(This article first appeared in The Hindu, dated January 28, 2012)
It took 14 years to make the 200-minute-long documentary “Jai Bhim Comrade” on Dalits.
Director Anand Patwardhan explains why.
A still from the documentary.
On January 9, in the bylanes of Byculla's BIT Chawl, a documentary was
premiered after sundown. A huge white screen ensured that people from
the three-storeyed buildings nearby could also view the film. For over
three hours Anand Patwardhan's “Jai Bhim Comrade” took us on a
musical-historical journey. Beginning with the rousing voice of Vilas
Ghogre, we move quickly to the police killings in Ramabai Nagar in 1997.
Suddenly, the camera takes us inside Ghogre's home, where he scribbled
his last words before committing suicide on the fifth day after the
police firing.
Why did the film take 14 years to make? “I wanted to continue filming
till all the false cases against the people in the colony were removed,
or until the police officers who had ordered the firing were sent to
jail,” explains Patwardhan. The Ramabai Nagar case took its own natural
course. Another thread was exploring the tension between caste and
class. Patwardhan says, “Vilas was a Dalit who became a Marxist, but
then chose to reassert his Dalit identity, by tying a blue scarf as he
hung himself. I wanted to understand this seeming clash of identities.
As Vilas was no more, I began filming others from his musical tradition.
A few were Leftists like Vilas, others celebrated Dr. Ambedkar's life
and message. I wanted to do justice to this whole spectrum.”
A still from the documentary
The spectrum is broad indeed — from a proud song describing the Dalit
who became a barrister, to those that recount the travails of migrant
workers to the city; from lullabies based on the teachings of the
Buddha, to naughty qawaalis that celebrated sexuality equally by
men and women. Almost each song is juxtaposed with evocative visuals —
claustrophobic slum-dwelling illustrated by a chicken coop; “My
barrister husband is coming home” juxtaposed with visuals of men
sweeping the streets. As Patwardhan points out, this is not an
ethnographic film. “It is a record of the people and events I
encountered. Many were not recognised as singers. Saraswati Bansode was a
housewife. Shanta Bai Gadpaile's husband was a poet and she remembers
his songs. The tradition is so strong that ordinary people just sang.”
Many songs in the film narrate the game politicians have played with
Dalits. In one instance, at an Ambedkar Jayanti function, small boys are
dancing to the tune of “In the Mumbai... we are the Bhai..” from
Bollywood's “Shootout At Lokhandwala”. Somehow the lyrics fit — Dalits
have been used by the underworld, as well as political parties.
Actual statistics higher
The mention of the Khairlanji incident was thus expected. “Official
records show that two Dalits are raped and three killed daily. The
actual statistics are higher. The film speaks of two other cases from
Beed — a teacher murdered and a girl raped. So people cannot say that
Khairlanji was a one-off incident which won't happen again. These
incidents are part of our daily occurrence,” says Patwardhan.
The fact that instead of addressing this, Dalit leaders are busy
flirting with the Congress or with Hindutva, got the audience to
acknowledge the movement's weak leadership today. Several of them,
including Dr. Ambedkar's grandson Anandrao, felt that the documentary
was a wake-up call. But what generated most outrage was the way in which
Kabir Kala Manch (KKM) was forced by the police to go underground.
Singers and poets
Patwardhan had met KKM in 2007 during a memorial meet at Ramabai Nagar.
He followed these cultural activists and their families as they raised
questions about the effects of a “development” that displaces the poor
and Dalits alike. In June 2011, Sheetal Sathe and all the people from
KKM had been pushed underground as they had been branded as Naxalites.
“That's when I realised that I have to start showing this film. I want
this country to understand who these singers and poets are so that
people like Sheetal can come out in the open again and prove that they
hadn't done anything wrong, anything more than speak up for the
powerless,” says Patwardhan.
The premiere on January 9 had its effect. Born out of the Dalit
movement, the film was going back to the same people on the day when
they remember Dalit Panther theatre activist Bhagwat Jadhav. A resident
of BIT Chawl, Jadhav was killed during a rally in 1974, when Shiv Sena
supporters dropped a grinding stone on his head. Since then, every year,
his family conducts a memorial talk. There couldn't have been a better
tribute this year than the premiere of “Jai Bhim Comrade”.
A still from the documentary
“Basti screenings are a must. The intellectual class in India laps up
and understands every political nuance of the developed world, but the
reverse is not true. We like to be spoon-fed with over-simplified
cliches, and that concession I have refused to make,” says Patwardhan,
about his 200-minute-long documentary.
But tell him that this is his first documentary that has managed to get a
Censor certificate without a major struggle, then he smiles, “Perhaps
the democratic system is maturing? I think the upper castes know that
they have been oppressing Dalits for thousands of years. If Dalits don't
have a right to say ‘Gande Mataram', then who does?”
