Frederick Noronha
‘Untouchable Goa’ belongs to the rare breed of writing on Goa that does not portray the small region as a glamourised, charming place. On the other hand, it’s a Dalit’s-eye view of a region which treats its deprived sections in rather questionable ways. Mostly unnoticed.
Late activist for equality Dadu Mandrekar, who would have been in his late 60s today had he not passed away rather early in 2020, is the author of this translated, posthumous work. It is based on his 1997-published Marathi book ‘Bahishkrut Gomantak’, the title of which could be translated to ‘Accursed Goa’.
A short read of 112 pages, this work comprises essays, each of three-to-four pages. As the Ambedkarite writer-campaigner explains in the first essay ‘Trapped’, the experiences were collated when a group of campaigners from Ponda and Pernem undertook a tour across Goa in a tempo sometime in the 1980s.
This happened around the time of the controversy when Ambedkar’s book ‘Riddles of Hinduism’ was being met with controversy (1987). Late Dalit leader Kanshi Ram’s BAMCEF, a trade-union for backward and minority employees, was also taking root. Like in other cases, Goa had to await progressive thought to seep in from other regions, near or far. In this case, Maharashtra.
Mandrekar writes, in translation: “This text reflects everything I saw during my travels—poverty, folktales, pain, geography, legends, and more. It took over a decade for this manuscript to see the light of day, gathering dust in the offices of publishers, unread, and
unacknowledged.”
Last week itself, while passing through Mandrem in Pernem Taluka, one’s thoughts went back to the same time-period, sometime in the late 1980s. We had just got to know Dadu Mandrekar, through a common journalist-friend Camil Parkhe, and had on an occasion or two visited some Dalit settlements along with him.
What one encountered was surprising, seeing the way these sections continued to live, as if untouched by the passing of time, and development. Since the book was written almost four decades ago, one cannot help but wonder how much things have change for these communities, if at all, and whether their lives are still so bleak.
Mandrekar was part of the Mahar community, on which this book mostly focuses. They were once part of the so-called ‘untouchable’ communities. Now, while untouchability is treated as a crime, from the descriptions here, it sometimes continues in hardly more subtle ways. For instance, rustic tea-stalls not wanting to serve a section of the villagers. Or offering excuses why they cannot be offered tea—no sugar, no tea or no milk. Or even serving a whole group of people with a single cup!
For a little while, it might seem as if the author is exaggerating. On the other hand, unless you or I encounter this first hand, it might pass unnoticed or invisible to the average human eye.
Almost every village in the sub-districts of Pernem, Sattari and Bicholim has its own separate ‘vastis’ (settlement). The Mahars form the largest segment of this population, writes Mandrekar. They are also probably among the most politically aware, due to the influence of political leaders like Bhimrao Ambedkar.
Online sources suggest that Mahars—especially in neighbouring Maharashtra—have historically been more politically active within the Dalit community due to a combination of factors. This includes their traditional role in village administration, their strong sense of community identity, and the influence of Dr. B.R.Ambedkar, a prominent Mahar leader who led the mass conversion to Buddhism. “Their past duties as village watchmen, messengers, and adjudicators, along with their association with the Baluta system, fostered a sense of responsibility and leadership within the community,” suggests cyberspace.
In each essay, Mandrekar takes us to different parts of the North Goa hinterland, the areas sometimes called the ‘New Conquests’, though not new, and mostly not conquests. His vignettes cover villages such as Dhargal (Pernem), Keri (Ponda), Koparde (Sattari), Sal (Bicholim), Keri (Sattari), Halarna-Talarna (Pernem), Guleli (Valpoi), Kudne (Bicholim), among others.
His story goes beyond (and to counter) official statistics, and into the world of run-down homes, limited access to higher education, poverty and a lack of jobs. It focuses on how traditional beliefs—including incurring debt to participate in celebrations—affects the rural poor. Roads are (or were) lacking in such areas; and, just as Dalit students began to get more educated, the reservations for them was reduced from 15% to 2.5%, removing a crucial benefit when they were getting within reach of it.
It reminds how a woman is still sometimes considered ‘untouchable’ when she menstruates or gives birth. Or how fish is considered unclean by some members of the Mahar community. The book also details burial travails, brought on by lack of land and permissions; age-old beliefs that sometimes verge on superstition and hurt the subalterns; and former ‘untouchables’ given the role to create music, including as drummers, but their talent not being recognised.
In the beginning of the book, Dadu narrates how he was encouraged to enter writing, by the Marathi editor Madhav Gadkari, and journalist Sharad Kharkanis. This only shows how much of a difference mentoring could make in a field like writing.
The translation allows for an easy read, even if the text is hurtful to encounter because of its content. This is, of course, a reality many of us might be blind to. Published by Panther’s Paw in Nagpur, and translated by Nikhil Baisane, on a few occasions one can’t help wondering about whether a few terms have been lost in translation.
Is a tempo an auto rickshaw really (pg.9)? Is Goa’s traditional fishing caste called Koli (pg.17)? Should Sal vVllage be translated as Salgaon (pg.52), which could cause confusion due to similarity of names here)? Some names have been rendered from the Marathi original directly, rather than going by the more widely-known English versions. Is it the Mandvi or the Mandovi River (pg.111) But otherwise, this is a tastefully created work, priced at Rs.750.
One could argue with Mandrekar when he writes: “No work of fiction—whether long or short—has attempted to capture their (the downtrodden and Dalit’s) day-to-day life, culture, traditions, myths, legends, folklore, or psyche.” While literature-creation is undeniably elite defined, more so in Goa, maybe we are missing out on a few prominent examples because of the scattered nature of this process.
Orlando da Costa’s ‘O Signo da Ira’ (The Sign of Wrath) is an example of a full-length novel, written in the 1960s and set in Torsan Zor, Margao, which occasionally still makes it to the news. Pundalik Naik’s ‘Acchev’ looks at mining dislocation in rural life. Jayanti Naik’s rural short stories are worth nothing, as are the younger Prakash Parienkar’s.
Mandrekar writes about his travails at getting the work published; it was delayed by a decade. One would like to believe that this could have had something to do with the overall difficulty in then creating books in Goa, which diminished after the first decade of this century. But, admittedly, swimming against the tide can be
a challenge too.
If you wish to understand ‘another Goa’, buy or at least read it.