One of the places I visited in Chittoor was Neptunenagar. Working from Pune, I'd heard of it and the name had always struck me as a little odd. I conjured up far-out explanations for the name. Perhaps an astrophysicist that had something to do with some discovery about the planet Neptune hailed from this little slum. Or something along those lines. It's a story I obviously dug a little deeper into. The truth, however, lay light-years away from astrophysics and heavenly bodies - there used to be a factory there (long since closed) that manufactured chocolate sold under the brand name Neptune. The two brothers that co-owned the factory fell into a disagreement of sorts and the resulting family feud closed down the company for good. The Nazarenes offered to buy the factory and today, in the same building where caramel toffees and bars of chocolate were manufactured, a church congregates every Sunday and a CDC operates in the evenings. I'm not sure the kids know.
Neptune chocolates were apparently delicious or so I inferred from Magesh's fond recollection of them.
(BTW, quite a few of the little toffees we're familiar with are apparently manufactured or have headquarters in Chittoor)
---
The day before, I had my first Hindi conversation in what seems like forever. It was, of all places, in a state transport bus traveling from Chittoor to Vellore. It was with, of all people, a Maharashtrian from Nagpur.
I was drowsy from a long day of work and had begun to close my eyes when two young men in front of me started speaking to each other in Hindi. They had apparently bumped into each other after years and they exchanged numbers. With my limited knowledge of Hindi, I strung together words in my head and asked the man where he was from.
Maharashtra. Nagpur district.
What in the world was he doing here?
Working.
Where? As what?
In a canned-fruit company. As a fruit-cutter.
His name?
Ashok.
His friend's names?
(laughing) Kalu.
Does he know Telegu?
Hell no. There's a couple of vegetable vendors in the Chittoor market that know a little Hindi. The tone of his voice and gestures are his primary tools of communication.
He went on to tell me that in the company he works in alone, there are over 1,000 Maharashtrians. They come on two to three month contracts, usually during a harvest or something I guess. Laborers like Ashok hop from factory to factory, from city to city in search of labor. I forgot to ask about wages but he had a decent cellphone!
His friend, Kalu, is someone he met in Delhi a few years ago. In a happy turn of events, they met randomly on a bus to Vellore.
Living in UBS, living in a metropolitan city (yes, Bombay readers, city!) like Pune, it's commonplace to mingle with people from across the country. In a place like Chittoor, not so much.
I couldn't help but think about Raj Thackeray when talking to Ashok. If I had the opportunity to debate with Raj about MNS ideology, I would have before me two possible retorts to his talk of Marathi manoos.
I could shove Article 19 of the Indian Constitution into his face. For added dramatic effect, I could maybe tear up a little and say, "This is what our forefathers fought for, Raj. This is what they [Pause, look straight into his eyes, cracking voice] fought for".
or...
...I could tell him about Ashok.
---
I hadn't given much of a thought to untouchability and caste issues on my trip so far. I've been of the opinion, for many years, that casteism in India is fading. For a social structure that's been in existence for millennia, the fact that today we have SC/ST doctors, collectors and Lok Sabha speakers (to name a few) is an achievement that most of us don't pay heed to. The residual casteism will too, I thought, in time fade away.
I still hold fast to that opinion but I know also believe that there needs to an active effort to eject what's left of casteism from our social consciousness. It won't just passively fade away.
We went the houses of some of the CDC children yesterday to do house tours. We ask the children to introduce their families and show us around their houses. One of the first areas we went to was an area completely inhabited by members of the Adidravida caste. In the years before the Indian republic, they were the untouchables.
There is, let me tell you, a marked difference between the living conditions of Adidravidas and other people living in the same area. I can't help but wonder if there's discrimination on the part of development officers and the municipality and I don't want to speculate. I was told, however, by Mr. Das, that many NGOs will either stay away from areas like this or carry out small, eventually pointless developmental programs here.
Also, Mr. Das told me, in the more rural areas surrounding Dharmapuri, there are what he calls 'double-class' restaurants. The lower caste people sit on one side, the higher caste people sit on another. It isn't marked. There is no thick red line that demarcates the premise into two sections. You just know where to sit and with whom to sit with. There's a line in the public psyche. Its invisible but it's a far more effective divider.
As is the custom in South India, when we went to one of the houses, the mother of the CDC child went in and got us a small jug of water to drink. When I was talking to Mr. Das about casteism and Adidravidas he told me that he doesn't believe in casteism at all and when he goes to houses like the ones we visited today, he unflinchingly drinks the water they give him. I honestly didn't even pay attention to that. I just drank!
That's his generation. Or at least the better part of his generation. They see the line, they know it exists and they make a conscious effort to step over it and promote unity.
My generation, or at least the better part of my generation, doesn't even notice the line. Water is water. The hands that draw it and serve it are just like mine. The people that offer it to me are just like me.
The division exists because we willed it into existence. It will continue to exist because we, even if we are well-intentioned, service its existence with our recognition of it.
