Four weddings and a funeral

An element of anarchy seems to have crept into the caste system in parts of western Orissa. But it is positive. Despite a strong backlash, inter-caste weddings involving dalits are on the rise. Such unions, unthinkable a decade ago, are spreading across the spectrum and no one seems to know how to cope, says noted journalist P. SAINATH, in a two-part article, while highlighting the condition of dalits, especially those in the rural areas.

BANGAMUNDA (BOLANGIR), ORISSA:

SABITA DAS'S funeral was a sombre affair. And ritualistic, too. Her father Gopal Chandra Das had to shave his head and purify himself by drinking gobar pani. Her family was required by the local brahmin samaj to perform all rites for the departed soul which they did down to the last detail; including the feast they held for members of the samaj.

There was just one problem. Sabita was not dead. And every single person in Bangamunda knew it. But she was dead to the samaj.

Sabita, a brahmin girl, had married Sudam Kumbhar, a Dom Harijan. In this semi-feudal region, that was a sin beyond redemption. At least, in the eyes of the brahmin samaj. Legally, there was nothing the samaj could do. The wedding was perfectly in order. And a visit to the Harijan pada - where she now lives - shows you just how sparkingly alive she is.

"We had a registered wedding in the tehsildar's court at Khariar. Sudam's elder brother was present as a witness. I did not tell my parents for fear of it becoming a problem - for them."

It still did, anyway. Sure, the law was in her favour. In the brahmin pada though, it was the writ of the samaj that ran. She left to join Sudam in the Harijan pada. But her family paid the price.

"They had to declare me dead. Only for the samaj. All the last rites were performed. My family had to hold the ritual feast. My father and brothers had to shave their heads. I don't know if they had to pay a fine as well. Maybe they did." In short, the family of Gopal Das was rendered outcaste, excommunicated and later readmitted to the samaj after "purification".

By the standards of the region, Sabita and Sudam are highly educated. Both have B.A. degrees. She is an accountant in a college here. He's a clerk-cum-typist at the same place. Theirs was a love marriage. One that would have been almost unthinkable just 10 years ago.

Something is happening to the caste system in this belt of western Orissa. Inter-caste marriages are on the rise, especially in the last two years. That too, across the conservative regions of Nuapada, Kalahandi and Bolangir.

Significantly, they are taking place despite hostile reactions. Sabita's wedding, in 1997, could be called peaceful. Barring, of course the humiliation of her family - which her parents bore with dignity and silence. In just the same Harijan pada where Sabita and Sudam live, there have been three other such marriages. All have led to confrontation.

The spectrum of these alliances is also fascinating. Sabita, a brahmin, married a dalit (Dom Harijan).

Prasanta Kumbhar, of the police home guard, eloped with Baidehi Bag from the Goud (Yadav) pada. The Yadav samaj filed a case of kidnapping, claiming the girl was a minor. This is a common response to inter-caste marriages in large parts of rural India. Here, a thousand Yadavs also gheraoed the local police station in protest. It's Dom versus OBC.

Prafulla Kumar Bagh, again a Dom, has run off with Lakhmi Majhi. Prafulla is a "platoon commander" in the police home guard. Lakhmi is an Adivasi. Her parents, who are well off, have filed a case of kidnapping too. The court cases are draining the resources of the dalit family. There have been near clashes between the girl's parents and Bagh's family. And some tension between the tribals and dalits. That is Dom against adivasi.

The fourth case is the oldest of the lot and in some ways the most curious. It goes back eight years. Kalindhri, a Dom girl married J. P. Naik, a Ghasi youth. Within the dalit spectrum here, Ghasis are lower than the Doms. The same Dom pada that stood by its boys in the other cases threw Kalindhri's family out of the colony. That's dalit versus dalit. Untouchability is alive among the scheduled castes, too.

All these events have revolved around a single dalit pada here.

Four weddings and a funeral. Is there a pattern? In neighbouring Nuapada district, Superintendent of Police G. S. Parida sees one. "Mostly it's dalit boys tying the knot with higher caste girls." This is true of the intra-dalit wedding in Bangamunda, too. Doms outrank Ghasis in the caste spectrum.

"Yes, inter-caste marriages have shot up. I have presided over three this year. All of them in the police force. Two caste hindu girls married dalit boys. One married a tribal". Many such alliances are between people who hold government jobs, he points out. The ones in Nuapada have been peaceful.

Not so in Bangamunda. The Yadav samaj is breathing down the necks of the police. Subash Tanni, block president of the samaj, confirms the police station blockade. "People came from all over for the gherao," he says proudly. "We even have a video cassette of the event. Would you like to see it?" The police, he insists, took money and "sabotaged the case."

In the Harijan pada, though, Prasanta's illiterate parents lack the resources to bribe the police. They are poor. And their ignorance of the law enables the Yadavs to threaten them.

"The Yadavs say they have just filed a case against us," says Prasanta's father, Gunthi Kumbhar. "They say it's an offence - a smaller caste daring to marry into a higher one."

"The police asked me where he is," says Gunthi. "I said I don't know, which is true. I also said he had slapped me before he left." Did he? "No, but that's what I told the police. They were harassing me too much. And anyway, Prasanta did abuse me before he left. You see, we'd been trying to find him a girl from our own caste. I had no idea about this wedding of his."

His home guard duties being sporadic, Prasanta earned his money as a bricklayer. His leaving Bangamunda has shattered his parents. "Its ruined my health, worrying about him," says his mother Lata. "We have spent over Rs. 10,000 searching for him," says Gunthi.

But what is wrong with a Yadav girl marrying dalit boy? "They are a lower caste," says Tanni, back in his pada. His tone says this is a dumb question. "We are a higher caste and have practised untouchability towards them. How can our samaj approve of such a wedding?"

What if a Yadav girl were to marry a brahmin?

"That is different," says Tanni. "They are not a lower caste. Remember that both our castes worship Krishna. Also, we are milkmen and practically bathe in the milk of the sacred cow every day while milking it. So we cannot be considered impure."

"Brahmins eat food from our hands," says samaj panchayat president Madhav Hans. "They might have a problem with their girl marrying one of our boys, but not us. The individual family on our side might even see it as a step up the ladder." This clear view of upward mobility through inter-caste marriage seems to exist in every group. The dalit pada welcomed Sabita, Baidehi and Lakhmi. But forced out Kalindhri's parents when she married below her caste.

But what about the law? It allows anyone to marry as they please. "There's the law of courts and there's the law of societies," Tanni explains patiently.

Isn't it a contradiction? To run to the courts the moment the law of his samaj is broken? Tanni giggles but makes a comeback. "The courts apply to us, too, you know. We can't escape them."

There have been other such weddings, he admits. Maybe seven in the past two years. "Yes, we had death ceremonies for all those girls. Pujas, kriyas, gobar pani, tulsi pani, the whole thing."

If the samaj has declared the girls dead, why fight these cases in court? "To prevent their recurrence," says Tanni.

* * *

In the Dom Harijan pada, Prafulla Bagh's family is in distress. Prafulla's elopement with Lakhmi, a tribal, has incurred the wrath of her parents.

"The case has gone through four courts now," says his father Chakrapani Bagh. "We have spent over Rs. 1 lakh. It is killing us. Mind you, the girl has told the police she was not kidnapped. She said she prefers to stay with her husband, our son. But still we have this false case of kidnapping on our heads."

The girl's age posed a further problem. Lakhmi was 16 or 17 when she wed Prafulla. So it is with millions of Indian girls. But this time, somebody complained.

"They have got a court order from Cuttack directing she be sent to a minor home," says Prafulla's brother Biswajit. "She is pregnant. Just one month to go. Imagine what will happen to her health if at this stage she is separated from her husband and forced into a home."

"We even have to move in and out of our own basti stealthily," says his mother Jema. "The moment Lakhmi's mother Kanti sees us, she raises hell. She abuses us and chases us in the street."

Lakhmi's parents, Prem and Kanti Majhi are angry. They insist their objection is based not on Prafulla's caste, but Lakhmi's age. Nobody in Bangamunda, though, buys that.

"I will never spare that family," a furious Kanti tells us at the hotel the Majhis own. "Not even if they beg. I will go to the Supreme Court even if she crosses 18 while this fight is on. There is still the matter of kidnapping to be resolved." On the point of age, she is on strong ground.

At this moment, Raghumani Purohit, head constable of the Bangamunda Police station walks into the hotel. And into a barrage of invective. "They took money, the corrupt cops. If my daughter is not with me, these crooks are to blame," shouts Kanti. Her husband, Prem Majhi, sits by in timid silence. Purohit looks like he wishes he were somewhere else.

The head constable confirms that Lakhmi told the police she preferred staying with her husband. "We did not know her age when she was in our custody," he says. "How are we supposed to determine if she is 18? Lakhmi told us the one thing she did not want was to meet her mother. She was afraid of being beaten. So we had to ask Kanti to leave the station. Soon after, the couple fled from here. We have not found them."

That provokes Kanti to name the sum she believes each cop got paid off. Her choice of words and decibel level makes Purohit writhe.

Lakhmi's is a complex case. She was underage when she got married but she is fast approaching 18. Is there a way out?

"Only if the girl is back with me," says Kanti. "After 18, she can go anywhere. But I will punish that family."

* * *

Ingraj Naik is a health worker attached to the Sindhekela PHC. He once lived in the Bangamunda Harijan pada. But his family was tossed out of there years ago. That was after his daughter Kalindhri, a Dom, married J. P. Naik, a Ghasi. Both are now settled - "and doing well" - in Bhawanipatna in Kalahandi.

Ingraj speaks with dignity and without bitterness. "There's too much caste feeling in society. Mainly in higher castes against dalits. But this mindset is so pervasive, it affects all of us. Take that Bangamunda pada. If a Harijan marries a brahmin girl, they welcome it. But if a (Dom) Harijan girl marries a dalit boy of a caste thought to be lower than theirs, there is hell to pay."

"Is this fair?" he asked us in Kansil village where he now lives. "There was no problem between us and the groom's parents. In fact, the boy was related to us. But the pada folk would not listen. I faced a lot of abuse. I remained silent. Then it became a life-threatening situation. So we had to leave."

What's the difference between his case and the other three? "Those three boys brought girls from the upper castes to the basti. We, in their eyes, lost a girl to the Ghasi basti. If my daughter had gone to a brahmin house, there would have been no problem."

He smiles at our comment that he shows no bitterness. "I have none. I had to go through hell for my daughter. I did. Perhaps there's been some improvement on these matters since then. Maybe five or 10 per cent."

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