Visits to Some Villages

Two photographers arrived from Delhi on Friday to make a documentary about the school. They stayed through Monday, and I got to tag along with them on their visits to some Musahar villages where our children’s families live. We went in Mr. Sinha’s car along with Manoj, Guddu and the driver. As we left the more urban area behind, multi-story buildings gave way to half-complete brick structures surrounded by rice paddies. Water buffalo were standing in the fields everywhere, and I saw a small boy curled up taking a nap on the haunches of one. The Musahar are of the lowest caste of people, and they are not allowed to live just anywhere. For example, on the way we passed Manoj’s village where they come to work as servants and day laborers, but they are not permitted to live there. They live in concentrated areas known as Musahari, which vary in size and composition but are all generally composed of mud or brick huts with thatched roofs. All have animals roaming freely, are littered with various types of refuse, are plagued by flies, and are overrun by hordes of semi-naked children. Some were truly horrific places to imagine living (those with higher population density, closer to the city and without farmland surrounding them), while others were less awful (houses were spaced apart, breezes blew in from the countryside, and some drainage was present). Most had one source of water: a handpump, located at varying distances from the center of the village. While we visited, the handpumps were in continuous use for washing dishes or bathing.

At the first village, we walked down a long path through the rice paddies to reach the cluster of brick and mud buildings. This time, we were guided by an aspiring political leader who has a son at SSK (he appears in the photos in white). As we approached, women and children scattered, and men stared. The reactions to us varied greatly. Those with children at the school received us with open arms, often inviting us to sit at their houses and in one case offering us bottled water and store-purchased biscuits. Those with no connection to the school generally stared and kept at a safe distance. There were a few parents, however, whose children had not passed the examinations. Some of these offered supplications to Manoj to reconsider, while others yelled at him as we walked through the villages. During these times, I was grateful to be accompanied by a former Karate instructor and stuck close by him. The other villagers also told their friends to be quiet, and I never felt truly in danger.

The children’s reactions were exactly the same in every village. At first, they were shyly curious, hiding behind buildings, each other, or their mothers’ saris. After I snapped a photo or two and held up the results to the subject, they changed their tune and began requesting more photos by positioning themselves in front of my camera. I could literally move a whole group of children from one side of the path to the other simply by shifting my camera’s position. I then became the Pied Piper with a trail of children following me throughout the village, laughing and smiling. When one spotted the tattoo on my foot, that whole village had a good long belly laugh. I’m not really sure what was so funny, but I laughed too. A few brave souls, usually older children who had had some schooling) tried out their English on me, saying “Sir, me!” and then posing for a photo. One gentleman handed me a blank appointment book and asked me for my autograph. In Hindi he then also asked for a job, but I couldn’t really help in that way, so I wrote down my name and “Philadelphia, PA.” Other villagers asked for money or food, but these requests were not often translated for me.

On our second day of visiting villages, we saw why these people are known as the Rat-Eaters. Two separate young boys were carrying around small rats, one dead and one tethered by his leg to a stick. A man carried a larger rat, trapped by a wire around the ankle, that he proceeded to kill, roast over an open fire on a stick, and prepare with onions, salt, and other spices. I trust he was paid for this, so that the photographers were able to document this distinct practice, but no one partook of the delicacy while we were present. I had been willing to try, but one of the photographers (probably wisely) forbade me from doing so.

Given the deplorable living conditions and the lack of any realistic hope for improvement, I suppose it should not be surprising that most of the men we saw in every village were drinking and/or drunk on homemade liquor. Employment prospects are limited to extremely low-paying menial labor in which one man reported earning the equivalent of $2 per day. Others reported making significantly less. Nevertheless, it is shameful to see grown men spending what little money they have on alcohol and then the majority of their day consuming it while their children run around barefoot, shirtless, covered in dirt, and suffering from diseases. I don’t mean to place all the blame on the men, for it is the women who are preparing the liquor. Still, at least they spend hours each day in the difficult work of keeping the children fed and clothed and clean.

My final take away from these village visits is that the only hope for the Musahar is in their children. You can see it in their faces—I hope I captured some of it in the nearly 500 photos I took. Faced with such devastating conditions, they nevertheless glow from the inside. They smile easily and seem convinced that good is just around the corner. For the boys who have made it to SSK, at least, I believe this is true. Although the transition from village to dormitory must be intense and difficult, ultimately, they have been given such an amazing opportunity. They are able to learn and study, to eat nutritious food, to stay healthy, and eventually to compete with students from much more privileged backgrounds for college admissions and ultimately employment beyond menial labor. The founder of the school talks about the boys being catalysts for change for their community, and I have to hope that this is indeed possible. These boys must succeed. For the Musahar (to borrow a phrase from Fitz) there really is no other option.