The following are excerpts from the book.
A few people lived in this way in Andhra and elsewhere in the country, and they still live the same way; they were charred in the fire of untouchability, they became soot. The lives of so many of them wilted in the outcaste hamlets, far away from the villages. Amid hunger and facing untouchability and insults, the lives of my people passed by in silence in this forbidden land. This is our culture. These have been our experiences. I have attempted this work only to state that these have been our lives, our struggles and our tears. What is important for me is what I tell rather than how I tell the tales. The subject is important for me; it shaped the form and technique of my tales.
These tales sprouted in the very soil my father and my ancestors were born. My relations and my kinsmen live, and are still living as the ones who figure in these tales. But they now get a little recognition – as untouchable voters! The atmosphere, the setting, and the characters are all factual. In fact, there is nothing great about me recreating these tales. The credit goes to the live characters of these tales. Therefore, the patent of these letters, if any, belongs to them! I bow before them, touch their feet and thank them all.
[…]
‘One can produce all types of rhythms on this drum. We can play the rhythm of a train, of thunder, a rivulet, floods – anything. We practice playing the drums day in and day out. We play for five days straight at temple fairs. The drum produces its best sound only if we down a peg of arrack, though. If a strip of beef jerky accompanies it, we go into a frenzy! The rhythms flow on. If we were to play the drums at fairs without arrack, would the landlords allow us? They would call us names! It’s they who urge arrack on us. Whether we like it or not, we have to down the arrack. What’s the use of all the hard work we put in learning to master the art of drumming? Does it pay off? The landlords pay more to the barber groups who play the sannayi (clarinet) than to us. The barbers join us without playing anything. If they’re paid in thousands, we get offered only a hundred. Why is this, bava? We sweat it out for five full days playing our drums. But who understands what hard work it is? Only our drumsticks realise it…the long stick and the short one!
‘It’s we who play the drums for the festival of Sreerama Navami, the temple fairs, the Poleramma fair – for everything. The villagers believe that if any ill spirits are around at these events, the madigas will exorcise them. The landlords travel in their bullock carts to worship Poleramma; four of us hold the bullocks and play our drums close to the animals’ ears – khanakhanakhana, enough to maybe even shatter their eardrums. The bulls are petrified. When goaded further with our drumsticks, they begin to run.
‘When the shepherds are ‘possessed’ by gods, we have to drum for them too. When we tire, they offer us arrack to enthuse us, leaving us no choice but to accept it. It’s we who play the drums at the wedding ceremonies of the reddys, and it’s they who ply us with alcohol and they who keep us playing on. They make their servants serve us meals outside their houses. We are not allowed to enter their homes. We sit outside, we eat outside, and leave unseen. Aren’t we the true ‘outcastes’?’
By this time Sinabodenna had worked himself up into a fine rage. It looked as though the day was not too far away when people like Sinabodenna would organise themselves and erupt like volcanoes. ‘What’s the matter, Sinabodenna? The drum was hard till a while ago; but it looks so damp now?’ I asked him.
Sinabodenna got up and started warming the drum again. He explained, ‘It loses its hardness when it cools. We have to warm the drum up above the flame again before playing it. It hardens only when it is warm enough. It’s only then that it will produce the proper sounds, falafalafalafala. When we are high on arrack, we play the drum in such a frenzy that we are sometimes afraid the drum could break.
‘Every madiga house has at least one drum. The reddys and farmers of the village summon us. We must be ready to respond at any time, taking our drum with us. If we do not go, or if we go without our drum, we will not get paid. “Sinabodenna, you didn’t come; you didn’t play the drum; you won’t get your remuneration; there’s no question of paying you!”
‘We play the drum for three days in a row, sometimes even five days. Our hands are often sore by beating on the drum continuously. We are streaming with sweat and dead tired. And yet they yell at us “Keep playing the drum, ra.” And they pour more arrack for us.
‘What is left of our bodies after five days of playing the drum with full vigour? Can we move our limbs properly? The drum has no mouth of its own to speak out, and it feels no pain. But what about us? We are full of pain,’ said Sinabodenna in anguish.
‘You have to teach me to play the drum, Sinabodenna!’ I said impulsively. I picked up one of the drums and started playing on it. Sinabodenna and Pedabodenna laughed hysterically at my efforts at drumming. Once I had put down the drum, Pedabodenna spoke in a resigned tone of voice. ‘Who among the youth of these times will learn this art? They feel it’s beneath their dignity. They feel there’s nothing to learn from the elders of the family. They learn karate and martial arts. Do the boys of these days care to learn the drum? They go to the cinema and take up the latest fashions.
‘The youth refuse to learn from the artists. If they did, they would learn fast. They too can master it; why can’t they? It’s a pity the traditional arts are disappearing like this’.
‘Who’s your teacher, then?’ I asked him.
Pedabodenna replied, ‘I didn’t learn it from any teacher; it’s a skill we imbibe from our elders, by living on the fringes. My grandfather, Ukkiyya Thatha woke us every day before cockcrow, whether it was winter or monsoon or any season. He woke us with his drumbeats! He would warm the drum up above the flames and then start playing it. What a resounding rhythm! The sound would shake us free from sleep. Then Sinabodenna and I would sit up on the string cot. We would listen to the resonance of Thatha’s drum. You cannot begin to imagine how superbly he played. In fact, fuck it all, even the rains would stop at the sound of his drum. The breeze would stop blowing; darkness would melt into light; the sun would rise crimson red – like the tail feathers of the rooster. We would then brush our teeth with neem twigs and gulp down stale sankati. After playing games for a while, we would practice playing the drum. Be it drumming or making sandals, we did not have to go to any teacher to learn these skills. We learnt them from our elders. They were our teachers.’
Pedabodenna added, ‘Thatha was never idle; he was always either playing the drum or making sandals. We learnt by simply watching him at work. When our grandfathers die, where do they go, what do they do? Wherever they are, they will have to go on playing the drum and sewing sandals! Even if they are sitting on the clouds, they must play the drum. Are our forefathers allowed to sit idle at least after they die? No, even after death they continue to do there whatever they had done here on earth. Be it God or be it the landlord—does anyone allow a madiga to live with dignity?’
Pedabodenna bit a plug of tobacco between his front teeth, and spat out with a harsh sound that spoke of deep resentment. I could sense the grievance that lay in his heart.
