Shilpa Raj's Blog, page 2

Meet My Father, Anthony

My FatherHopes of a good future for me were planted the day my father – Appa as I call him -- decided to send me away to a boarding school called Shanti Bhavan. Despite my mother’s ardent protests and pleadings that she would raise me on her own, even if it meant begging on the streets, he was adamant that I study in a school that he believed would offer me a brighter future. I don’t know how a man who hasn’t had any formal education and had never seen professional success could foresee and trust that an education could save me from the poverty-stricken life he and his family had endured for generations.   Others in my family say that my father wanted to get rid off me because I was born a girl child, and hence he didn’t hesitate to give me up to strangers who came looking for children to admit into their school.  Upon my birth he had openly spoken about throwing me into the nearby garbage pit. Whatever his reasons might have been, I am grateful that he had the wisdom to admit me into Shanti Bhavan, a place that has been a home for me and for more than three hundred other children for the past twenty years. Before I began writing my memoir, I hardly knew my father. I would respectfully greet him “Namaste” each time he came to take me home for the holidays, and then I would not see him for days. My maternal grandmother said he was busy brewing liquor in the woods or chasing elephants in the surrounding forests, and in his free time going after local women. Grandmother never liked him, and her sarcastic remarks about him revealed her opinion that he was no good.But as years passed, I have learnt a lot more about my father, I now understand his way of life. As a young boy he served as a bonded laborer in an upper caste landlord’s house after my grandfather failed to repay the money he had borrowed from the  landlord. During his service at the landlord’s home, he endured what the caste system dictated. My father and two other boys who worked along with him all hailed from the Christian Dalit caste. They were not allowed to enter the kitchen, and were required to wash their hands and feet before stepping into the house to avoid “contamination.” They couldn’t use the plates or glasses that were set aside for the family. My father endured the  mistreatment and discrimination with silent acceptance. As a teenager my father joined my grandfather’s family business of making local liquor. My village, Thattaguppe, offered very limited job opportunities to the poor. The working class were laborers on landlord’s fields or engaged in brewing liquor. Appa evaded the police, trekking through the woods to sell the liquor in other villages at night, and escaped getting crushed by wild elephants. Appa is hardly five feet tall, his teeth are crooked and uneven, and his eyes small and red from drinking. He smiles shyly and his voice is usually subservivant. His sun-baked skin and the hard ridges on his hands and cracked feet are the surviving signs of a past marked by hardship. His humility is admirable, partly formed by his constant attempt to please the rich and the upper caste. The title of my book, “The Elephant Chaser’s Daughter,” was inspired by my father.

A Wild Past

Seeds of the Datura plantMy village, Thattaguppe, has a history as wild and bitter as the poisonous seeds of the Datura plant.
My own past was borne from it.
My grandmother loves to narrate the story of my birth. Seeing me the way I am today, she thinks my story has a happy ending. She was the one who sternly scolded my father for rejecting me when he found out that I was born a girl. She often tells me with pride, “When your father wanted to throw you in the garbage pit, I gave him a piece of my mind.”
When a girl child is born, no kerosene lamps are lit to brighten the hut, no coconut sweets are distributed to the neighbors, and no meat is cooked to celebrate. Instead, there are only tears and quiet whispers on how to get rid of the baby. It was not uncommon for the midwife to be bribed with goodies of all sorts to secretly carry out the unspeakable – murder. A girl child is considered a burden to the family. She brings no wealth and the parents have to give dowry to get her married.
So, there was an easy way. The seeds of the wild, thorny Datura plant would do. They were to be crushed, mixed in milk and fed to the female infant minutes just after her birth.
But things are somewhat different now. Female infanticide is a punishable crime and I hope the fear of getting caught might make it less likely.
Luckily, I survived. And here I am to tell my story!

Growing Up With Stories

Men crowding over the coffin of
a man killed during a fight over
waterI have always been a lover of stories. Stories fascinate me. I grew up with stories. As a little child, I chased after stories with fierce yearning. Stories were not hard to find in my home. Men and women who came to my maternal grandmother to buy liquor brought with them numerous stories of all kinds.Some days I’d hear stories of landlords taken into custody by the local panchayat (governing body in the village) for beating their coolies almost to death for not having repaid the money they borrowed. On other days I’d hear stories of young girls having eloped, cattle having been stolen, fire breaking out among the huts on the top of the hill, a religious ceremony being held to celebrate the coming of age of a girl, a young boy  drowning himself in the lake, a man killed during a fight over water, and on and on. In their drunken stupor, some customers even boldly confessed tales of their extramarital affairs. My grandmother, a local liquor seller, was a faithful guardian of their secrets.My hometown, Thattaguppe, has many untold stories too. Tucked away in the remote forests boarding the Eastern Ghats, far from urban areas, crimes such as infanticide, rape, murder and illicit liquor brewing went undeterred and unnoticed for years.The nights always came alive with life of its own. While the village slept, men like my father hauled bulging rubber sacs of liquor on their backs and crossed the thick woods hoping to sell it to the neighboring villages. They wanted to be sure of not getting caught by the police who were always on the lookout. On several mornings, my father had stories to tell me of how he escaped getting tramped by elephants that came looking for sugarcane or the bribes he had to give the police to let go off his younger brother who was caught. I embraced these stories for their thrill, adventure and the excitement of danger.During the day, as a young child I would sit under the shade of the banyan tree watching the landlord shouting orders at my grandmother and her co-workers who all hailed from the Christian dalit caste, toiling under the hot afternoon sun. Even from a distance I could hear the coolies sharing stories of their broken lives to one another as they went about plucking weeds and sowing seeds. In their coarse, dry voices they’d sing songs in chorus of the tales of kings and queens, Jesus and his followers, and of princesses and places they could only imagine. 

I embraced every story I have heard and I am enriched by them. In my book, “The Elephant Chaser’s Daughter,” I will tell you my own story.

Reflections on My Memoir

Dear Friends, My name is Shilpa Anthony Raj and I am 22 years old. I am excited to share the news about my forthcoming book, The Elephant Chaser’s Daughter, awaiting publication sometime next year. This is my memoir – a glimpse into the life of a young girl born into poverty in rural India who was given an unprecedented chance at success. Through these blogs, you will have the opportunity to get an inside look into the characters and places in the book—a world that is distant for most, but very close to my heart.

In my book I describe the two lives I have straddled throughout my life– one of poverty and social indignity as a girl born into an impoverished “untouchable” family in rural India, and the other, one of opportunities offered by a boarding school started by an American philanthropist for children like me. My hope is for my readers, even those thousands of miles away, to find connections with the people who have been a part of my life and with my struggle to find my own identity.

Through these blogs, you will meet the people who have passed through my life—those with whom I am connected by birth and those whom I have met by chance. Through each story, I hope to give these individuals a voice, to capture the human elements that define their identities. Several incidents that could not be included in my memoir are also described in this blog to help readers come closer to the characters in it. For instance, readers who wish to better understand my father, Anthony, will have an opportunity to learn about his encounters with the police in his illicit liquor business, or how he handled the landlords who subjugated him, and how those incidents formed him into the man he is today.

My family’s story is a complex one that is hard to fathom by those who have not lived through poverty and social indignity. In every turn there is a tale to tell, some of these events dating back decades. These stories, told through narratives, photographs, and interviews, portray many aspects of my community, such as their age-old traditions and customs. There will be rare photographs of intriguing places, people, and events, such as a scene of the burial of a man who died fighting over the distribution of water in the village.

My classmates with whom I was raised at my boarding school in rural Tamil Nadu are also from equally deprived backgrounds, each one’s past differing only in the details of the hardships faced by their families. As a child, I was touched by their stories and their struggles, and was humbled by their ability to overcome the tragedies they encountered. I will reveal their stories as well through a journalistic eye, digging into their pasts through visits to their hometowns, villages, and slums, and through conducting a series of interviews with them and their families.

Every entry will focus on a different theme. I hope these stories bring to life the history of a forgotten people and the beauty they have to offer. India is a place filled with complexity and possibilities. I hope you will travel this journey with me.Shilpa