dalit woman’s autobiography, Jina Aamucha (Our lives), published in 1986, said that she wrote the book only to ‘give a picture of our Mahar community’s social practices in a village’ (5). Laxman Mane, a member of a nomadic tribe and author of Upara (Outsider), published in 1980, said that if someone had suggested a few years earlier that he would write a book, he would have ‘laughed heartily at the prospect’, considering his ‘standing’ in the field (5). Laxman Gaikwad, a member of another nomadic tribe, who was inspired to write Uchalya (The pilferer) by Mane’s work, said that his work constituted the ‘reflections of a non-Matric social worker’ and should be subjected to ‘sociological’ rather than literary evaluation (ix).
The position of the Dalit autobiographical writers, their motives for writing, and the content of their works demanded a new term. One term was available from Black American and Latin American literature: testimonio. It echoes ‘testament’, a form of literature that refers to documents that bear witness, and covers a wide range of works, from St. Augustine’s Confessions written around 500 years after the death of Christ, to letters written by Albert Camus to an anonymous German friend, published in 1945 (Cuddon: 906-7).
In Black and Latin American writing, ‘testimonio’ was used to refer to an ‘an authentic narrative, told by a witness who is moved to narrate by the urgency of a situation’, such as war, oppression, or revolution (Yudice: 15). Related more to oral discourse than printed literature, the ‘witness’ in a testimonio speaks to ‘denounce a present situation of exploitation or oppression’, or to set right ‘official history’ (Gugelberger: 17). Unlike writers of autobiographies, who are ‘impressed by their own feelings of unique significance’, the witness of the testimonio speaks for an entire community (ibid: 9). In this process, the writer is unconcerned about literary conventions. The more important objective is to give a voice to people who have generally not been heard before.
Testimonios could be written by anyone, with or without high education, or expertise in use of written language. They could be also produced with the help of specialists, or by them. An internationally well-known testimonio, I, Rigoberta Menchú (1984), about brutality suffered by indigenous Guatemalans, was a transcript of interviews of Rigoberta Menchú—winner of the Nobel Peace Prize in 1991—written by an anthropologist. Likewise, Viramma: Life of an Untouchable (1997) was written by two French academics who interviewed Viramma, a Tamil Dalit woman, over 10 years.
‘Testimonio’ gained ground in India in the 1980s. The Subaltern Studies Group of historians, led by Ranajit Guha, which started publishing from 1982, relied heavily on different types of testimonies, including oral narratives. In 1987, the Stree Shakti Sanghatana, an activist women’s group, published interviews of women who had been involved in the 1946-1951 Telangana movement against Nizam rule; this work was made available in English in 1989 as a book titled We Were Making History… Life Stories of Women in the Telangana People’s Struggle. Inspired by this book, and its title, two Marathi Dalit women, Urmila Pawar and Meenakshi Moon, began interviewing women who had been involved in the Ambedkar movement in Maharashtra. Their output was published in Marathi in 1989 as Aamhihi Itihaas Ghadavla: Ambedkari Chalvalitil Streeyancha Sahabhag (We also made history: women’s participation in the Ambedkarite movement). In 1991, in the first volume of the compendious Women Writing in India: 600 B.C. to the Present, the editors, Susie Tharu and K. Lalitha, did not restrict themselves to ‘well-formed works’. Rather, they focused on ‘pieces that illuminated women’s responses to historical developments’, and paid ‘special attention’ to works that had been under-estimated or forgotten (xxiv). The editors called for an erasure of the ‘strict distinctions between the literary and the social text’, and urged readers to receive texts in their book not as ‘monuments’ of culture, but as ‘documents’ of women’s struggles (36).
With reference to Dalit autobiographical works, probably the first instance of the use of ‘testimony’ was On a Dalit woman’s testimony, an essay written by the Tamil public intellectual and academic M.S.S. Pandian for the November 1998 issue of Seminar. He used the term to describe Karukku, an autobiographical novel by Bama, a Tamil Dalit-Christian woman, and the term would have gained currency after his essay was reproduced in Gender and Caste (2003). In 2006, Pramod K. Nayar, used ‘testimonio’ rather than ‘testimony’ to write a piece on Karukku in an international literary journal. Karukku and all other examples of ‘Dalit life-writing’ were, he said, testimonios of ‘trauma’, with ‘trauma’ understood as a structure that induces the ‘destruction’ as well as ‘a reconstruction of the Dalit self’ (84).
One year later, ‘testimonio’ entered bookstores through Writing Caste/Writing Gender: Narrating Dalit Women’s Testimonios, a collection of translated excerpts from Dalit Marathi women’s autobiographical works, introduced, excerpted, arranged and elaborated by the sociologist Sharmila Rege. Rege claimed authorship for the book, and by breaking up and ‘re-rendering’ the works of the Dalit women writers with the help of paraphrase and explanatory texts (2007: 77), she literally vivisected the notion of unity of a literary text.
Public recognition
‘Testimony’ however did not gain ground in the Marathi literary discourse. Dalit Marathi autobiographical works have been generally received as literary works. The jacket-cover blurb of the English translation of Laxman Mane’s Upara describes the book as ‘an outstanding contribution to Marathi literature’, and Laxman Gaikwad’s Uchalya was described in the cover blurb as ‘a socially significant document besides being a powerful literary work’. Both works got the Sahitya Akademi award for ‘most outstanding books of literary merit’ in Marathi, in 1981 and 1988 respectively. Several Dalit Marathi autobiographical works received state literary awards, some works were included in syllabuses of undergraduate literature courses, excerpts were included in school textbooks, and a common refrain of Dalit litterateurs has been that Dalit literature, and Dalit autobiographical works specifically, have enriched Marathi literature. Limbale wrote:
The character of Marathi literature itself changed due to Dalit autobiographical stories. The style of autobiographical writing changed. Writers emerged from several social levels and occupations. A new confidence was created in the field of literature. The horizon of Marathi literature expanded. Readers’ perception of literature changed. Due to the aggregate of these effects, the attention of writers and readers of other languages was drawn towards Marathi literature. The richness of Marathi literature started being talked about. Due to Dalit autobiographical stories, Marathi literature gained importance. (2008a: 136)
Urmila Pawar, one of the authors of Aamhihi Itihaas Ghadavla, and one of the authors featured in Sharmila Rege’s book, refused a prestigious Marathi literary award for her ‘autobiography’ in 2004, saying that Marathi literature was ‘tradition-bound’ and ‘fundamentalist’ (324). But her action was exceptional. Writers of Dalit Marathi autobiographical works have gladly accepted awards, and the reception given to them by the literary establishment and by buyers and readers of literary books, has transformed their public stature and image. Limbale’s story Aatmakatha starts with the narrator saying:
There was limitless discussion about Dalit literature. The autobiographies of Dalit writers were receiving a lot of publicity. An autobiography would get published, and the same day the writer would become well known. He would get awards. He would be felicitated. There would be a continuous flow of articles praising him. Then he would get appointed on government committees. His clothes would change. His language would change. His way of living would change. He would change.
Every writer of a published Dalit autobiographical work did not become a celebrity, but those who did experienced an incredible reception. Laxman Mane reported that soon after the publication of Upara, in 1980, he started receiving a stream of letters. Initially, he replied to each letter, but when the numbers increased, he delegated the work to his wife, but the inflow of letters became a ‘flood’, and she too gave up. Even some years after the publication of the book, the flow of letters continued. ‘There was hardly a reader whose eyes had not become moist after reading Upara,’ Mane wrote in the preface to the third edition of the book. Meanwhile, articles about the book had appeared in a number of periodicals and ‘hundreds’ of events were organized to felicitate him. At one such event, held in Satara, around 30,000 people turned up, including many who came on bullock-carts from far-off villages. Mane also received several awards and a Ford Foundation grant of Rs 200,000. A man who grew up ‘on the edge of gutters’ became a celebrity (7-8).
Remarkable as it was, the reception accorded to Laxman Mane’s book pales in comparison to the commercial success of Amcha Baap Aan Amhi (We and our dad), a book that told the story of the Mahar family of Narendra Jadhav, an economist who has held several important posts. While the print run of the first edition of a Marathi literature book is usually 1000 copies, which get sold over a period of one or more years, 500 copies of Amcha Baap Aan Amhi were sold in less than an hour on the day it was released, in December 1993 (Jadhav: 271). The book was reviewed in all major Marathi periodicals, and also noted by mainstream English periodicals. A revised edition was released in October 1994, and subsequently an edition with a print-run of 1000 copies was published virtually every 45 days. Twenty years after it was first published, the book’s 166th edition was printed. By then it had been translated into several Indian and foreign languages, and the total number of copies sold of all versions was around 600,000; Jadhav had received over Rs 10 million as royalty payments (ibid: 7-8).
However, the book did not shake the literary establishment; it did not stir any controversy, and it did not receive any major literary awards. Narendra Jadhav was a highly educated person who had risen to high positions, and the stories told in the book were inspiring rather than shocking or disturbing for middle-class audiences, as Baluta and Upara were. The narrator in Limbale’s short story seems to have these books in mind when he says:
A young Dalit writer like me would feel like blooming in such an environment. ‘I should also write an autobiography, it should become, I should also get awards.’ I used to read Dalit literature rapidly. Dalit literature is a movement. Dalit literature has shaken the established literature. The pedigree of this literature itself is different. Whoever writes becomes a writer. His experiences have so far not been expressed in literature. Even his crude experiences can pierce the reader’s heart. Readers are drawn in by the realistic experiences in a Dalit writer’s book. Listening to the abundant discussion on Dalit literature, I would feel energized. My experiences are different from the experiences of others. I too have suffered a lot. Nobody must have endured as much as I have. If I write an autobiography, it would surely become well-known. It would be different from others’ efforts. I would become a stormy petrel in Dalit literature. I should write. I read all the autobiographies of Dalit writers. My experience has more weight. I started thinking.
But who will publish my book? I have no contacts. ‘Should write letters to a few Dalit writers and see what happens.’ I get the addresses of Dalit writers and send a letter to each of them. I praise every one of them. I appreciate their writing. Finally, I end the letter saying, ‘I am writing an autobiography. I need your guidance.’
After a week, I receive letters from a few Dalit writers. All of them encourage me to write an autobiography. I read their letters again and again. I am seized by the madness of becoming a writer. The autobiography of someone else should not get published before my work. Because I would be the first writer of my jati. If there is a delay, someone else will start writing. His work would be discussed, and I would fall behind.
Market forces
Shashi Deshpande, a well-known name in Indian English fiction, said it took her ‘nearly 25 years, if not more, to achieve a modicum of recognition’ as a writer.2 But for the authors of Baluta, Upara and a few other Dalit autobiographical works, the doors to the literary world were opened instantly. In one bizarre case, which occurred around 1982, the manuscript of an autobiographical work by Shantabai Krushnaji Kamble, a Dalit woman who had worked in the school-education department, was sent to a person in the publishing field to obtain a printing quote, and without seeking her permission, he got the manuscript published in a Marathi magazine. When Kamble protested, the magazine refused to return her manuscript and instead sent her a cheque for Rs 100 (Kamble 2009: 5).
The market demand for Dalit Marathi autobiographies changed the course of Dalit Marathi literature. Whereas, in the late 1960s and early 1970s, most young Dalit writers, including Dalit Panther leaders like Namdeo Dhasal, wrote poetry, after Baluta and Upara, the focus shifted to Dalit autobiography. The genre, Limbale observed, did not demand special talent or imagination; all that a person had to do was write his life experiences in his own language (2008a: 129). In many cases, these efforts were spurred by previously published works. Arun Kamble, leader of a Dalit Panther faction, reported how his mother, Shantabai (mentioned above), started writing her autobiographical work, Majhya Jalmachi Chittrarkatha (A pictorial story of my life):
That was the time of discussion on Dalit literature, particularly Dalit autobiographies. Occasioned by talks on these books and conversations with their writers, there would be discussions in our home. Slowly, my mother started taking part in these conversations. Not just that, she also read up all these books. Nanasaheb Zodge and Shankarrao Kharat were writers from our region [their autobiographical works were published in 1981-82]. Mother read their works closely. Particularly, she was familiar with a lot of information provided in Kharat’s book. Due to the close connection, she felt intimacy with the book. She read it rapidly…Her interest was stirred. She felt that she had had similar experiences in her own life. She could see the record of her life moving before her eyes. As soon as she told me about this, I suggested that she should write down everything without wasting any time. Her enthusiasm and management capabilities were so strong that even as she took care of my two small children, she started writing. Perhaps, whilst reading all the Dalit autobiographies itself she might have felt that she should also write, that she also has a lot to say—and on receiving my nominal support, she immediately started writing down all that had accumulated in her head. (Kamble 2009: 3-4)
A certain amount of ‘competition’ also crept in among Dalits seeking to write their life experiences, Limbale reported (2008a: 133). The competition occasionally took a casteist turn. A writer from the Chambar jati, Madhav Kondvilkar, whose autobiographical work Mukkam Post Devache Gothne (Destination post-office: Devache Gothne) had appeared in a magazine before the publication of Baluta, claimed that it was his work that had triggered ‘a wave of autobiography-writing in the Dalit community, particularly among Mahars and nomadic people’. Some books became well-known and some were ‘made famous by traditionalists’. All this happened only to ‘oppose’ his literature, he said (11).
Market forces also modified the language used by some Dalit writers. While some writers wrote in the spoken language of their jati, which was perceived as ‘vulgar’ (Limbale 2008a: 22), and included several words that would not be known to readers from other jatis, other writers stuck to standard Marathi, or standard Marathi along with dialogues in the spoken language of their jati. Their effort to reach a wider audience came at a price. Santosh Bhoomkar, the translator of Limbale’s Akkarmashi, noted that while the first version, published in 1984, was written in ‘a dialect of Marathi’, a third version of the book, titled Poonha Akkarmashi (Akkarmashi again), published in 1999, was written in standard Marathi, and the ‘original flavour appeared to be missing’ (Limbale 2008b: xi). Limbale himself admitted that much is lost when a Dalit writer uses standard language instead of the spoken language of his jati: The latter reflects the oppression suffered by the jati, and when it is used in literature, it represents the ‘tiger-like roar’ of people who had been forced to live an ‘animal existence’ for ‘thousands of years’ (2008a: 22, 24). On the flip side, many ‘genteel’ readers are turned away by ‘vulgar’ language, and even the new generation of educated Dalit youth does not understand it, Limbale observed (ibid: 25).
Another influential market force is the growing demand for translations of Dalit autobiographical works. The global market has also spawned at least one Dalit work aimed specifically at it: Narendra Jadhav’s Untouchables: My Family’s Triumphant Journey Out of the Caste System in Modern India (2005), which is a complete reworking of Amcha Baap Aan Amhi. While the latter was a mingling of biographical and non-fiction writing in the third-person voice, along with edited transcripts or manuscripts of autobiographical narratives of seven family-members in the first-person voice, the English book has only four voices, including Jadhav’s, who speaks on behalf of three others. The text is also padded with information on the caste system, and the horrors of untouchability, which justifies the book’s long-winded title, and suggests an attempt to put it outside the category of a family memoir—which is how the Marathi text was received.
The interplay of market forces and Dalit Marathi autobiographical works is however intensive rather than extensive. Only a handful of works have received critical and popular acclaim, and translated into other languages. Most Dalit Marathi autobiographical works are well short of regular book-length, not brought out by well-known publishers, not endorsed by savarna litterateurs, and not available in bookstores.
Jati-specific representation
To return to Limbale story: The narrator is from an SC jati other than Mahar. He says:
Among SC jatis, my jati is different. The distinctive features of my jati are different. The sorrows of my jati have not yet been expressed in Dalit literature. The experiences of the ‘Mahar’ jati have been represented in Dalit literature. There are many other jatis among Dalits. Education has not yet reached them. They have not yet been able to take the benefit of concessions. Due to Babasaheb Ambedkar, the Mahar jati got educated quickly. Got organized. This jati has an organization. That is why they got the benefit of concessions. However, the other jatis among Dalits are still struggling in darkness. They are now realizing the importance of Babasaheb’s thoughts. Ambedkar thought is universal thought. It is thought for the emancipation of all of us. This realization is growing.
All the Dalit jatis are getting organized. We should also get into this struggle. Dalit literature is a movement. We should participate in this movement. The sorrows of one’s jati should get expressed in Dalit literature. The autobiography is a highly intimate form to express one’s sorrow.
The suggestion that only writers from the Mahar jati wrote autobiographical works is incorrect. Of the 30 odd works that appeared till 1990, around half were written by people not from this jati. The SC/ST groups represented in Dalit Marathi autobiographies include Chambar, Matang, Christian Mahar, Muslim Mahar, Kudmode Joshi, Vaidu, Kolhati and Veershaiva Dhor (Kankayya); and nomadic groups like Kaikadi, Beldar, Pardhi and Uchalya.
The mention of jatis is relevant because, as Limbale observed, many writers used the form of autobiography to highlight not their own lives, but the life of their jati, which is distinctive even among jatis that fall under the SC category (2008a: 21-22).
However, the treatment of the group vis-à-vis the individual is not uniform across Dalit autobiographical works. There is, for example, a substantial difference between the works by Baby Kamble and Shantabai Kamble. In the first book, we get little information about the writer. Her focus is on the community life, particularly life experienced by women—Maya Pandit, the book’s English translator, described it as a ‘socio-biography’ (Kamble 2009: xiii)—and she provides information about it in long, descriptive paragraphs; there is little dialogue. The second book is entirely about the writer, her career, and her various family and work relations; the information is provided in the form of a story, in one-line paragraphs with telegraphic sentences and abundant dialogue.
There is also considerable variation in the kind of group information provided across the autobiographical works. In Shankarrao Kharat’s autobiography, Taraal Antaraal, we get information about economic, social and cultural life of Mahars, but the book does not throw light on the caste gradation among Mahars themselves—about which we get ample information in Rustom Achalkhamb’s Gaavki (Village system), published just a few years after Kharat’s autobiography. Along with narration of their own life stories, Kharat and Achalkhamb give chunks of information about jati-specific economic, social and cultural practices, almost as standalone text, but in Urmila Pawar’s Aaydan (The weave), we get a rich detailing of everyday routines woven into her life story.
The jati or jati-experience of caste is not always foregrounded. Amcha Baap Aani Amhi tells stories of personal achievement of members of a Dalit family, and the reader’s attention is drawn repeatedly towards the remarkable personality of the head of the family, a fearless, atheistic, semi-literate follower of Babasaheb Ambedkar who was determined to ensure that his children got a good education. While the stories told in the book are inspiring because of the socio-economic background of the family, that background is not fleshed out in the Marathi version of the book. Even in the English version, which was the source text for translation into other languages, the reader’s attention is drawn towards the relationship between a father and his children. Two aged Koreans who had read the Korean translation of the book, and met Narendra Jadhav in a market in Seoul, summarized the reason for the book’s appeal, when they told him, ‘We learnt about model father-son relations from your book’ (Jadhav 2016: 287), and Jadhav himself maintained that the book would be read ‘so long as our culture is focused on reverence for parents’ (ibid: 8).
Likewise, the autobiographical work of Uttam Bandu Tupe, a prolific writer, did not attract attention because he told the story of his jati. Tupe’s book became a topic of discussion, Limbale observed, because Tupe was ‘extremely brave and shameless’ in talking about his illicit sexual relations and petty crimes (2008a: 70).
Nevertheless, the general trend among Dalit autobiographical writers is line with a suggestion made by Shankarrao Kharat in his presidential address at the Akhil Bharatiya Marathi Sahitya Sammelan (all India Marathi literary conference) held in 1984: He said that Dalit literature should necessarily be ‘jati-specific’; different marginalized social groups, including Adivasi and nomadic-tribe groups, should produce literature about their own ‘unique’ experiences (in Limbale 1991: 22-23).
The plea is problematic. Representation of jatis in isolation can lead to representation of the caste experiences of particular social groups rather than representation of the entire mechanism of caste at a particular location.
We see this clearly in Shankarrao Kharat’s Taraal Antaraal. While it draws our attention of presence of savarna jatis in his village, it barely reveals the working of caste in their lives. And even if one grants that Kharat could not have possibly gained access to this social world, we are left with a larger absence in Taraal Antaraal: The book barely talks about the presence of SC jatis other than his Mahar jati. Along with their absence is the absence of the whole world of social relations between different SC jatis.
Another limitation is that in his effort to portray the life conditions shared by members of his jati, Kharat downplays individual struggles, personalities and experiences. As Limbale noted, many individuals mentioned in Taraal Antaraal, including some family members, are not even named (Limbale 2008a: 33). This limitation is, according to cultural critic DR Nagaraj, built into the genre of the Dalit autobiography itself: In emphasizing the violence of caste, the Dalit writer compresses people and their lives. ‘Within one tale, ten sagas are miniaturized’ (194).
With all its limitations, a jati-specific narrative could be highly disturbing, even for Dalit readers. Himself ‘the son of a whore’ of an untouchable jati, who had been violated by a landlord (Limbale 2008b: ix), Sharankumar Limbale reported that he was ‘extraordinarily disturbed’ after reading Birhaad (Encampment) by Ashok Pawar, a member of a nomadic jati:
“The experiences recorded in every page of the book are unforgettable and shattering. Reading Birhaad, one wonders: In what kind of a Ramrajya are we living? One loses faith in words like democracy, socialism, national unity and fraternity. In Birhaad, we see the step-by-step degradation of human feeling. We see Ashok and his entire community carrying the burden of an animal-like existence. I feel terrified by the horrible question: Should they be called ‘human’? (Limbale 2008a: 112)
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Troubling questions arise: Does bringing to light the degraded life of a certain group strengthen its effort to attain basic human dignity, or does it provide only emotional titillation to a reading audience that is far removed from the life depicted? And does the representation add to the indignity suffered by the people depicted?
With reference to the first question, and the tremendous reception accorded to his Upara, Laxman Mane wrote:
…I still feel ill at ease and restless as never before. For the question is not of an individual. The question is of hundreds of thousands who are living in slums, on pavements, on the outskirts of villages and those who do not have even such places who are suffering in miserable conditions in their vales and valleys, hills and rocky places. They have neither work nor opportunities, neither facilities nor support, neither shelter nor protection. They do not have even two meals a day! Such a world have I been seeing with my own eyes—the world where one doubts one’s very existence.
[…] Can the enlightened people of our society who have appreciated Upara and its author come out in the open breaking social barriers and join hands with the hundreds of uparas who have no houses, no shelter and who live like animals? I doubt it and that’s why I am shaken (7-12).
Paradoxically, the gushing response to Laxman Mane’s book, and similar works, itself shows that the Maharashtra state and the literary establishment has seen through the scant ‘political’ value of these works, according to GP Deshpande, a noted Marxist academic and playwright (1863).
On the effects of representation of marginalized lives on the represented themselves, Limbale observed:
Though Dalit autobiographical narratives were much discussed and welcomed, we can see that such writing was opposed by the family-members and relatives of the writer. We can see that Dalit writers have tried not to write autobiographies out of the fear that it would lead to their disgrace. After the publication of his autobiography, the Dalit writer has been lauded and honoured; but at the same time, his fellow-people have opposed him. (2008a: 128)
The opposition did not take the form of violent protest or clamour for banning the books. However, as the hounding of Tamil writer Perumal Murugan in 2015 indicates, we live in different times now: Jati identity has become a great source of pride for many; it has become an asset to be fiercely guarded against any ‘negative’ portrayals of the jati.
On the other hand, Limbale observed, for many white-collar Dalits, the jati identity is something they would like to forget (ibid: 25). The very evocation of the jati name could be resented. Anticipating this response, Baby Kamble wrote at the beginning of her work:
The word ‘Mahar’ is used throughout this book. Today’s reformed people are ashamed of this word. But what is shameful about this word? On the other hand, the word raises our esteem. (2008: 4)
‘Mahar’, she argued, referring to a questionable etymology, denotes the ‘original son of Maharashtra’. Nevertheless, she qualified the ‘shameful’ content of her work, stating that it was presented only to help her children and grandchildren realize the condition of slavery experienced by Mahars in the past (ibid; emphasis added). This point was foregrounded in the title of the English translation of her work: The Prisons We Broke. The title draws attention to the book’s political significance, but the use of the past tense raises questions: Will Dalit writers today dare to speak about the contemporary lives of their jatis in the manner in which they could speak about its past, in the manner in which Dalit autobiographical writers produced jati-specific representations in the 1980s and 1990s? And does the answer to that question explain why the Dalit Marathi autobiography genre has petered out, with hardly any works of significance produced in the last two decades?
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Support from other writers
Desperate to be the first off the block with a book about his jati, the narrator of Limbale’s story completes his autobiography. He then shows the handwritten manuscript to a few Dalit writers, and reads out a few incidents. All the listeners, he reports, were attentive and disturbed. They tell him, ‘You write well. Your autobiography will become well known.’ The narrator says:
I feel good. I will get awards. I will go abroad. I start floating in the air like a kite. Now I will become a writer. My book will become well-known. This feeling has made me mad.
The narrator then meets a person identified as Professor Balasaheb Kamble.
As soon as I enter his house, I take his darshan. He is delighted. He pats me on the back. I show him my handwritten manuscript. He takes the manuscript. Leafs through it. I get tea. I start sipping the tea. Prof. Kamble starts speaking, ‘Nobody publishes such a large autobiography. It will have to be trimmed. Remove repetition. The autobiography should be very readable. Paper costs have risen. If a book is large, its price increases. Then people don’t buy it and read it. I will read the manuscript. Let it be with me. Come next Sunday.’ I nod.
Leaving behind my manuscript, I take leave of Prof. Kamble. He will read the manuscript in a week. Would the manuscript be misplaced? I am restless. Yet, I force myself to remain calm. Because I need guidance. Prof. Kamble is going to put me in touch with a publisher. He has contacts with publishers. I start counting the days like beads on a rosary. When will Sunday dawn?
The narrator’s account points to a notable aspect of the production of Dalit autobiographical works: Many writers sought and received help from relatively established Dalit writers, and they also got help from other quarters. Laxman Mane reported that he wrote his autobiographical work at the insistence of Anil Avachat, a savarna writer on social-justice issues, and it was also Avachat who put him in touch with a reputed publishing firm, which eventually brought out the book; Mane also acknowledged the help he received from Dalit and non-Dalits associated with a socialist group (5). Mane in turn urged Laxman Gaikwad to write his autobiography, and he was guided by Sharankumar Limbale (Gaikwad: ix-x). Limbale also guided the production of Kolhatyacha Por (Son of a Kolhati) by Kishor Kale, and Christi Mahar (Christian Mahar) by Balasaheb Gaikwad (Limbale 2008a: 71, 77). The scope of guidance was considerable. Limbale claims that Christi Mahar emerged from the author’s discussions with him (ibid: 77), and Laxman Gaikwad himself said that Limbale gave ‘gave a clear and concise form’ to his Upara (x).
Representative ‘I’
It is a Sunday. The narrator of Limbale’s story goes to Prof. Kamble’s house.
I ring the doorbell. The door is opened. I ask for Prof. Kamble. I get the answer: ‘Sir works till late in the night. He is sleeping. Come in the afternoon.’ I am disappointed. Now what should I do till the afternoon? By then Prof. Kamble’s door is shut.
I go again in the afternoon. The door opens. I enter the house. I sit in the drawing room like an uninvited guest. Supplements of the Sunday papers are spread on the table. I browse through the papers. A review of Prof. Kamble’s book has been published. I read the review. Sir is awake. I get tea in the drawing room. I hear the sound of coughing. He has been told about my arrival.
I make a note in my diary. I will get an award. I will build such a bungalow, and when new Dalit writers come to me for guidance, I will cough like Kamble. Will make incoherent noises. My wife will tell the new Dalit writer, ‘Come later. Sir is working. Etc.’ While I am dreaming, Prof. Kamble enters. I smile. He sits in his chair. He starts speaking about the manuscript before I ask him about it. ‘I have read your manuscript. It is good. Can be published. But it requires more material. Otherwise it won’t become well-known.’ I listen like a shishya. Prof. Kamble says, ‘You will have to write more. If you have exhausted your experiences, think about it. You would have written your experiences, but try to recall more. Make notes. These experiences are not adequate. There is no law which states that all the experiences in an autobiography should be one’s own. Add some imaginary experiences. Write the experiences of your friends and of other people as if they are your own experiences. That way, the number of experiences will increase. A police enquiry is not conducted to check whether your experiences are true or false. Just as a bee collects honey from everywhere, you should collect experiences. Then you will get a honeycomb of experiences. Your individual experiences will become a beehive. We need a first-rate beehive. Understood? You have to expand this manuscript.’ I find Prof. Kamble’s guidance extremely valuable. So far I have not met such a guru. I am delighted. ‘Sir, I will write as you have suggested. There are a host of experiences. I will dedicate the autobiography to you. The book will be released by you. You are my godfather.’ Kamble Sir listens patiently. ‘First write’. I think he speaks as a highly experienced person. Perhaps when he was a new Dalit writer, he might have undergone considerable apprenticeship. I realise my guilelessness. I keep quiet. ‘Write it once again as I have told you. Then we will read it. Later, a decision can be taken about the publisher to be approached.’
On the issue of truth in an autobiography, Mark Twain famously said his autobiography was true insofar as it was a product of his ‘impressions’, but was worthless ‘as sworn testimony’. The autobiography has been described as a form of ‘prose fiction’ (Frye: 307-8), and it has been argued that the very act of writing about what happened to one in the past is a performance by a persona: The ‘I who recounts is no longer the one that is recounted’ (Barthes: 162). An autobiographical work in the form of a testimonio raises another question: Was the author of the testimonio present when all the incidents he recounts took place? Did he witness or experience all that he recounts?
This question was raised about I, Rigoberta Menchú. It was suspected that Rigoberta was not present when many horrific events she describes took place (Smith: 22-23). The question has also been raised with reference to some Dalit Marathi autobiographical works. For example, L.S. Rokade, author of Jhalaa (Hot blast), published in 1986, claimed that while Daya Pawar’s Baluta largely related accounts of untouchability that had been heard by the writer, his work was based on his own experiences (Kulkarni : 94).
In a testimonio, it can be argued, the ‘I’ in the narrative refers to a representative rather than a particular ‘I’. Sharankumar Limbale stretched this notion in Poonha Akkarmashi. As noted by Santosh Bhoomkar, the translator of Akkarmashi, the revised version was a different book, with names of many characters changed, characters added and omitted, and even the sequence of the ‘original’ story ‘reshuffled to a great extent’ (Limbale 2008b: xi). How is such a work to be categorised?
Support of savarna litterateurs
Unconcerned with that question, the narrator in Limbale’s story asks Professor Kamble, ‘Sir, will I get a Sahitya Akademi award?’ The professor replies, ‘Arre, don’t dream about awards before you start writing. Your autobiography is good. It will get an award. Write it systematically and complete it.’ The narrator says, ‘Sir, you have given me inspiration.’ Kamble says, ‘See, your autobiography has a very good title. Don’t tell it to anybody. Else, someone will steal the name.’ The story continues:
‘I become serious. I am reminded of Dr Khanolkar.
Prof. Kamble gets irritated when I mention Khanolkar’s name. ‘We should not approach savarna writers. We should approach only Dalit writers. Take their guidance.’
Dr. Khanolkar is a Brahmin character in a story that appears before Atmacharitra in the anthology in which it was published. In that story, Khanolkar uses the manuscript submitted by a Dalit writer as material for a novel he publishes as his own. However, Kamble does not appear to know that information, and his complaint is about a tendency of Dalit writers to get the approval of savarna writers.
Namdeo Dhasal asked the playwright Vijay Tendulkar to write the introduction to his first collection of poems, Golpitha, though Tendulkar confessed that he did not understand much of the poetry (Dhasal: 10). Daya Pawar was reportedly motivated to write Baluta by savarna friends,3 and the book received effusive endorsement from P.L. Deshpande, a noted Marathi savarna writer. The fourth edition of Shantabai Krushnaji Kamble’s Majhya Jalmachi Chittarkatha, published in 2009, carries the full texts of appreciative reviews by P.L. Deshpande, and S.S. Bhave, a savarna critic.
Several other well-known savarna litterateurs also supported Dalit Marathi literature, and according to Limbale, this support should be acknowledged by Dalit writers (2008a: 146-7). However, another Dalit litterateur, Arjun Dangle, gave a different perspective. Acknowledging that progressive savarna Marathi literary critics helped create a receptive environment for acceptance of Dalit literature (17), he pointed out that savarna critics did not walk the whole way: So long as Dalit writers represented a world of experience that was far removed from middle-class life, they were praised, but once they started talking about their ideology, and they began to speak against the ‘Hindu mentality’, they were criticized by savarna critics for producing ‘propaganda literature’ of no value (20).
Ideological divisions
The narrator of Limbale’s short story is not satisfied with Professor Kamble’s response to his work. He thinks he should consult a few other persons, so that he could produce a better book. He meets one Advocate Bandsode, who has a Ph.D. in Dalit literature.
I gave him the manuscript. Told him about Prof. Kamble’s guidance. Adv. Bandsode got irritated. He wagged his tongue insolently. ‘Prof. Kamble is a Hindutvawadi. He is present on Hindtuvawadi platforms. He has no right to evoke Babasaheb Ambedkar. We should see them exposed. They are the hidden enemies of our movement.’ Adv. Bandsode’s eyes were inflamed with anger.
My manuscript lay with Adv. Bandsode for many days. I could not meet him. Finally, I went to the court. Met him there. He had not yet read my manuscript. Went with him to his home. Asked for the manuscript. He got angry. ‘I have several manuscripts lying around the house. I don’t have the time. I will read at leisure. Take the manuscript and leave.’ I mutely took the manuscript and left his home-cum-office.
Prof. Kamble came to know about my visit to Adv. Bandsode’s house. He was also angry with me.
After some days, I got a letter from Prof. Kale. He was the editor of a magazine. I used to write letters to him. He would intermittently enquire about my writing. I went to meet him. He was very happy to see me. He read my manuscript eagerly. In our discussions, Adv. Bandsode was mentioned. Prof. Kale was infuriated. ‘Adv. Bandsode is a Marxist. Babasaheb was opposed to Marxism. That is why he embraced Buddhism. We should stay away from Marxists.’ I was unsettled. Prof. Kale calls himself an Ambedkarite. I was listening mutely. He was telling me, ‘We have a magazine. We will serialize your autobiography in it. The first writings of all Dalit writers have been published in our magazine. When we have our own magazine, why should we send our literature elsewhere?’ I told myself: ‘My autobiography would be published serially. Then, it will be published as a book. But if someone else’s book is published earlier? This is a very important time.’ I took leave of Prof. Kale. Said that I would rewrite the autobiography and send parts serially for publication, and got out of his house.
The narrator’s account points to something that has been glossed over in academic writing in English on Dalit Marathi literature: It is riven by ideological differences. After the first major division, which was around acceptance of Marxism and was the apparent cause of the first split in the Dalit Panthers in the 1970s, more fissures emerged, leading to a proliferation of labels to describe what the English-speaking academia continues to recognize as a unity called ‘Dalit literature’. Translated into English, labels listed by Limbale include neo-Buddhist literature, Buddhist literature, literature of enlightenment, literature inspired by Ambedkar, literature inspired by Phule-Ambedkar, literature for social transformation, and protest literature (2008a: 145). The waters have been further muddied by the Hindutva appropriation of Ambedkar, and the fact that several Dalit leaders like Namdeo Dhasal hobnobbed with Hindutva leaders and political parties; several persons who are identified as Dalits probably also support the Hindutva ideology.
However, we are yet to see Dalit writing that has a distinctively Marxist, Buddhist or Hindutva flavour. The proliferation of labels as alternatives to ‘Dalit literature’ has not led to production of alternative literatures; the writers who attended ‘Baudh sahitya sammelans’ (Buddhist literature conferences), which avoided using the word ‘Dalit’, as it was found ‘dirty’, ‘filthy’, ‘obscene’ and ‘casteist’, also attended Dalit sahitya sammelans, Limbale observed (ibid).
Brahmin response
The narrator of his story is not concerned about the ideological divisions among Dalit litterateurs. He is concerned about the market for his work.
Instead of getting my manuscript published in a Dalit magazine, why not get it published in a good newspaper? Newspapers have a large circulation. I could reach out to numerous readers. I send a part of the manuscript to Kesari [a newspaper, founded by Lokmanya Tilak, with a predominantly conservative-Brahmin readership]. Now Prof. Kamble, Adv. Bandsode and Prof. Kale will get to read my autobiography. I will not face any obstruction in the absence of their guidance. My writing has strength.
Evening. Went to the public library. Thought I would meet some friends there. Would have tea with them. There would be discussions. At the door, I met Arpana Khanolkar. Unexpectedly. Smiling. A smile gathers on my cheeks. Like medicine. She walks up to me. ‘Arre, your autobiography is very good. I liked it a lot.’ I am confounded. How did Arpana get my autobiography? I am confused. She clarifies. ‘After he retired, Sir started managing the Sunday edition of Kesari. The manuscripts are sent home. Sir is currently translating an English novel. So I read the manuscripts received by the newspaper. A part of your autobiography has been slotted for this Sunday. Do come with your photo. Then your work can be published with a photo.’ I thought Arpana was just too great.
As Limbale has remarked, a striking aspect of the response to Dalit Marathi autobiographical works in Maharashtra is that it has broadly been influenced by the caste affiliation of readers: While the Brahmin response has been largely positive—on the lines exhibited by Arpana Khanolkar—, the response from other jati categories has been less so.
One reason could be that in many autobiographical works, the writers refer fondly to Brahmins, who treated them well or helped them; in Taraal Antaraal, Shankarrao Kharat remembers the Brahmin teachers in his village school (Kharat 2004: 264-7), and Balasaheb Pant, the Brahmin ruler of the princely state of Aundh (ibid: 303, 346), whose reformist outlook helped Kharat get high-school education.
But there is a deeper reason: In rural Maharashtra, it is a class of traditionally middle-ranked jatis, which has power, wealth and numbers, that oppresses Dalits, and a lot of Dalit writing is directed against this class. Hence, Limbale observed, ‘critics of the middle-ranked jatis always speak with hostility about Dalit literature’; on the other hand, the sheer fact that Brahmins are not attacked in Dalit autobiographies could be the reason they have given a ‘tremendous welcome’ to this writing (2008a: 133-4).
Confluence of interests
The narrator of Limbale’s story continues:
My autobiography is published in the Sunday edition. People I meet praise it a lot. I felt good. There is so much buzz after the publication of only a part—that means I will surely become famous when the whole work is published. I must give my manuscript to Khanolkar Sir. It will be published serially in the newspaper. I take the manuscript and go to Khanolkar Sir’s home. Sir is seated comfortably. Seated facing him, like aspiring writers, are Prof. Kamble, Prof. Kale and Adv. Bandsode. They were discussing something. I entered. Everyone congratulated me. They praised my writing. All were eyeing the manuscript in my hand. I remained seated still like a superhuman.
After some time, Prof. Kamble, Prof. Kale and Adv. Bandsode left.
I sat in another chair. Sat close to Sir. Gave him my manuscript. He browsed through it. As if he had remembered something, he stopped and looked at me closely. ‘Good you came. Kulkarni had called in the morning. He has read your writing published in the newspaper. He cried after reading about your experiences. He is expected soon. We will give him the manuscript. He brings out good books.’ I am delighted.
I: ‘Sir, will you write an introduction?’
‘Sure, I would love to. I am translating an English novel. I don’t have the time to read the manuscript. Write a summary of your autobiography in three hundred words. Jot down a few points. If there is some material on Dalit autobiographies, get it. It will be of use while writing the introduction.’ I accept what Sir says immediately. Sir is satisfied. He says, ‘Prof. Kamble is doing a Ph.D. under me. Prof. Kale also wants to do a Ph.D. under me. Dalits don’t get guides. I cannot take more Ph.D. students. I am retired. My own work is pending. A long time back I had written a piece on Dalit literature. It was discussed a lot. But Dalit writers don’t mention my name.’ Sir’s voice had become heavy. I was restless like a criminal.
Limbale’s story ends at a confluence of multiple interests. We learn little about the narrator’s aatmakatha, but this is just as well. The contents of Dalit Marathi autobiographical narratives—described by whatever term—have been richly discussed. Bypassing the contents, Limbale’s story draws attention to the particular literary culture that made these works possible, and limited them.
Notes 1.The title refers to the author’s life-journey. The son of a village-servant (taraal) he reached for the sky (antaraal) and attained high posts. 2.Talk given by Shashi Deshpande at the inauguration of the Bangalore Writers Workshop. In <https://bangalorewritersworkshop.wordpress.com>. 3.Reported by Arjun Dangle, in ‘How Daya Pawar’s autobiography became the template for the angry Dalit memoir’ by Dipti Nagpaul D'souza, Indian Express, 2 August, 2015.
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