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In This Thakur-Dominated Village I Was “Accused” of Being a Dalit

They were bullies bonding over their collective baseless disdain for the Dalits.

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March end, I went to Nizampura village in Uttar Pradesh’s Kasganj district to cover an ongoing conflict between Thakurs and Dalits. The glaring casteism and the tense atmosphere that looked me in the eye left me speechless.

The Dalits in Nizampura have decided to do something their village has never seen before. They want to depart from the age-old tradition of restricting Dalit wedding processions to the lane that houses their families, and take it across the village and outside homes of Thakurs. This has led to a stand-off between the two communities.

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I reached Kasganj at noon, after a four-hour drive from work. After navigating through open fields, vast stretches of dirt roads and repeatedly asking for directions, I stopped yet again to ask the way to Nizampur. "Nizampura gaon kahaan hain? Vahaan jahaan pe Thakur and Dalito ke beech vivaad chal rahaan hain" (Where is Nizampura village? where there is an ongoing conflict between Thakurs and Dalits) I asked an old man.

The man's face fell almost immediately. He stood up and asked me to follow him as he walked briskly ahead of the car. I insisted he sit in the car, since we were headed the same way. He obliged without exchanging any words.

In a while, I came to know that he was the father of the Dalit bride whose marriage brought many reporters, like me, to this nondescript village that houses Thakurs predominantly. I was told that of the 400 people in this village only 40 were Dalits born into the Jatav caste.

As you enter the village, a 400-meter long lane greets you. There are a total of seven houses on either side of the lane where the Dalits live. The lane widens at the right and leads to the houses of the Thakurs.

Without any crew at my disposal, I begin shooting, and I decide to begin with the Dalit family.

A family of nine, they were extremely hospitable. The man who showed me the way to Nizampura touched my feet and caught me by surprise. I squealed at the gesture and asked him not to do that again, trying to make him understand that it was unnecessary. But immediately after, I saw him do it to another girl my age. "In our community we touch the feet of women," he said, adding that he didn't intend to scare me.

I spent a few hours with them and spoke to all members of the family, including the bride-to-be, Sheetal and her nephew, a complete brat. They insisted I had tea and got me snacks as I packed my equipment, getting ready to move and shoot the next segment.

As I crossed the lane to where the Thakurs lived, the number of curious onlookers multiplied to see me. When I told them the purpose of my visit, they spoke roughly. They were on guard and repeatedly said they didn't want to talk to me. The numbers multiplied further and I found myself surrounded by kids, women and men. An old woman from the crowd broke the silence and began speaking to me. This led to a sudden outpour of emotion.

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The Thakurs’ stance was that a Dalit wedding procession was confined to their side of the village and that an age-old well-established parampara (tradition) cannot be changed.

I heard their apprehensions and threw open certain queries – why tradition can't be questioned or altered, why tradition is not the law of the land, how this village belonged to the Dalits as much as it belonged to the Thakurs, how Sati, which was an age-old custom, was also banned and how it calls for a reevaluation of other traditions as well, why a Dalit wedding procession like a Thakur wedding could go any course. The incessant queries left them indignant.

After more than an hour of talking to them I headed towards my car, parked at the entrance of the village. As I walked, I was agitated at how the thought of challenging an age-old tradition was seen by Thakurs as a challenge to themselves. How easy it was for them to threaten violence if anything changed and how proud they  were for saying it. They smirked at each other and laughed raucously, saying "Dangal hoga agar Dalito ki baraat chali" (There will be a conflict if the Dalits take out a wedding procession). They were bullies bonding over their collective baseless disdain for the Dalits.

A voice called for my attention from the back. I turned to find four young men. One of the men, almost six-feet tall, in a white vest and blue shorts said, “Now that your work is done, tell us your caste.” Aghast at the question, I responded saying, “I am here as a reporter. Don’t think it should matter which caste I belong to,” all the while hoping to make my way out of the village at the earliest.

Diplomacy and I do not go hand in hand. Again I was stopped, "No, it is important to us. Tell us your caste. You have to tell us. Can't just go like this." They were still a few feet behind me and didn't seem to want to physically stop me. But suddenly I was much more aware of the distance between us. "I genuinely don't want to tell you which caste I belong to cause I fail to see the relevance," I said hoping that would be the end of it.

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Again I heard the man speak. You know he was smiling even if you didn't see him. "You're obviously a Dalit," he said. Smiling sheepishly (and shamelessly if I may add) as he looked at his friends for backing. His tone was offensive and implied that being a Dalit was a bad thing. He definitely managed to rile me up. "How do you know?," I asked after a few seconds of being stumped. "We know you went to that girl Sheetal's house for a while and had tea with them. You're obviously a Dalit, otherwise why would you share a snack with them," he said, his voice reeking of an upper-caste entitlement.

I didn't know how to react till I did. I said I had tea with them cause they offered it to me and would have had it with him too if they had offered. All this with a forced smile, while fighting to suppress disgust. Did I manage to insult him or make him rethink his thought process? I'm certain I did not.

They continued to follow me, murmuring and giggling till I reached the same 400-metre lane from where the houses of the Dalits begin. I saw the faces of Sheetal's family members and I felt relief for some reason. I looked back to see the same four young boys smile at each other. "Dangal hoga agar Dalito ki baraat chadegi," and the raucous laughter kept ringing in my ears till I got into the car and drove off.

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