Author: Anand Kurien
Publication: Hindustan Times
Dated: May 22, 2006
Introduction: Casteism may still exist, but
Kerala has done whatever it takes to break free from the shackles of a caste-ridden
society. So let's be a bit wary of all this talk of reservations.He sees himself
as Kuttapu, he does not look at the past behind him; and when he sees me,
does not see the ghost of those who exploited his ancestors either
There is a lovely story about Adi Sankara,
the saint and poet-philosopher from Kerala who lived 1,200 years ago. It is
possible that the story is apocryphal but many wise people believe it to be
true and I would like to think so too.
Adi Sankara was lying down one moonlit night
and, as he drifted off to sleep, he had a vision that seemed a dream and yet
felt so real, he could almost touch and feel the people he saw. In his vision,
Adi Sankara saw himself come down the steps of his temple and as he made his
way down the familiar stones, unexpectedly, a low-caste man crossed his path.
We must remember that we are talking about
a time 1,200 years past - Adi Sankara reacted the way people did in those
times. He took great and elaborate care to avoid the man, probably even muttered
something furious, for there was real anger in his heart, he felt the low-caste
man had done a great wrong.
Then as he made his way on, Adi Sankara turned
to look back and he saw something that mesmerised him. For lo, the low caste
man had stood up straight and tall and had metamorphosed into the Lord himself.
Adi Sankara was wonderstruck, he fell to his
feet, and worshipped the Lord, who was trying to teach him a lesson. Adi Sankara
now realised how wrong he had been - it dawned on him that all of us are God's
creatures, and all are equal before His eyes.
Did Adi Sankara then go on to revolutionise
Indian thought? That he certainly did; he developed the Advaita philosophy,
spread its message to all corners of the country, set up the four centres
of lear ning, and all this before he passed away at the tender age of 32.
He could do little to destroy the caste-consciousness of the people however;
Indian society went on to remain as casteridden as it ever was.
We move now in time to the 20th century, to
Kerala in the Eighties. I spent my boyhood vacations there, every year in
the month of the rains. There I splashed about and played with Kuttapu - a
small, lithe and skinny boy, dressed only in shorts that were too large for
him. When I remember Kuttapu, I remember the green paddy fields and remember
running like the wind on the veramb, the narrow ledge between the two verdant
patches. One small slip and we would fall in the mud and then we would have
to be washed clean till we squeaked.
We would make rafts of banana tree trunks,
the rafts capsized more than they floated and with a terrific splash we would
find ourselves tipped into Kerala's swollen, swirling river waters. I can
still remember the sound of that splash; the yells as we hit the cold, wet
waters still ring in my ears.
But as I grew, there were more disturbing
images that I was to take in. One that is imprinted forever in my mind is
of Kuttapu's parents standing about in our courtyard. They had worked with
our family for a good many generations but they were never allowed entry into
the house. They would work in the fields and when they came into the courtyard
of the house, they would stand about with their shoulders bent and look up
as little as possible. When they were spoken to, they would reply but they
would cover their mouths with their hands, for their very breath could pollute
the atmosphere.
Our community, as Arundhati Roy's book The
God of Small Things was later to sketch out, was said to trace back to the
'One Hundred Namboodris', it was said to share its ancestry with Adi Sankara
himself. Kuttapu's family, who were mere peleyans could never ever hope to
be treated as equals.
But does my story have a tragic ending? It
does not; indeed, it has the happiest of endings possible. Over the decades,
Kerala moved on in quick leaps and bounds, rapidly leaving the worst of the
caste shackles behind. Whatever be the failures of successive governments
there, there is no doubt that they succeeded in almost dismantling an age-old
feudal, caste-ridden structure.
Kuttapu never entered the hallowed portals
of the IITs or the IIMs, but today Kuttapu stands straight and tall as his
fathers never could. He had been given five cents of land by the government
(a cent in Kerala is one hundredth of an acre), he worked hard as a mason,
and, when the Gulf boom happened, he was one of the first off the block. His
house, a two-tiered one that he built on his return, dwarfs our ancient wooden
tharawad or ancestral house.
We meet often and, though both of us have
travelled long since those days in the paddy fields and in the river, the
bond is strong. I sometimes feel the guilt of centuries upon my shoulders
but when I look at Kuttapu, I see that he carries no burden. He sees himself
as Kuttapu, he does not look at the past behind him; and when he sees me,
does not see the ghost of those who exploited his ancestors either. And for
that I am grateful.
So Kerala seems to have truly moved on - but
has the rest of the country? Buried in the innumerable press reports and the
commentaries about the Sankaracharya's arrest some time ago, I read a small
news item. I read that great care was being taken of the Sankaracharya in
prison - the officials made sure that his food was prepared only by a constable
of his own caste.
And buried in the many visuals of the Sankarachaya
shown on the networks, I saw one that reached out and held my attention. I
saw a man stoop low before the Sankaracharya, and I saw his hand cover his
mouth with an abjectness that went back centuries. It was a fleeting shot
and it was gone before anyone noticed it but it registered and stayed with
me.
I thought then of Gandhi who lived among the
Harijans; he ate their food and shared their lives. I have never understood,
Gandhi said, how people can think that their greatness would grow by making
others feel small.
And what does all of this have to do with
today and today's newspapers and the day's headlines? Very little or a great
deal, and it entirely depends on our perspective.
We denied Kuttapu's people education for 3,000
years, threatened them with dire consequences if they ever studied, we said
we would pour boiling-hot wax in their ears if they ever dared to do that.
We reserved a place for ourselves in the upper
pantheon and denied it to them; we said birth, not merit, was the gateway.
And we were sanctimonious and very self-righteous as we said that.
Today, we are still sanctimonious and self-righteous
as we say that reservation is only for us, not for them, birth must be the
gateway for us, not for them. Our children, dressed in their blue jeans, agitate
outside college campuses, holding pretty placards. We burst with pride seeing
them, we feel inordinately proud; they are fighting for truth, justice and
Our Way.
Far away, in a green land, Kuttapu's son has
begun to grow. I have seen him as a child at play, but I have heard that he
is growing fast now, he will soon have to make his way in the world.
I grew up along with his father and his father
made peace with me and with the world around him. When I am next in that green
land, in the season when the clouds burst all over the state, I must sit with
Kuttapu's son and learn what he thinks. Perhaps, if our minds can engage,
it is from Kuttapu's son that we can all learn. Perhaps then, we can leave
the shackles of the past forever behind, together move quickly on to the freedom
of the future.
