The pall of overbearing dominance, impunity, and sneering superiority flowed from the haughty and cruel leaders of the panchayat, self-governing village committee. A woman in a faded saree squatted in front of them, her body trembled with fear. Her community members squatted behind, scared to lift their heads and look at the angry faces.

The leader of the panchayat shouted, "Listen, panchayat members. This low-caste, untouchable Gangi, a Chandala touched our Gowda, a high-caste person. She also falsely accuses him of molesting her."

Another growled, "Hear, hear. We do not eat the food or water offered by this foul Shudra. She is a holeya, the lowest scum."

"How should we punish her?"

The woman, Gangawwa or Gangi, as she was called, waited for warped and ‘justice’, which was entirely vested with the panchayat. She was an outcaste, a Shudra, the lowest form of people shunned by the villagers, oppressed from birth till death. Even after death, they were not buried in the graveyard of the upper castes.

It was the late 1950s a few years after India had gained freedom from British rule. People in larger cities enjoyed freedom. People in small, remote villages were still bound by centuries-old traditions, racism, casteism, oppression, and colonialism under a new guise. Nothing much had changed for the Shudras. The same yoke still dragged their neck down in submission, only the hand that held the yoke had changed.

The oppressed cried silently, "Freedom for whom? From what? What did it mean to be personally free? Was freedom equal? Did free India still cling to colonialism?"

Centuries of dominance made even thinking about freedom impossible.

***

Irawwa Chandala peered from the small window of her thatched hut in the village. A student at the Karnataka Law College, Dharwad, she had come to plead and argue the case of Gangawwa, her aunt. Irawwa was the only literate among her people, and the first to attend a college. She was the pride for her community, and they would approach her to fill out forms and read and write letters. She was the voice of her people.

However, her surname, 'Chandala', reinforced the gross and hideous identity of her caste harshly. It clung to her psyche like an unholy spectre with depressing rings of servitude and forced her into obsequiousness.

Originally, Chandalas were corpse handlers, outcastes who cremated or buried the dead and carried away offal and faeces, a very stigmatizing profession and caste banished to live in sequestered section of the village outskirts.

The surname clung to her like a foul odor, and teachers, friends, school peons, neighbours—everyone treated her derisively as scum, not fit to mingle with. She was a Shudra, an untouchable, unclean, inauspicious, dark-skinned outcaste, destined to be despised, to remain servile, and to accept concepts of freedom imposed by the upper caste people.

Irawwa realized there were two issues here. First, there was the control that men imagined they had over the minds and bodies of women, irrespective of their caste. Second was the entitlement among the upper caste, who believed they had a right to dominate the lower caste.

***

The previous evening, Gangawwa came sobbing to Irawwa’s hut, and they hugged. Then she broke down and narrated her sad tale.

"As you know Ira, my husband abandoned me because I was barren."

She remembered her aunt’s story and rued men who enjoyed a perverted sense of freedom. It was so easy for men to marry a girl, satiate their lust, and then abandon her. No questions were asked. Being male gave them the freedom to do what they wanted with their female property.

An unwritten belief was that an abandoned woman or a widow was ‘available’ to all the village lechers. Often, such women had no education, sometimes their paternal families disowned them, and the hapless women survived by selling their bodies.

As a child, Irawwa could never understand why the village idlers whistled and shouted at them when she went out with her aunt. Basya, a bully and son of the landlord, pestered her with taunts and sexual innuendos.

Basya wanted Gangi as his keep, as was the custom among the rich landlords. It did not matter that she was a Chandala, as lust overcame all caste barriers. Gangi, though terrified, would put on a brave face and walk away, cursing the idlers, and this goaded them to be even more lecherous and loud. They liked women who answered back and resisted, initially.

‘One official wife in the house and more outside,’ was their motto.

Gangawwa sobbed her story to Irawwa. "I had gone to the village jatra-fair and was waiting outside to take blessings from the goddess. As you know, we are not allowed inside the temple."

She continued, "Basya and his gang of upper-caste bullies hovered near the temple, passing comments on the women who had come to pray."

Tears continued to fall from her eyes, and she continued. "Basya soon sidled up, brushing and groping my bottom and breasts. The crowd gave him courage."

"I shouted, Basya! Remove your hand, or else I will slap you."

"As I moved on, I felt a hand slithering along my thighs. I grabbed the hand and faced Basya, who grinned back insolently as if it were his birthright to molest me."

"I pulled him out of the crowd and slapped him. He was incensed and would have axed me on the spot, but his friends pulled him away. His manhood was insulted by the public humiliation."

Stopping to sip water, she said, "The next day, a peon from the panchayat office came to our hut and asked me to present myself to the office bearers. I was to fall at the bully’s feet, beg forgiveness, and then be branded on my cheek and thrown out of the village. I would be allowed to stay by agreeing to be his kept woman."

“Since I am illiterate, I asked the postmaster to write to you for help as you go to college. Will you help me? You are our only hope and our leader."

Irawwa hugged her and assured her that she would certainly do so. She felt empty, helpless, and deeply despondent.

***

As she sat in her hut, she reflected on what fate and time had made her. What would she say when she was not free to have a voice or thought and was stigmatized as a Shudra? Her spirit was tested beyond measure, and it had exceeded the lies and control over her freedom that it could tolerate.

She could see the ghosts of past insults chasing her in the flickering kerosene lamp in the hut. The feeble light cast flickering shadows on the walls, bringing to mind the stories of torture and slurs heaped on her ancestors.

Irawwa remembered when she was a child and went to draw water from the community well. A potbellied merchant kicked her and shouted, "Hey you, Shudra, you will pollute the well. You are not allowed to draw water from the well."

When she went to the market to buy vegetables and grains, shoppers would shout, "Hey Chandala, get away from here. Your foul breath and proximity contaminate us.”

The indignities piled on with the curtailment of freedom and offenses branded on her psyche.

Who were the oppressors, and villains? Surprisingly, there were not Brahmins, the priestly elite class, as made out in the media. The few Brahmins she had met were kind, performed religious rituals, and never humiliated people.

She remembered one early morning when she went to the temple to ask for blessings of the devi for her exams. Other than the Brahmin pujari, or priest, there was no one else. She stood fearfully at the threshold, waiting in trepidation to be turned away when he called her inside.

"Come in, child, and take the blessings of the goddess." Then he gave her some sweets and a glass of milk and sent her away.

The oppressors were the landlords, farmers, traders, money lenders, and political leaders who gained financially by having bonded people do menial and dirty jobs that no one wanted.

The elite regarded Irawwa with suspicion and fear. This girl went to college to be a lawyer? They did not want the Shudras to get an education. They wanted them to remain illiterate so that they could be exploited. Yes, this budding leader had to be cut down.

The village environment evoked fear, and Irawwa realized that it was not safe to disagree, or show independence. For her, education was an opportunity to define herself as an authentic human being on her terms and not by an epithet or slur given to her caste centuries ago.

Freedom meant being responsible for making decisions as per her desire and will and not as dictated by societal norms. To be free was to allow others to indulge in their version of freedom. The lie of equality lived with her community, haunting them in their waking and sleeping hours. It was omnipotent, like the fear that engulfed her community.

When Irawwa started school at the missionary convent, she wore her uniform with grace and happiness, preening in a broken mirror, admiring herself, glad to be on the path of freedom.

However, this opportunity to get an education and gain freedom was illusionary. The upper caste people were very resentful and maniacally opposed her efforts to get educated. While she was taught English, the unspoken implicit understanding was that later Irawwa should work as a servant for the Memsahibs and other ‘bade log’ or big people.

School and college were constant reminders that she was a slave to higher beings and that all her thoughts and actions had to follow prescribed norms. Her fellow students and the faculty inflicted daily micro-aggressions to show her what she was.

The environment of totalitarian education was never meant to instil freedom of the mind and give it wings. Rather, it was a systematic attempt to destroy her nascent capability to form personal views and remain subservient. She remained chained but to a different master.

As a child, Irawwa started asking questions about their status and ill-treatment. Her alarmed mother chided her, "What are you thinking? Don’t even think of this. Such thoughts are not allowed."

Gradually, she started believing the elders that she was inferior and was born to be servile.

She read extensively about freedom fighters—valiant rajas and ranis who fought for freedom from the oppression of society, invaders, and then the British. Then she realized that freedom was only in books and not in real life.

Irawwa desperately wanted to be free from the stigma of her caste, which clung to her like the rancid smell of a corpse. To become an equal in college, she wore pants and tops, and everyone laughed at her, calling her a sow decked out in clothes that did not belong to her. So, she lingered in the dank, dark bathroom, sullied by her dark skin, crying and letting her tears flow with the water.

Irawwa realized that freedom was an illusion shown through the tinted glasses of the oppressors. People spoke about her freedom to make a choice. However, she could detect the hidden scorn in their eyes and voices—the patronizing words they uttered that hurt her even more.

The actions of her teachers and friends were like thorns that sank deep into her psyche. The slow, consuming pain of the lies would never go away, and they festered in her being.

She remembered going to lunch in the cafeteria. Others sat laughing and joking with their tiffin boxes. They went silent when she sat with them, eyeing her with antagonism and spite. As was the custom, she offered her food.

"Here, taste this nice chutney and bhakari my mother sent."

Not even one hand stretched to take a bite. One fellow took a piece and flung it on the ground. Then they stuffed their half-eaten food back in the box and went away to sit in a different place, glaring at her.

Nothing had changed the illusion of freedom. Caste oppression and the yoke that held her community as bonded workers to the landlord still dug deep, gripping them like a lynchpin. Her tears soaked the worn-out pillow; her past, present, and future were held by a skein of hopelessness and despair. She felt comfortable in the darkness, where she could shed and hide tears in privacy. Daylight would reveal her to the racists outside.

Irawwa prayed to the goddess Yelamma for strength and courage to lead her people. As a last resort, she had written to her college principal, Madam Ratna, and hoped the fiery lady would come to the "trial". She was not sure if the haughty peon had torn the letter.

***

The panchayat was fuming and waiting to punish Gangi. They talked among themselves.

"A Chandala dared to slap the Gowda’s son? What will become of our landlord status if all these Shudras turn against us?"

"Take some action before they rebel and demand freedom."

Their bigoted minds refused to accept that they did not have a right to the freedom of others. They wanted to rush to the hut, pull out the wretched woman, defile, and lynch her. The elders in the group silenced the anger.

“Let us use the panchayat law that is vested in us.”

Goddess Justice wore a blindfold and the poor remained in their exploited obscurity.

At the panchayat meeting, Gangawwa squatted in the mud, her head covered demurely with her saree. Irawwa sat beside her, staring at the elite, unnerving them with piercing and accusing eyes. They fumed, "How dare this girl look at us directly?"

Seated behind her were the Chandala community members, apologetic and filled with dread. Irawwa sat beside her. Thugs stood at the sides; their faces wrapped in towels to hide their identities. An intense stream of thick hostility flowed from the panchayat members.

"Listen, listen," shouted the panchayat leader, an avaricious moneylender, as he eyed Gangi with lecherous eyes.

"As we know, Basya is a landlord and the father of two daughters. This act by Gangi has brought shame to our village. She touched him, and he was soiled. He had to perform purification rituals to wash away the stigma of the touch."

He looked at the crowd, which listened and cheered. "What is the punishment we can give to this randi - whore?" In Kannada, the language of the people, the name for a widow, abandoned woman and whore was sooli. This is how women were treated.

The Brahmin pujari broke out in anger and said, "What you are doing is adharma - unjust. There is no Shudra or untouchable in front of the gods. Who were Bhagavan Krishna, Goddess Yelamma, and other gods we worship? They judge us by our karma, and actions, and not by our birth."

The panchayat members glared at him but remained quiet since they respected and feared his anger. They always went to him when they wanted rituals performed and did not want to offend him.

There was muttering in the crowd of upper caste.

“Throw her at his feet, and make her beg for forgiveness.

“Brand her face with hot irons, tonsure her.”

“Throw out her family and ostracise them.”

A furious clap sounded, and Irawwa stood up, head bare, laughing derisively.

"Wah panchayat sabhe elders, wah."

The crowd looked at her aghast and growled, 'A woman, of the lower caste dared to speak in front of them? She stood and did not squat with her head bare. What audacity?”

"Instead of punishing Basya, you are punishing the victim."

Irawwa paused and said, "People like Basya are a disease to our village. He is a rabid dog who preys on the weak and helpless and brings a bad name to our village. "

“I beg you, please have mercy on this woman who is my aunt. We worship goddesses Laxmi Devi, Parvati, and Durga Mata. They are women and will curse you.”

“Hey, girl. How dare you utter the names of these revered goddesses. This Gangi is a foul Shudra. Sit down, cover your head, or else you will also be punished.”

"No. I have come to plead the case of my aunt, a helpless abandoned woman. Today it is Gangi; tomorrow it will be another girl. We have to teach this dog Basya a lesson. I demand an end to this persecution. Beat and ostracize him from the village. I have informed the government officers and courts."

The crowd was stunned. “What temerity? From where did she get this courage?”

The cowed-down chandala members who squatted behind Irawwa muttered their support, still afraid to shout.

A panchayat member shouted, "Hey girl, how dare you speak to me? I am the elected panchayat leader. We are the law. Fall at my feet, or else you will be beaten."

"Leader of whom? Of rapists and land grabbers? Your days are over. We demand freedom from your oppression.”

"What freedom? You have to do what we order. Sit down!"

Irawwa spoke, "O honourable villagers, many of you are good, but some are evil. These bad people give you all a bad name. Our nation gained freedom. So, who are you to deny us justice? Should I call the police?"

"Freedom? Not for you. You are Shudra and a bonded servant. As for the police, we have them in our pocket."

Another fellow spoke, "Hey, Chandala. Go and clean the latrines and carry the night soil away. Then go to the graveyard and clean up the bodies, take a bath, and come to me. You do not have any rights or freedom."

The panchayat members realized that if this uprising was not controlled, the Shudras would rebel and the pestilence would spread to other villages. They gestured to their muscle men to pick up sticks and stones.

The first stone hit Irawwa in the stomach, and she bent down in pain. The second hit her head, and she fell. Gangawwa fell on her to shield her and took the blows on her back. The goons started raining stones on her group and they rushed in with sticks.

The small group of chandalas was no match for the combined might of the thugs. They would soon bleed to death with shattered bones and bodies, just as their ancestors had for centuries.

Through her pain, blood, and glazed eyes, Irawwa saw cars and police vans rushing in. A strong force of policemen jumped down and started beating the thugs to the ground. In a daze, she saw her college principal Madam Ratna shouting orders to catch the panchayat members. Then the lady came over and lifted her.

Irawwa managed to fold her hands in Namaskar before passing out.

***

Irawwa woke in the hospital to see doctors and nurses caring for the wounded. The principal came over and patted her arm.

"How are you, Irawwa? All the fellows are in jail and will be sentenced. You are courageous and have made the call for this freedom. This incident was reported in the papers, and you have become famous. The wind of a social upliftment has started. You are hailed as a leader!"

"Thanks, Madam. I wish to inspire young girls in the community to dare to dream that they can rise above our legacy stigma, get educated, and work as others.”

Ratna said, "There are many like me who will help you. The government will pass a law against untouchability. Is there anything you want?

"Just free to be."

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Based in Pune, India, Shashi Kadapa is the managing editor of ActiveMuse, a journal of literature. His stories across multiple genres are published in more than 45 US and UK anthologies. Winner of the IHRAF, NY short story prize, he is nominated thrice for the Pushcart Award. His works: http://www.activemuse.org/Shashi/Shashi_Pubs.html