“BheemjiHajir ho… (Mr.Bheem present yourself)
SuniljiHajir ho… (Mr.Sunil present yourself)
JuliejiHajir ho…” (Ms.Julie present yourself)
The court attender shouted loudly, so his voice echoed from the court entrance to the far end of the veranda. The entire veranda was bustling with activity. Above the entrance, there was a board written in Hindi indicating that it is the honorable judge K.N. Srivatsava’s court, Court No. 4. There were many such courts in the Hazaribagh court complex in Jharkhand. The buildings were large and arranged in a flipped ‘U’ shape. The entire court premises were crowded with people coming and going. Police vans were parked here and there. In some places where grass had grown, people from other villages sat with their turbans and bags.
Suddenly, there was a commotion in the veranda of Court No. 4. The police were clearing the way, shouting, “Move aside! Move aside!” Everyone hurriedly stepped aside, curious to see who was coming. They started watching the arriving people with surprise. The police were bringing in some accused individuals. Two boys, handcuffed together, one’s right hand to the other’s left hand. One was tall and thin, and the other was shorter and a bit stout but still had a good personality. Both seemed to come from rural backgrounds, but their eyes were sharp. They wore slightly old and unironed but clean clothes. On the road, they might have been mistaken for farmer’s sons if encountered. Behind them, a tall, dark girl in a salwarkameez with short hair tied with a rubber band was escorted by two female constables. Though she was not handcuffed, a constable was holding her hand. In front and behind, policemen with guns were walking.
The curiosity wasn’t because the people looked ordinary, but because of the police’s intense activity. While other prisoners were brought in with only one or two policemen without batons, these people were being escorted by ten policemen with guns. The police checked the papers in their hands, confirming that this was indeed Court No. 4, and stopped outside.
As the attender entered and shouted, the bench clerk called him and said something. The attender returned and called the police, saying, “Bring them up.” Five policemen stopped outside and positioned themselves on the court entrance. Their officer directed some to go to another entrance, and they quickly ran to guard the other side too. The two female constables entered, saluted stiffly and stood aside,though the judge didn’t look at them.
The bench clerk took a file to the judge and returned to his seat. The judge looked at the file for two minutes, then called out, “Bheemji!” and looked up as if to see who it was. The tall, thin man nodded slightly and raised his hand.
“Father’s name?”
“Krishna Mochi.”
“Village? District…” The judge asked. The man mentioned some regions in Bihar.
“Sunilji!”
The second man slightly raised his hand and nodded.
“Father’s name?”
“KanhaiyaGanju.”
The judge asked about his village and district. The man mentioned some regions in Jharkhand.
“Julieji!”
The young woman also nodded and raised her hand.
“Father’s name?”
“Christopher Kamble.”
“Village…”
“Dharavi, Mumbai,” she said, and the judge looked at her with a hint of surprise before picking up the file and starting to read.
“On the 12th of December …”
***
Julie recalled the days when she first set foot in Bihar. She had come from Maharashtra for movement-related needs. Everything was new. The Mumbai-accented Hindi mixed with Marathi that she spoke was quite amusing there. Everyone spoke Hindi with a Bihari accent. Since it was just after the merger of two major revolutionary parties, everyone was still new to each other. Julie and her group arrived at a camp in a forest area in Bihar that day after almost two months of travel. They unloaded their kits, washed their hands and feet, and sat in their assigned tent, where Julie started introducing herself to everyone present. At that moment, a young man was going around with a kettle, pouring tea decoction for everyone. Everyone took out their glasses from their kits and poured themselves tea.
Since Julie didn’t have a glass, she just sat there watching. When the young man came to her, he asked, “Do you drink Lal Chai?” When she said she didn’t have a glass, he took his glass out of his pocket and poured her some tea. Julie, feeling grateful, almost said thank you but stopped herself. No one in the party used such words, and anyone who did would be teased by everyone else. Julie had been attracted to the revolutionary movement while studying for her MA at university and had left her studies to lead an underground life. Growing up in Mumbai, her urban habits didn’t leave her completely even in the forest. Remembering that she had to return the glass, she asked, “Comrade, what is your name?”
He paused for a moment and then said, “Mukeshji.” Julie felt like laughing but held back. “Oh, Mukesh! Nice. Where should I return this glass to?” she asked. “Kitchen duty, comrade!” he replied and walked away. Enjoying the tea in the slightly cold weather, Julie thought, “So this tea decoction is called Lal Chai here.” As she enjoyed the new taste of the tea, which had black salt, sugar, and lemon juice, she inadvertently recalled the black tea they made in Maharashtra. Mukesh seemed a bit serious and didn’t even crack a smile while talking to her, which she found a bit strange.
She got up to wash the glass, went outside the tent, and looked up at the sky, observing the surroundings and the tents set up at a distance, trying to understand the Bihari accent. After two days, she realized something. Everyone addressed each other with “ji.” Not only that, but no one called even the children “tu.” In Mumbai, not only in the party in Maharashtra but everywhere else she had seen, it was customary to call everyone by their names, regardless of age. Not just her, but everyone called each other by their names. In some regions, they used “anna” or “akka,” but never “aap.”
This use of “ji” seemed a bit inconvenient and strange to her. Finally, on the third day, unable to hold back, she asked a senior leader from Bihar when she got the chance. “It’s surprising to hear everyone addressing each other as ‘ji’ here. No one in the southern region does this. Why is it like this here?”
In the ongoing exchange of experiences and understanding each other’s practices following the merger of the two parties, Julie found the conversation with him with historical details, quite interesting. Moreover, his way of speaking was so intriguing that she immediately asked, “But please call me Julie. You are much older and more experienced. I feel very uncomfortable.” The discomfort was evident on Julie’s face.
He smiled slightly and said, “Here, the habit of calling everyone ‘ji’ was started by the erstwhile party.” When talking about past experiences, everyone referred to the previous party as the “erstwhile party.”
“You know how feudal Bihar is! Caste discrimination here is extremely severe. From the beginning, the party focused on working in Dalit communities. Fighting against both feudal landlords and upper-caste dominance, it mobilized Dalits and other oppressed castes on a large scale. When our squads went into villages, people received us well. Later, when the upper castes formed private armies, we struck them hard. With all this, our party gained a lot of prestige. When those who faced numerous humiliations and upper-caste dominance in society joined our party, we needed to ensure that everyone, not just the party, respected them. So, we made it a habit to address everyone by adding ‘ji’ to their names. We even tell small children to do the same. They get used to saying their names with ‘ji’.”
As she listened, Julie suddenly remembered something. In some Muslim families, mothers taught their children to speak respectfully by using “aap” even when talking to them. She had asked a mother about it, who explained that if they used “tum,” the children would learn that. It made sense to her then too. Remembering that she had addressed Mukesh as “tum” the previous day, she thought, “Oh, that’s the matter.”
Just then, he asked, “Do you know another interesting thing?” Without waiting for her response, he continued, “This ‘ji’ has become a part of our names. So, when we get arrested or a case is filed, even in the FIR, our names are written as Sureshji, Pawanji, Nirmalaji, like this. Then, they are forced to address us that way too!”
Listening to this, Julie’s heart filled with emotion. For some reason, tears welled up in her eyes, but she managed to control them skillfully.
***
Even after she returned to her tent, the impact of that conversation was still causing smiles to cascade from her lips like waterfalls. Meanwhile, the other comrades from her state, who were busy with various tasks, also returned. They were all older than her in both age and experience. In fact, only four or five people in the team were of Julie’s age. They had come to learn from the experiences here. Gautam immediately noticed her emotional state. He was a very senior comrade, but Julie called him by name, which was quite common among them. She couldn’t quite grasp how to understand this new thing.
Although he didn’t ask, he knew she would tell him. Yet, he joked, “So what’s the matter? Has a new window opened?” and laughed.
She looked at him in surprise and said, “How do you know?” Without waiting for a reply, she sat down on the polythene sheet spread on the ground, and without even adjusting to lean back on the kit, she quickly shared what she had discovered. “All of this is nice. I liked it a lot. But still, it’s hard for me to suddenly address you formally as ‘aap’ instead of ‘tum’ in an informal way, Gautam! What’s your real opinion on this? I find it a bit good but also a bit confusing! It’s not like this in South India, right?” she asked.
“That’s because we had many reform movements and social movements. In North India, it’s a bit less. In Bihar, even lesser. So it’s necessary here. Where reform movements have taken place, there would be some changes. In places where such movements haven’t happened, revolutionary movements have to take on even that role. This is also like that. But ultimately, revolution is about bringing down those who sit on top. As long as there is ‘aap’ formally, there will also be ‘tum’ informally. That means there will still be differences. So, addressing everyone formally as ‘aap’ is ultimately to make everyone address each other informally as ‘tum’.”
***
“…You are accused of murder, looting weapons, attacking a police station, disturbing peace and order, and conspiring to overthrow the Indian state. Do you plead guilty to these crimes?” The judge, who seemed to read out “Mumbai” in the address, finished reading and looked up at Julie, asking, “Guilty or not guilty?”
The honorable judge, a Brahmin, was respectfully asking Bhimji from the Madiga (cobbler) caste in Bihar, Sunilji from the Ganju (Dalit) caste in Jharkhand, and Julieji from the Mahar caste in Maharashtra. Julie felt like bursting out laughing and saying, “Yes, our job is to overthrow the Indian state, the Manu Dharma state. There is neither conspiracy nor crime in this. It is our responsibility.”
The honorable judge looked at her a bit confused, not understanding the smile on her face, and she cheekily replied without any sense of guilt.
“Yes! … But not guilty!”
****
Translation of ‘Not Guilty’. (Initially published in Arunatara, November 2018) Fromthe collection of Viyyukka. Translated bythe author)
