Law vs. Reality

“Whoever is least among you should be the greatest”—Luke 22:26

Nearly every societal group has a way of establishing a pecking order, but never have I seen it as vividly as yesterday. When one looks to the books, the caste system in India has been abolished, but if one looks to the villages, where nearly 75% of the one billion Indians reside, one will be surrounded by the desperate reality of the caste system. The caste system is essential to the social structure of Hinduism. The four castes arise from the four body parts of lord Brahma in creation. The Brahmin caste is the teachers and priests which arose from the mouth; the Kshatriya are the warriers and arose from the arms; the Vaishyas are the merchants and traders and arose from the thighs; the Shudras are the laborers and arose from the feet. Below all of these castes are the Dalits, the Untouchables, which Mahatma Gandhi renamed, “children of God.” The Dalits have lowly jobs such as latrine cleaners. Within many castes, there are subcastes. One is born into a particular caste, one marries (usually arranged by parents) within the caste, and one behaves according to the caste’s expectations. If one lives an upright life, one has the hope of being reincarnated into a higher caste.

My tour of the caste system took place in a village outside of Coimbatore where we spent the last several days. Alongside us was Anish, a former PhD student of computer science who felt called to study social work at the college Eric is teaching at. Since Anish and his family currently live in the village and Anish speaks fluent English and Tamil, he served as the “ideal” guide. We first met a middle class woman, or rather several women. One can never tell how many men, women, and children live in one home. After an adorable 10 month old baby with a colorful jeweled mark separating her eyes and jasmine flowers decorating her hair came willingly into my arms, all the women joined forces in trying unsuccessfully to get the child to kiss me on the cheek. We were soon invited past the festival colored rice powder chalk decorations called “rangoli” on the green cow-dung ground up the stairs to the living room of their home. Here we were greeted with more smiles, tea, Pongal festival treats, and simple conversations translated through our guide. We sat in white plastic lawn chairs--the lazy boys of India. We met the grandfather lying sick on a bed in the living room and were told that there was no need for nursing homes in India, since sons live with the parents and daughters move to the in-laws families after their arranged marriage. After we had our last sip of tea, one woman emerged from the kitchen with a small bag to take the remaining festival Jalebis (orange colored whorls of deep-fried batter) for a snack later.

We said our goodbyes and continued our stroll through the winding roads bordered by gutters of stale urine and plastic bags and came across the family that was the head of the village. Again we were invited inside their home for tea, conversation, and Pongal festival treats. Their daughter was privileged enough to be one of the 50% of children to attend school rather than the 50% who took part in child labor, a practice that is banned in India but continues to exist especially in villages like this one, which is located near a brick-making factory. I was anointed with two roses that were weaved in my hair, and when we were outside by the temple adjacent to their home, the woman showed me the leaves of the henna plant that were used to dye and decorate the skin. She tore off numerous leaves, ground them to a paste, and then applied the wet green paste to the tips of my fingers and the center of my palm. As she meticulously applied it, she spoke in a soothing voice with broken English, “good for the blood pressure”, “good for hair color” and “hot weather too.” I’ve been continuously amazed at how every village person knows the numerous uses, both medical and non, for the roots, stems, leaves, and flowers of every local plant. When I joined the women for a village version of musical chairs during the Pongal festivities later that evening (everything is segregated between men and women) they were all pleased to see my dyed, decorated hand and eagerly showed me their designs as well.

Our village tour concluded by crossing the deep ditch to the homes of the Dalits. Here, we experienced the Pongal tradition of painting the horns of bulls. We were introduced to one of the women who very graciously included us in her families’ festivities. We learned that this woman was living back with her daughter and her father, who was a drunk, after being abandoned by her husband who ran off with another woman. This family was in the process of carefully bathing their goats and bulls (which they do annually during Pongal). At our arrival, they pulled out their paintbrushes: one was manufactured, and one was made before our eyes out of grass and twine. They invited us to join in the painting of the bull-horns. I graciously declined being the less-gifted artist of the two of us, and being a bit hesitant to step near the bulls, even though they had ropes tied around their necks and through their nostrils. Eric took up the challenge while I painted the goats’ horns. Eric received many congratulations from the family who observed his brush-strokes, and eventually a crowd had gathered. This was a crowd of only dalits, since they were not allowed to attend the main village festival just hundreds of meters away. But the dalit children proudly showed us their own “festival” as they joyously gathered their traditional drums hidden away in their own temple, cracked some sticks in half from the brush-pile nearby for drum-sticks, and began to sing and dance. These were the same children that, if lucky enough to attend school, had to sit separately and not interact with the “normal” village children. We continued our walk down the main narrow road, which doubled for sleeping grounds by all the dalits at night, since their small one-room grass thatched homes could not accommodate sleeping quarters. During our goodbyes, we were graciously given a whole liter of cows’ milk from the family that had invited us to their bull painting. They insisted on an entire liter saying “good milk, good milk” even though we said a cup for each of us would have been wonderful.

“Hospitality” is the word that comes closest to what we experienced by all of the castes of this village; at the same time, the word “hospitality” doesn’t do justice to what we experienced. I am reminded again of Jesus words’ to the poor woman who gave her last pennies as an offering, “This poor widow has put in more than all the others. All these people gave their gifts out of their wealth, but she out of her poverty put in all she had to live on.”