Interview of Dr. Ambedkar by Beverley Nichols

 

Interview of Dr. Ambedkar by Beverley Nichols,

 

(CHAPTER III

BELOW THE BOTTOM RUNG  

Nichols, Beverley. Verdict on India. Read Books Ltd. Kindle Edition.)

‘A MAN of about fifty. Waiting for me in a wicker chair on the veranda of his house. Bulky, dynamic. Very charming manners, but nervy, inclined to fiddle with his shoe-laces. Seemed to be on his guard, as though ready to parry taunts from all directions. Well, after all it’s only to be expected . . .’ So runs an extract from my diary. The man is Doctor Ambedkar. And in a moment we shall see why it is ‘only to be expected.’ Ambedkar is labour member in the Government of India, and one of the six best brains in, India. He is of the Cavour school of statesman—an implacable realist. When he speaks in public he is galvanic, creative, and almost embarrassingly to the point. To compare the average oration of a Congress politician with a speech by Doctor Ambedkar is like comparing a Hindu chant with a fusillade of pistol shots. As a result, he is one of the best hated men in India. And why is it ‘only to be expected’. . . . this nervousness, this suggestion that he would be ready to take offence? Because Dr. Ambedkar, in the eyes of most of the 180 million caste Hindus, is ‘untouchable.’ A person to bring pollution if his Mayfair dinner-jacket should happen to brush against their dhotis. A creature from whose touch the extreme orthodox must fly as though he were a leper, a monster whose slightest contact compels them to precipitate themselves into the nearest bath-tub, to soap and pray, and pray and soap, and soap and pray, so that the filth of Dr. Ambedkar—(M.A. London)—the shame of Dr. Ambedkar—(high honours at Columbia University)—the plague and scourge of Dr. Ambedkar—(special distinction at Heidelberg)—should be washed forever from their immaculate and immortal souls. We are not talking of the past, but of the year 1944. These are not legends, fairy-tales, gipsy songs; they are news paragraphs, stop-press. Untouchability—history’s most flagrant example of man’s inhumanity to man—is still deeply rooted in the Hindu social system; nearly all attempts to abolish it have met with failure. If a ten per cent improvement has occurred in the last fifty years, that is an optimistic estimate. A large number of people in England and America, deluded by Gandhi’s propaganda, imagine that this disease—for what else can we call it?—is on the wane. They have read with approval the Mahatma’s denunciations of it, they have seen photographs of him with his arm round the shoulders of the outcasts, and they know that he gave the title of ‘Harijan’1 to his own newspaper, which circulated among the high and might of the land. ‘Surely,’ they say to themselves, ‘such a powerful example; in these enlightened days, must be having some effect?’ It is not. As for Gandhi being the untouchables’ friend, let us listen to Dr. Ambedkar, who is their indisputed leader. He said to me: ‘Gandhi is the greatest enemy the untouchables hate ever had in India.’ A little knowledge of recent history is necessary in order to understand this accusation. But first let us refresh our memories with the theory of untouchability, and then illustrate that theory with a few facts. II As Macaulay’s schoolboy would tell you, there are four main castes in the Hindu religion. At the top come the Brahmins, hereditary holy persons, but without a church. The stormy and brilliant Nehru, whose autobiography was a best-seller on both sides of the Atlantic, is a Brahmin, and it is wise never to forget it. It weighs a great deal more heavily with him than the fact that he was educated at Harrow and Cambridge. C. R. Rajagopalachari, ex-President of Congress, and the chief link between the Extremists and the British, is also a Brahmin. So is Pandit Malaviya, the leader of the extreme right wing of Hinduism. So are most of the Congress bigwigs. The Brahmins might be said to play the same role in India’s political life as the old Etonians in Britain. The main difference is that they have no organized labour to keep them in order. By and large, they are masters of all they survey—except when they turn round and take a look at the Muslims.1 The three other castes are the Kshatriyas or warriors, the Vaisyas or traders— (Gandhi is a Vaisya)—and the Sudras, or cultivators and menials. Way off in the outer darkness, sunk deep in the mind, are the casteless ones, the untouchables, nearly 60 million of them. This classification is drastically simplified. There are actually 2500 castes, all with their taboos, their social restrictions, and their almost incredible ingenuity in complicating the most simple process of life. These castes split the Hindu fabric into a sort of crazy quilt, lacking all homogeneity, held together only by fear—fear of each other, fear of the Muslims, fear of British law. Over and over again it must be emphasized that these castes are a matter of modern, not ancient history. A homely little instance may sometimes make a point more vivid than any amount of statistics; here is one. Not long ago I spilt a bottle of iodine on the floor of a flat where I was staying. I had nothing to wipe it up with, and I called for a servant to ask him if he would kindly get a rag and remove the stain. There were five servants in the flat and they had nothing to do; it seemed a reasonable request. It was not granted. One after another they came in, regarded the stain, and departed, with black looks. Losing my patience, I went to the kitchen, found a rag, and wiped the thing up myself. ‘What is the matter with you all?’ I demanded, when I handed back the rag. They explained that Dido, the sweeper, the untouchable, was out having his lunch, and only he could wipe up the stain. They would be degraded if they did it themselves, and he—Dido—would lose respect for them if he heard about it. Heaven knows, this may sound a trivial instance, but when you multiply it by millions it ceases to be trivial; it becomes a major problem, not only for India but for the whole democratic world. III Very briefly, let us consider the life of the untouchables. It is largely a matter of negatives. They may not use the public wells, which means that they are condemned to drink any filthy liquid they can find. Their children may not enter the schools; they must sit outside, whatever the weather, even in the monsoon. They may not go near the bathing places. Hence, through no fault of their own, they are usually unutterably filthy. The temples are closed to them. This is the unkindest cut of all, for if you take away their faith from a people so sunk in misery, you take away the only consolation they have. Admittedly, one or two dramatic gestures have been made in the past few years, by enlightened rulers and statesmen, who have thrown open temples to all comers. But what happens? As soon as the untouchables flock in, the orthodox flock out. The temple becomes an ‘untouchable’ temple, it is tainted, unholy, and as such it ceases to be an object of reverence even to the untouchables themselves.1 Among other restrictions, the barbers may not cut their hair, nor the washermen wash their clothes. One thing they can do is to tend the earth closets and carry away the night soil from the villages. This they do in large wicker baskets, which they put on their heads. The baskets leak, and the untouchable is not a pretty sight when he, or she, has finished the job. Still—say the Hindus—it is their own fault; they are paying for the sins of a previous incarnation; why should we have any pity for them? A convenient doctrine, if you happen to have been born in the right bedroom. “Ah, this is very old stuff,” you may say. ‘Of course, it is,’ we answer. ‘And it is also very new. It is as old as the hills and as new as the morning dew. It is a long way B.C. and it is also A.D. 1944.’ Let us have a few more examples from personal experience. Slight though they are, they may help us to realize the bitter struggle which these 60 millions must make for the most elementary decencies, a struggle which is being carried on as you read these words.

 IV

SCENE ONE. A bungalow on a small island lying a few miles off the west coast. We have just finished dining on the veranda and a British subaltern joins us for a drink. He has walked up the hill from the seashore, where is he in charge of a training camp for young Indian engineers. He looks tired and depressed. ‘Had a trying day?’ ‘Pretty sticky.’ He flings himself into a chair. ‘Trouble with recruiting.’ ‘Aren’t they coming in fast enough?’ ‘Oh—they’re coming in all right. But I have to send ’em away again. Look over there.’ He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. We see two young Indians standing in the shadow of a eucalyptus tree, staring at the dust. They are of exceptional physique, and they are spick and span as though they were dressed for a party. ‘See those chaps? Well, they’re two of the best who’ve ever come my way, physically and mentally. Well above standard. They want to join my lot; I want to have them; and I can’t.’ ‘Why on earth not?’ ‘Untouchable. Sweeper class.’ ‘But that’s preposterous!’ ‘Of course, it is. But it’s India. My men would just down tools if I took ‘em on.’ ‘But surely,’ I exclaimed, ‘you’ve got some authority as their commanding officers?’ ‘No, I haven’t. Not in a thing like that. Why, the very rumour of those chaps coming has caused a hell of a row all day—desertions, insolence, insubordination. I had to give in. I don’t want to start another Indian Mutiny.’ He swallowed his drink and, sighed. ‘Sounds silly, I know,’ he said, ‘but the worst of it was that one of the chaps cried. Said I’d broken his heart. Me! It’s pretty grim when a chap like that starts crying.’ He laughed  uneasily. ‘Maybe I’m well shot of him—maybe he was a cissy. Oh, what the hell, anyway.

1 SCENE TWO. A village in a remote part of the south-west. I have come to see a temple which is reputed to be of great beauty. The expedition is not a success; the temple is devoid of any architectural interest and is only notable for the astonishing obscenity of the phallic scenes which are carved round its base. This has a curious affect on an American lady who is also going the rounds. Acting on the principle that evil, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder, she decides to put on a bold front, and drags me round the building, prodding her umbrella at the most abandoned exhibitions and trying to treat them from a purely aesthetic point of view. We came to one scene where everybody was so upside down and inside out that it should have been labelled ‘Sex in the Gymnasium.’ She regarded it with a cold, unblinking stare. ‘Definitely the Jain influence,’ she proclaimed, with a ring of challenge. I had never heard it call that before. Having digested the obscenities, I was at a loose end. The lady took her leave as it was very hot, and she was obviously exhausted by her unwonted championship of the Religion of the Red Light. But I wanted to explore the village, so I left her sitting in the shade of the temple, silhouetted in lofcy isolation against a back ground of ape-like ecstasies. I came to a big mad hut. It was the village school. I peered through the window. About a hundred little boys were squatting on the floor, gazing at a blackboard on which a young man was tracing letters in Canarese. They made the prettiest picture—the rows of dusky faces and the snow-white eyes turning from right to left, like marbles rolling on a dark cloth. I drew back my head from the window and strolled round the corner of the building. And there, to my surprise, were twelve little boys, sitting on a bench, huddled together as though they were frightened of something. ‘What are those little boys doing? Are they in disgrace or something?’ The young Hindu guide answered me. ‘They are of the Scheduled Classes,’ he said curtly. I stared at the little boys, who had huddled themselves closer together. They were thin and almost naked and none too clean, but they were little boys, after all. Each of them was ‘somebody’s bairn,’ as one might say, if one were sentimental and Scotch. Perhaps one should have kicked up a row about it. Those kids were supposed to be allowed into the schools. They had passed all sorts of laws for their protection in this State. But what could one do? If one reported the matter it would only get the teacher into trouble, and it probably wasn’t the teacher’s fault. He looked a decent sort of chap even though he was half starved on his 25 rupees a month. It was more likely due to the parents of the children inside. So I walked away and left the little outcasts to their fate, straining their ears towards the window, listening to the teacher’s voice. Now and then one of them would scribble something in a tattered notebook. Young India, getting education.

 SCENE THREE. A dinner table in Peshawar. Dramatis personae, Pandit Malaviya and B——, one of the leaders of the opposition in the legislative council. The year is 1933, and Peshawar is full of bustle and excitement, for there is a great conference in full swing, which will settle the fate of the Hindu-Sikh minorities. The venerable old Pandit is being entertained by B——, and they are both anxious to please each other. But the dinner party is not a success. Why? Because the Pandit cannot eat. Why? We shall see. B——had taken a great deal of trouble about this dinner. He knew that the Pandit was a vegetarian, and so he provided only fruit; moreover, he chose only such fruits as Nature had ensured from outside pollution, such as oranges and bananas. And he had been even more careful than that. He had bought on entirely new dinner service; for he was aware that if the Pandit were asked to eat off a plate which might once have had meat on it, the worst would happen. The Pandit would be horrified beyond measure; he would never feel clean again. So there we are. Fresh fruit, covered with thick skins. New plates, never used before. Old gentleman, anxious to please host, staring at banana or whatever it is. All to no avail. He cannot eat the banana. Sometime, somewhere, somehow, somebody might have touched something, and made it unclean. He dares not risk it. He is a brave old man but he is not as brave as all that. So, the demands of courtesy must be set aside. The dinner, we repeat, was not a success. This story has been told flippantly, because at first sight it falls into the category of farce. But is it entirely farcical? Malaviya, at the time, was leader of Congress. He was, and still is, one of the most powerful personalities in India. He is the sort of man who, if and when India gains independence, will help to represent his country at international conferences. To put it mildly, his extreme orthodoxy may tend to slow up the business of the day. Supposing that we translate this situation into Western terms. Imagine a conference between Churchill, Roosevelt, Stalin and Chiang Kai-Shek on orthodox Hindu lines. What would happen? Well—most of them would be popping in and out of the bathroom during the greater part of the proceedings. Churchill would sign a document with the same pen as Roosevelt and would rush to have a shower. Stalin would inadvertently drink a cup of tea handed him by Chiang Kai-Shek and hurry away to gargle. Roosevelt would constantly be calling for a flit spray, and if anybody ever got any business done it would be such a miracle that half the war debt would have to be sacrificed on the altar of Krishna. Nevertheless, Malaviya, in spite of these-foibles, is entitled to our respect. Extreme Hindu as he is he has fought the battle of the untouchables, and admitted hundreds of them into the Hindu fold. That proves that his heart is very much in the right place, for only a deep love of his fellow-men could make him challenge the faith of his fathers. He starves himself for that faith, and yet he takes up the cudgels for those whom the faith has made pariahs. It would be ungenerous to deny that he comes out of this story pretty well.

 V

 We left Dr. Ambedkar, leader of the 60 million Untouchables, proclaiming that . . . ‘Gandhi is the greatest enemy the Untouchables have ever had in India.’ This will come as a violent shock to most people. Gandhi has ceaselessly proclaimed his detestation of untouchability. He has untouchables in his ashram, he has adopted an untouchable child, and he has declared, ‘I would rather that Hinduism die than untouchability Live.’ This often-quoted remark, by the way, does not really make sense. Untouchability is as integral a part of the Hindu faith as anti-semitism of the Nazi; begin by destroying untouchability and you will end by destroying all caste. And caste is the only cement which saves the incredibly complicated Hindu structure from collapse. None the less, Gandhi was probably sincere when he spoke. So what did Ambedkar mean? We can best explain it by a parallel. Take Ambedkar’s remark, and for the word ‘untouchables’ substitute the word ‘peace.’ Now, imagine that a great champion of peace, like Lord Cecil, said, ‘Gandhi is the greatest enemy of peace the world has ever had.’ What would he mean, using these words of the most spectacular pacifist of modern times? He would mean that passive resistance—which is Gandhi’s form of pacifism—could only lead to chaos and the eventual triumph of brute force; that to lie down and let people trample on you (which was Gandhi’s recipe for dealing with the Japanese) is a temptation to the aggressor rather than an example to the aggressed; and that in order to have peace you must organize, you must be strong, and that you must be prepared to use force. Mutatis mutandis, that is precisely what Ambedkar meant about the untouchables. He wanted them to be organized and he wanted them to be strong. He rightly considered that the best way of gaining his object was by granting them separate electorates; a solid block of 60 million would be in a position to dictate terms to its oppressors. Gandhi fiercely opposed this scheme. ‘Give the untouchables separate electorates,’ he cried, ‘and you only perpetuate their status for all time.’ It was a queer argument, and those who were not bemused by the Mahatma’s charm considered it a phoney one. They suspected that Gandhi was a little afraid that 60 million untouchables might join up with the 100 million Muslims—(as they nearly did)—and challenge the dictatorship of the 180 million orthodox Hindus. When such irreverent criticisms were made to him, Gandhi resorted to his usual tactics; he began a fast unto death. (As if that altered the situation by a comma, or proved anything but his own obstinacy!) There was a frenzy of excitement, ending in a compromise on the seventh day of the fast. The untouchables still vote in the same constituencies as the caste Hindus, but a substantial number of seats are now reserved for them in the provincial legislatures. It is better than nothing, but it is not nearly so good as it would have been if Gandhi had not interfered. That is what Dr. Ambedkar meant. And I think that he was right.

VI

What of the future? It depends very largely on the British. If we knuckle under to Congress demands, the state of the untouchables will remain either stationary or deteriorate. And it cannot be too often emphasized that even if it remains stationary it will still be quite intolerable. In spite of the much vaunted ‘new approach,’ in spite of Gandhi’s soulful proclamations, how many untouchables have managed to obtain university degrees? Five hundred! Five hundred, in the whole history of Indian Education, in a country with a population of nearly 400 million! Congress, dominated by the Brahmins, has no intention of changing this situation. It is highly significant that by far the most sweeping measures to improve the lot of the untouchables have been made in the States where the Congress writ does not run. Mysore, for instance, could set an example to the whole of India.1 If we give way to Congress, the untouchables might as well run to the nearest village well and hurl themselves into it en masse. They are forbidden to use it in life; they might as well use it in death. Ambedkar said to me that the Cripps proposals ‘would have dealt a death blow to our interests.’ Some people challenge Ambedkar’s right to leadership. They would not do so if they had ever attended any of his meetings, such as the great rally at Nagpur where 75,000 untouchables acclaimed him with a fervour that even Gandhi might have envied. Besides, even if he had any competitors—which he has not—his clear-cut, creative ideas demand the support of all men of decency and sense. We will end this random survey by a few sentences from my diary which throw light on those ideas. Ambedkar said to me: ‘The keynote of my policy is that we are not a sub-section of the Hindus but a separate element in the national life.’ ‘Gandhi says to us “Trust us—trust the caste Hindus!” I reply, “We will not trust you, for you are our hereditary enemies.”  ‘In every village there is a tiny minority of untouchables. I want to gather those minorities together and make them into majorities. This means a tremendous work of organization—transferring populations, building new villages. But we can do it, if only we are allowed.’ ‘We are as staunchly nationalist as any of the Congress. But we do not want the British to quit India till our rights are safeguarded. If they do, our fate will be more terrible than the fate of any of the Oppressed peoples of Europe.’ Can any sane man doubt to whom we ought to give our support? To Gandhi, the caste Hindu, who would fast, unto death rather than grant these 60 million outcasts the right of uniting into an independent organization which might challenge him? Or to Ambedkar, who has himself risen from the depths, and fought his way through a ceaseless barrage of insult and superstition, to emerge triumphant as the champion of his people? It is not always, in British history, that the path of honour is identical with the path of self-interest, but that is the situation in India to-day. There is only one path that we should tread, for our own sake, and for the sake of the underdog. Let us hope that we tread it. 1 Harijan really means ‘Child of God.’ It has come to be associated with the untouchables. The Government of India’s name for them is ‘Scheduled Classes.’ 1 The Brahmins, in spite of their lofty position, have not attracted much love to themselves in the long history of India. And ancient saying, still current, is ‘if you meet a snake and a Brahmin, kill the Brahmin.’ Perhaps this is due to the preposterous nature of their claims. For example, Manu, maker of laws, ruled that to accuse a Brahmin of a crime was sinful even if the Brahmin was guilty. 1 The classic example of this tendency was afforded by the great temple at Madura, 300 miles south of Madras. Premier Rajagopalachari went so far as ordering a government official to lead a group of untouchables into the temple. The great majority of Brahmins have refused to set foot in it ever since. 1 This story could be multiplied ad nauseam. However, it is worth noting that the Army, once it has got hold of a man, is proving a powerful instrument in undermining the extreme caste system. Discipline, comradeship, and above all a common sense of danger shared, have worked wonders in the present war. When the boys come marching home, we may look out for fireworks. 1 The student who would like to know what can be done by a benevolent and enlightened ruler should read Harijan Uplift in Mysore, published by the Government Press, Bangalore.