A few days ago I read a report in the Indian Express about an attack on the Pardhis. Whilst the police claimed it was an internal dispute a noted leader said a thorough probe was necessary as it appeared to be the outcome of a land dispute. I am struck by the extent of injustices tht continue to be heaped on a people.

Way back in 1998, the noted author and social activist, Mahashweta Devi, had deliberately taken time off from her writings and her work in Purulia, West Bengal, to embark on a fact-finding mission throughout India. The Magsaysay and Jnanpith award winner was engaged in gathering material on the social and economic plight of the denotified tribes which could be placed before the Supreme Court. These tribes had been branded as criminals by the British in 1871 and although they were denotified by independent India the stigma remained. They continued to suffer huge injustices.
In Maharashtra, Mahashweta Devi was scheduled to tour Satara district where four members of a Pardhi family (the Pardhis are a well known denotified tribe) had been savagely attacked and their home set on fire. Some of us journalists were invited by Laxman Gaikwad, Sahitya Akademi Award winner, and himself a Pardhi to accompany him, Mahasweta and Ganesh Devy author and authority on tribal issues on a fact-finding trip.
We gathered together in Pune at the end of April and proceeded to a small restaurant opposite the railway station for lunch. One of the first things that Mahashweta Devi did was to nonchalantly lift up her arm, take out a syringe and inject herself. She was a diabetic she explained and needed insulin.
Then we all began discussing Nihalani’s film. Was she satisfied with the treatment, we asked. “Yes,” she said. She added that it was a director’s prerogative to fashion the material in the way he chose and she had no arguments with that.
Back in the Circuit House where we were to spend a night Ganesh Devy prevailed upon her to tell us something more about her early life and writings. I had been told that Mahashweta Devi was a woman of strong likes and dislikes. Perhaps an intimidating person. But the Mahashweta Devi who revealed herself to us that evening was quite different. She was very warm, forthcoming, had a delightful sense of humour and spirit of fun. She regaled us with anecdotes.
“Do you know how I began my career?” she asked. “My husband and I were young, idealistic Communists but we needed to find a way of making a living,” she continued. Someone told us them that an easy way of making money was by allowing middle men to carry out export business in their names and that all one had to do was fill up the tender forms.
“I was directed to meet a man with a big red beard near the main market and I did so,” said Mahashweta Devi. “The merchant assured me my responsibilities ended after filling in the requisite form.”
But the cargo was to give her immense problems. It was a consignment of monkeys bound for laboratories abroad.
“Unfortunately the ship that was meant to ferry them was inordinately delayed. The monkeys in their cages were held up for several days in Bombay and the cost of feeding them and demurrhage charges were going up steadily. To make matters worse some animal welfare activists got wind of the business and threatened protests. Eventually we had to quietly get the monkeys released at Monkey Hill near Lonavla..
“Many days later my borro mama (eldest uncle) came into my room waving a paper. ‘Do you know there is some mad Bengali woman who was engaged in some stupid venture regarding monkeys?’ I lowered my head whilst he gave me a quizzical look and walked out. And that was the end of that business venture.”
Over the course of the evening we learnt many things. Serious bits of information regarding the plight of the denotified tribes interspersed with lighter moments like the account of a drunken cow that invaded Mahashweta Devi’s home and ate up her brother’s textbooks.
She told us of how Nelson Mandela presented her with the cheque for the Magsaysay award and of how she was so excited that she failed to take it back with her until he drew her attention to it.
We left next morning for Baramati district. Enroute there was a sudden and totally unexpected hailstorm and we saw Mahashweta Devi getting down from her vehicle and exulting in picking up the hail and sucking on it like an excited child with an ice lolly.
The coolness of the morning though gave way to tremendous heat and we were exhausted by the time we got to the Circuit House. Mahshweta Devi, however, arrived much much later. We learnt that despite the heat she had insisted on going to visit the encampment of some nomadic tribes that lay a few kilometers away.
Later that evening the people began coming. Hordes of denotified tribes, poor folk who belonged to the very lowest social rung. Nomadic by nature they had no access to education or technical skills. They attempt to make a living through traditional livelihood skills _making chimtas or tongs or as kallaiwallahs (those who tin the utensils), living on the fringes of villages.
Increasing jostling for land among burgeoning populations had led to terrific conflicts. Social stigmas against them still prevailed and often police rounded them up whenever any crime was committed. One young boy bore the scar of a horrific slash of a knife on his upper hands_ sustained when he had tried to ward off an attack by other villagers.
Their grief and anger came tumbling out and the clamour grew. Late in the night they were persuaded to go back to their encampment and attend the public meeting the next day.
The next morning we met Mahashweta at breakfast. She came in beaming, chewing at some flowers and then sat down amongst the women journalists explaining how nature had provided flowers and leaves that had medicinal values. We admired her silk sari.Like any typical woman she talked to us of the various textiles and traditional sarees of Bengal. Her feminine side was evident as she spoke affectionately of her children and grandchildren.But she also had hundreds of other children as we realized later.
At Faltan hundreds of Pardhis and other nomadic tribes cheered as “Ma” promised to lead the fight against the atrocities still being perpetrated on them. Choosing to embrace a young girl who wore the most tattered of clothes Mahashweta was successful in her strategy of instantly displaying solidarity with a crowd who had hitherto never seen her.
The meeting took several hours with scores of Pardhi leaders narrating their experiences and struggles.
Despite this marathon session it was decided that we must go to Vithalwadi, Khandala Taluka where the five members of the Bhosle family had been brutally attacked. It was fiercely hot as we got down from the cars and proceeded towards the scene of the crime. Amid the barren landscape and small cluster of houses stood the half-burnt walls of a humble dwelling. What was most poignant was the sight of a blackened utensil with the charred remains of channa _ the meal that was being cooked when the attack took place.
Curious youth from the village followed us as we walked amid the ruins. Laxman Gaikwad skillfully tried to ferret out the reasons for the attack and the youth put forward their excuses. The Pardhis, they said, would cook mutton even though the house was near a Dattareya mandir. They kept walking through the fields even though they had been warned not to do so. It was a chilling insight into the deep biases and social prejudices that still prevail and the desperate struggles for land and survival amid India’s villages. These people eked out their lives like crabs desperately clawing for a foothold and clambering atop each other . The nomadic tribes were those who were condemned to always be at the very bottom.
Somewhat sheepishly the youths offered us some water which we drank eagerly but I noticed that Mahashweta had not done so. In the car I offered her a bottle of water which we had left behind in the car. It was almost boiling hot because of the torrid heat. But she gulped it down and said fiercely, “Thank you. You know I could never have drunk water from a village that allowed such a heinous crime to be committed.” It was then that I realized how passionate she was in her beliefs and the immense strength of her compassion.
Earlier she had hugged me and said entreatingly “You will write won’t you about these people and the injustice to them. Don’t write only about me. Write about them.”
It was past six in the evening but the day was not over yet. Our next stop was the police station where the family had made an attempt to lodge a case. The police had remained indifferent and refused to take action until an appeal was made to then home minister Gopinath Munde.
At the police station we were first met by opposition until an astute officer realized that this was a delegation of journalists and a Magsaysay award winner. Immediately there was a change in attitude. The files were brought down and they began assuring us that action would be taken against the guilty.
Again an attempt was made to plumb attitudes towards the Pardhis, who till quite recently were labeled as criminal in the police manuals. One constable told us how Pardhis were habitual offenders and spoke of a young boy who had been held for theft. Further prodding revealed that all he had stolen were two pomogranates from a field, meant for his pregnant wife.
Gently Mahashweta Devi tried to put into perspective the “crime” and the “punishment.” “He is not a Harshad Mehta,” she said. “You must do your duty but go after those who commit big crimes,” she suggested
In another masterstroke of strategy she announced that she would condescend to drink some water at this police station since the policemen seemed to be sympathetic to the cause but that the cup of tea they offered us would be drunk only when justice was eventually meted out to the nomadic tribes.
In preparation for her onward journey she tied a large scarf around her head and then with an impish smile asked us, “Don’t I look like a really mad woman? What will these police make of me”
It was almost dark as we stepped out of the police station. We journalists were returning to Pune. But this frail woman with diabetes was embarking on a journey through the remote bylanes of India with a stamina, cheerfulness and passionate zeal that put us to shame. She rode off in a cloud of dust and we made our way back.