Lootaloot

by Baburao Bagul

Genres: Short Stories

Synopsis

Translation of the 1969 Marathi classic Maran Swasta Hot Aahe (Death is becoming cheap)

A brothel exposes the intricate mechanisms of power and exploitation within a family. A petty conman attempts to feed his desperately sick children. A poet and a writer walk around Mumbai's slums to cure themselves of writer's block, only to discover the gruesome life stories of its inhabitants.

In eleven explosive stories, Baburao Bagul, a pioneer of Marathi and Dalit literature, casts an unflinching look at the lives of those society has rendered invisible - goons, sex workers, criminals and the desperately poor. Even as they battle systemic exploitation, starvation and police brutality on Mumbai streets, Bagul's characters simmer with rage, and rebellion is always around the corner.

As relevant today as when it was first published, Lootaloot lays bare the effects of caste on Indian society and marks Bagul as one of the most astute and remarkable chroniclers of our age.

Release date: June 17, 2024

Publisher: Hachette India

Print pages: 200

Sample

Translator’s Note

There is a curious dearth of English translations of Marathi literature. I feel like this is something every regional language translator in India might say for their respective languages, even though the landscape for translations is changing – dare I say, for the better? Of course, there are several reasons for this. One of the most prominent ones is the Booker Prize–winning translation of Geetanjali Shree’s Tomb of Sand by Daisy Rockwell. Prominent Indian awards, such as the JCB Prize, have also given some brilliant translations their due. However, certain languages have benefitted more than others; Marathi is yet to break into the mainstream in the same way as Hindi or Bengali. This work is a small attempt to bring that treasure trove to a larger audience. The night sky of Marathi literature is littered with breathtaking constellations that merit discovery, discussion and response.

Marathi literature entered my world in tiny bits, like intermittent rain seeping through the interstices of patchy rooftops. A small trickle every now and then, but nothing consistent. My understanding was painfully limited. My discovery of Baburao Bagul’s work was a potent mixture of chance and circumstance.

Born in 1930, in Maharashtra’s Nashik, Baburao Bagul was sent to Mumbai at the age of ten to live with his aunt. Much of his growth and development happened in the environs of the Matunga Labour Camp, which happened to be a node for the Ambedkarite and other workers’ movements, and where Bagul discovered Dalit-Marxist writers such as Anna Bhau Sathe. Bagul’s language is clearly impacted by both: the political and the literary forces that swirled in his immediate environment. These influences are catalysed into the pure, creative force that is Bagul’s work. Right from his first seminal collection, Jevha Mi Jaat Chorli Hoti (When I hid my caste, 1963), we can see his efforts to truthfully and unabashedly capture Dalit realities.

But it was this collection – Maran Swasta Hot Aahe (Death is becoming cheap, 1969) – that firmly placed him amidst the most prolific, impactful Dalit voices of his generation. Bagul’s craft had been honed considerably, and he takes us viscerally close to the lives of those who society has rendered invisible, inert and mute. His imperfect protagonists trudge through a world where all odds are stacked against them, and the reader is assailed by the feeling of helplessness that the characters experience.

Dalit literature has arisen from cultural conflict. Dalit writers rightly challenge the canonical ideas of ‘Hindu literature’ and its hegemony. Baburao Bagul reiterates,‘The established literature of India is Hindu literature. But it is Dalit literature which has the revolutionary power to accept new science and technology and bring about a total transformation. “Dalit” is the name of total revolution; it is revolution incarnate’. (Bagul, ‘Dalit literature is but human literature,’ Poisoned Bread, 1992, p. 289.)

Knowing this context is important to understand why Bagul’s work is not easy to translate. The act of translation itself, when applied to Dalit literature, becomes far more than just recoding, or bringing certain works to light that need attention in the artistic sense. Brahminical hegemony earlier assumed Dalit writing to be coarse, shallow, crude and without intellectual merit. After all, this writing did not adhere to the mores of ‘pure’ Marathi, or Praman Bhasha. But Bagul threw these sensibilities back in the face of the hegemon. In an essay in the Diwali issue of Marathwada from 1969, Bagul declares, ‘Dalit literature believes that looking for the meaning of life in social debates, philosophy or political manifestoes would make it monochromatic. The meaning of life is to be found in Nature.’

So, what can we say about this collection? Maran Swasta Hot Aahe is considered to be a milestone for both: Bagul’s writing and Marathi literature at large. For one, it definitely provided a stark contrast to Brahminical works and depictions.

The book shook me. The first layer of my reactions was rooted in the content of the stories themselves – Bagul articulated the bitter, abysmal realities of Dalithood in a raw, unfettered form that shredded my sanitized ideas of Marathi narratives. The second layer was simply an appreciation of his craft: the entire collection was remarkable. Each story was different, and the numerous shades of Dalithood were cocooned in the rich, experimental tapestry of Bagul’s words. Some stories were sombre from beginning to end; others exploded with barely repressed rage, and then there were those that read like cinematic masterpieces, with an entire range of emotions condensed into a single paragraph.

In this, Bagul’s writing was a reflection of the advent of protest culture and Dalit intellectual tradition giving a new outlet to Dalit emotions that had been suppressed, regulated and quelled for centuries. Bagul deftly adopts a stream of consciousness style to do so, giving us access to the character’s physical as well as mental discomfort, from the pain shooting through their limbs as they stand under the hot sun, hoping to earn their first morsel of food, to the mixture of rage, frustration and futility in the face of repeated injustices. Yet, there is also a significant difference in Bagul’s stream of consciousness, perhaps due to his familiarity with Buddhist thought. Often it’s not the protagonist themselves but their mind which feels emotions or comes up with a thought. For example: What if my mind, which loathed him to the core, suddenly had some untoward ideas? (‘Education’)

Even though the stories appear to be focused on individuals, Bagul uses them to critique society and bring out the irony in its stereotypes. Thus the notion of an ‘educated man’ is shattered as we see a well-read, artistic young boy forced to become a gangster to protect his family, even as his privileged classmate enthusiastically participates in the socialist struggle (‘Education’); the intense physical and emotional distress faced by what seems to be a group of petty conmen and loafers (‘Hard Labour’); and a gang leader risking his life and fighting his own men to prevent a prostitute from being raped (‘Goon’).

Even as each story depicts harrowing experiences underscored by unending misery, underneath it all simmers the will to power, to rebellion, silent and futile as it may seem, and to decisive revolution.

The shadow of caste haunts Bagul’s protagonists incessantly. While other authors dealt with caste and its manifestations in the village space, Lootaloot mainly takes us through the labyrinthine slums of Mumbai, as well as the intersections of that space with ‘civilization’ as we know it. This also adds to the complexity of dialect, since Mumbai as a city, has a profound impact on how characters speak in his stories. Shanta Gokhale, in her foreword to When I Hid My Caste, remarked that Bagul’s use of dialect also encouraged other emerging Dalit writers to use their own language to powerfully draw on their own experiences.

Baburao Bagul was an excellent orator, and his mastery of dialogue reflects this. His speeches were provocative as he didn’t simply attack Hindu supremacy with generic, milquetoast expressions. He focused obsessively on the primacy of nature, science and logic over religious institutions, and Manu – of the infamous Manusmriti – was often a target of his ire. Getting to the root cause of our casteist reality and attacking a system that was brushed off as a misunderstood relic of the past that somehow doesn’t exist in our newly developed, urbanized realities was his forte.

He also introduces critique that other authors might overlook by depicting Dalit characters who have been shown the ‘Brahmanical dream’ – i.e., those who are embarrassed of their heritage and aspire to become the shining beacons of modern civilization, while ignoring caste at their peril. From the teacher in ‘The Birth of a Poem’ to the eloquent Doctor Bapu in ‘Thirst’, these characters clash with those who have experienced systemic cruelty like none other and evolve. Despite the repeated use of the words helpless, futile or otherwise, these characters are drawn to revolt, rebellion and decisive revolution to better their lot by hook or by crook.

I’ll end with a note on the book itself so that you can dive into the stories without further ado: Our definitions of death, destitution, suffering and even Hell are varied and often based on personal experience. With Lootaloot, Baburao Bagul challenges sheltered sensibilities by penning an open, bare-faced collection of short stories that force us to be objective. Objective in our understanding of what suffering really is – or at least can be. But beyond these personal readings lies the politics of Dalit writing and, ultimately, the unapologetic depiction of Dalithood as a lived, persistent experience. I hope this translation can continue the legacy of Baburao Bagul’s work. Read, reflect and respond to this text in the ways you sincerely see fit.

लुटालूट

Plunder

Vanchala’s soft features had hardened with pure rage. Her eyes, normally brimming with affection, flickered with spite. Clenched and imprisoned within the vice-like grip of her hands was a letter. A letter that her father had recently inflicted upon her.

He repulsed her. His brutal wickedness had made an indelible mark on her mind. These thoughts swirled in her head the moment she got her hands on his letter. Why doesn’t a snake just bite him and end his miserable existence? she wondered.

Gangu Naikin shuddered when she saw her niece’s expression. A potent combination of fear and sorrow stifled her mind, which was screaming, Did my Nazuka die during childbirth? Did someone thrash Torappa brutally?

Meanwhile, Putali, who had just returned to the room after a bath, also sensed this dread when she saw their grave expressions. She was so fearful of Gangu that she couldn’t even clothe herself with the blouse, which lay draped on her shoulder. Knowing that Gangu became tyrannical whenever she was afflicted by grief, Putali approached the shrine and fervently prayed, hoping she’d be placated somehow. Gangu blankly stared at the numerous scars on her back.

Outside lounged Soni with her shapely, fair thighs in a cross-legged pose as she let the sun frolic on her lustrous back. Gangu’s misery elated her. She gleefully told Vanchala to go ahead and read the contents of the ominous letter.

‘Vanchala, read it out once, won’t you?’ she said. She imagined that the letter contained details about someone having brutally murdered Torappa, which meant Gangu would have to frantically return to her village Gangu hadn’t let her sit idle for a single second since she had bought her. The relentless line of customers exhausted her, and she ached for a moment’s reprieve.

Vanchala hardened her heart and started to read.

‘To, my respected elder sister (who is like my mother), Gangubai, your younger brother Torappa humbly bows before you and salutes you. I wish to inform you that your sister-in-law, Nazuka, with the grace of God…’ To regain her fleeting patience, she stopped for a moment – admittedly, with great effort. Her pause sent Gangu’s doubt-ridden anxiety skyrocketing while Soni lamented that now, because Torappa hadn’t met with an untimely death, she would never get her well-deserved rest.

‘…with the grace of God, has borne a son!’

‘WHAT?!’ Gangu yelled in a moment of supreme joy. On seeing that her sorrows had been dispelled, Putali sighed with no small measure of relief.

‘Nazuka begs you to bring a vajartika, a pair of floral gold earrings and a fine brocaded patal. Also, she insists that this boy and his arrival be celebrated with great pomp and ceremony. So, please send hundred to hundred and fifty rupees immediately. As for myself…’ As she read the letter, filled to the brim with selfish and wanton demands, Vanchala seethed with rage and fell silent, as if hit by a bad case of lockjaw. No matter how hard she tried, she could not read any further, Her heart ached.

Gangu, blinded by the joyous news, deviously ignored Vanchala and said, ‘I’ll send the money by tomorrow. What is the price of money? And, Nazuka, why are you begging, prostrating yourself before someone like me? In fact, I should be grabbing your feet! You have flooded our household with joy and light…’ Gangu was choking with emotion. Her sepia-tinted eyes cascaded tears of joy. Her body quivered with this sudden burst of inner, barely contained emotion. When do I send the money? How do I ensure that Nazuka is adorned like a goddess? Her mind raced.

Soni was agitated after witnessing Gangu’s joyous outburst. She feared that in her ecstatic state, Gangu might just decide to exploit her mercilessly. Putali was relaxed. Vanchala, on the other hand, had become cold and uncaring. She wanted to kill. If not her father, Gangu would do. Her mind coursed with these violent thoughts, and she couldn’t contain herself. ‘Is he a father or a bloody monster?! With an insatiable appetite, a greedy heart – he’s a tormentor, a bloody pimp!’

‘WHAT?’ Gangu suddenly became confrontational.

‘I said what I said. A pimp!’ Vanchala spat, eager to turn into a sword that would unleash itself on Gangu. And Gangu, cunning as she was, swallowed her anger because the young, beautiful, skilful Vanchala was making her a lot of money. She faked a benign attitude to avoid any further trouble.

‘Vanchala, Nazuka may not be your real mother – but she’s a mother, regardless. She hasn’t wronged you. Your mother had five girls after you. Agreed, a lot of money was borrowed and spent to bring Nazuka into our family – but she was worth every penny. She brought fortune with her. She furthered your father’s lineage. She brought Diwali into our house.’

‘Yeah, and turned me into Holi!’ Vanchala erupted. Gangu was furious, since she had to feign helplessness in front of Putali and Soni.

‘Not your father – your bloody sins are responsible!’ Gangu, who was not used to being patient, regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. She remembered Vanchala’s terrible temper and tried to rein herself in. Her dream of wreathing her brother and sister-in-law with gold was beginning to seem impossible.

‘Me… me… me… You accuse me of sinning? Tell me the truth, you old hag, was it me?! Wasn’t I staying with my husband? Even if he beat me, abused me and threw me out of the house – TWICE – wasn’t I the one who dutifully went back? Wasn’t I enduring all his beatings like some hapless cattle?! Wasn’t I toiling so that he could live well? LOOK – just look at this—’ Clack-clack went the buttons on her blouse as . . .