“Do not call them ‘Upper Castes’, call them ‘Other Castes’, We are the Upper castes.”Says Radhika Vemula

Looking through the car window in front of Feroke college main gate, Rohith Vemula’s mother Radhika Vemula reads out a banner: “Where is Najeeb?”. Najeeb is missing from October 15th. And Rohith Vemula committed suicide on 17th January 2016, barely a month and half left to next January 17th. Radhika vemula is curious about the student community, how the campus respond things happening around, about the composition of students from Dalit-Muslim communities, and about the presence of right wing student organizations. Radhika says she is under severe threat from the ruling party BJP. A Mala woman who earned her bread on her own, hailing from Guntur, is now travelling all through the country, fighting the fundamental autocratic state which murdered her son for being a Dalit. “we must take revenge on the BJP through votes because it is this government that has turned a blind eye towards Dalits of the country and my son is an example.” Says Mrs. Vemula. “the universities in the country are made as if they are not meant for Dalits. We personally took initiatives to select a representative from our community for the MLA, MP posts, but indirectly we see them working only for their parties and our voice is oppressed by them.” Underlining the idea of self respect, Radhika asks people whom she met, not to vote for BJP. For her, as she clearly puts it what is left to do is to talk to students, in whom she see her son Rohit.” Her fight is on till the killer VC Appa Rao resigns and the Rohit Act gets enacted. The Velivada, the makeshift tent the thrown out students built, stays in the university’s shopping complex. It survived attempt s of demolition. ‘Rohith smaraka stupa’ stays broken after surviving demolition. It reminds for Rohith, it was difficult to spend 2:AM in the morning and 2:PM afternoon inside the velivada because of the weather extremes. Each journey for her is an attempt to strengthen the movement her son started off killing himself, which spread over the entire country in various scales. The UoH administration comfortably forgot the fact that they murdered a Dalit student, that they repeated the history of suicides of Dalit students in the campus, that they concealed an important police affidavit that proves the five students who were thrown out had done nothing wrong. And they still entertain themselves the positions they are appointed in. The infamous campus gate of University of Hyderabad where a non-student have to submit an identity card before entering is still hostile to Radhika Vemula. By March 2016 itself the gate became almost exclusive. Solidarity talks were made at the closed gates where the students listened to them with the gate separating both. And the painted off graffities on campus walls talks much about the Brahmin arrogance. As a reply to my comment that current Indian feminism is colored by upper caste women and is senseless, Radhika Vemula corrects me saying : “do not call them ‘upper castes’, call them ‘other castes’. We are the upper castes” aptly translated by Rohith’s childhood friend Sheik Riyas, who accompanies Mrs. Vemula these days. Recollecting the meeting with Fatima Nafees, Najeeb’s mother who is out in the streets for her missing son, Mrs. Vemula thinks its important to stay together and fight the state. She also visited the murdered Islam convert Faisal’s mother Jameela at Malappuram. These meetings sends a strong statement to the right wing elements of the country. These women are organizing themselves against the patriarchal fascist government. Apart from the meetings and programs to attend next month, Radhika Vemula is firm at the fact that she will enter University of Hyderabad on coming January 17th. She sounded hopeful.

Saibaba's Prison Stories

“We are banned people” being caught between an urge to speak in Hindi or Telugu, not wanting to talk in English, the revolutionary poet and Revolutionary Democratic Front's president Varavara Rao asserted his comradeship with GN Saibaba, who got released on bail after spending 14 months in Nagpur Central Jail, being charged under Unlawful Activities Prevention Act (UAPA). They are banned people, banned even in their Telugu homeland. 

Saibaba was here in Hyderabad on May 26th, to talk about his prison days. Stories from behind the bars. A voice which is beaten up for no reason is free now. Saibaba can travel now.

“I was asked not to speak in Warangal. But I am habituated with that. My voice is being scrambled. Finally, speaking is a crime. Speaking is the only crime."

 He was kept inside the anda cell, which is 'secured' with seven high iron gates. The cell in which he was kept was occupied by a Dalit singer, for five years. In the initial days, he heard young boys calling out his name, from another section of the anda cell. And also anda cells are meant for 'criminals', terrorists who are awaiting capital punishment etc. these were built during Rajiv Gandhis reign, to keep insurgents for Punjab.

  

For four months Saibaba was scrawling inside his cell.

 "My wheel chair was broke. My left hand was broke.

I refused to take food because there was no toilet....It took nine months to construct a small western toilet inside my cell and till date it does not work. It took four months to get me a new wheel-chair which my wife brought from Delhi. Till then I was crawling and no support,” in prison basic human rights were denied for him. It was the continuous struggle by the adivasi boys which took almost twenty days that made some changes in his condition. 

Gandhi's Sinners

At the entrance of Nagpur Central Jail, he found a photograph of Gandhi which reads, "the prisoners should accept themselves as sinners". Ironically, 85% of these 'sinners' are Dalits, Adivasis and minorities. They are kept behind the bars for petty cases, most of them were committed by somebody else. These days, the rest of the prison is all excited to see this person who joined them recently, whose face is flashing in all the tv channels they watch and news papers they read daily. Saibaba started receiving secret letters from other cells, through jailers and guards. 

"the magistrate gave my charge sheet in Marathi and asked me to get a translator for myself...if I write one sentence in Telugu they want to know what it is." Saibaba remembers how difficult it was to write a letter to his wife or to Rao. "also, the jail officials who are dalits and adivasis were not trusted by the state" which indicates whichever position you enjoy in the state machinery, your caste matters first. 

Most of the prisoners were not taken to court for trials. the jail authorities conducted video conferences. Trials were made in a language most of the prisoners don't understand. He found this unfair. Saibaba's fight against this unjust system could end it. An activist can't remain just as a prisoner inside his cell. 

Saibaba's new book.

A friend of Saibaba sent Kenyan writer Ngugi wa Thiong'o's “Dreams in a Time of War- A childhood memoir” by finding the Mou Mou movement of Kenya similar to the current adivasi uprising in india and urban students protests. Saibaba started translating the book into his mother tongue Telugu, and named it 'Yuddhakalamlo Swapnaalu: Balya Gnapakalu'. the book will soon get published with a preface by Varavara Rao,

"For three months, each page I wrote would be immediately hidden in any of the 29 Anda cells and reached to the prisoner who had a scheduled court visit. He would carry it in his underwear and hand it over to his lawyer and then my lawyer" this is how the pages reached outside, to safer hands from the unsafe cells.

On People's Movements

“People have fought rigorously and set the values. I have desired a lot. Unfortunately, it has not happened. Unless land is liberated from corporate exploitation, there cannot be people’s democracy,” said the professor, adding that “fight for Adivasi is not in support of Maoists. It is a fight for our own as we cannot survive without A

divasis and forests."

On Students Movements

"University campuses are turning into prison houses"says an alumni of both University of Hyderabad and EFLU hyderabad.

"Another students movement will start after the summer vacation. Students are trying to identify themselves with the larger group against fascist tendencies. I want to document and bring together all the students movements from across the country. The aim is to gather teachers’ support in students movement.”

he says, fascism is parallel to genocide.

Saibaba concluded saying that he could get out of the prison because of the strong campaign which was happened. "I'm one among the people who are still behind the bars. Why can't we release all the political prisoners? Voices are there, but the court is not responding."

Getting down from the bike.

Book from lap falls down.

Men stares.

"Two chai"

Red tocken reads: spicy chai

"Thammudu, this is new one?"

"Aah, it was not there when she took my photo"

She smiles at the chai wala.

Both of them goes to the couch.

Kartheek sits and sighs. She goes to buy cigarette.

“Baito” an elderly man gets up, she sits where he was sitting,

“Amma, give me ten rupees, for my tiffin” 

he asks her money, she gives coins.

He had ten rupees already. Its 14 rupees now.

She says, I have nothing much to give.

He goes and stands in front of chai shop.

He doesn’t look like a beggar.

Men gets out of auto to have biryani from ‘spicy’.

Men leaves 'Spicy' with biryani packets and hundred notes in hand.

Elder man leaves the place, he walks away towards the junction.

She sips the chai.

Kartheek is in a call.

Now nobody is staring at her. 

i always wanted to be numb about my distant love. distant love means distant love. no messenger or phone call helps. but the year- old smells, streets you fell for, long conversations, journeys, books, songs, movies, love for things old stays. common love for the planet stays. photographic memories of all these stays. appreciation stays. arguments stays. voices echoes. scenes repeats. replay of things. you know that nothing can help you. you know that the more you think the more you bleed, and you never want to be meek. the pictures you drew on that distant wall, the things you snatched from him like a kid, the strange vulnerability that overrules you when you meet him, all these make you feel stupid. but objects carry people than anything. at the same time you think that there are cruel sorrows other than love. yours is a better life. you think of enraged poetry you read till the last night. you find poetry more powerful than ever.you clean up things, you wash your clothes with single bucket of water which is scarce. you fall down on the wet floor. you got purple marks here and there.
you find yourself even more in pain. but you know pain is something else, pain is somewhere else. now, you just need a drop of numbness-that you already have.

പല വേഗത്തിലുള്ള ശ്വാസം.

ഓടിവരുന്ന ഒരു വണ്ടിച്ചക്രത്തിന്റെ
കീഴെയാണ് ഞാനിപ്പോൾ
അതിൽ ഒട്ടിപ്പിടിച്ച് യാത്ര ചെയ്യുന്നു,
നിങ്ങളുമായുള്ള എല്ലാം  മുറിച്ച്
ഒളിച്ച് പോകണമെന്നുണ്ട്,
പക്ഷേ അടുക്കളയിലെ പ്രാവുകൾ
എന്റെ തലയിൽ ഒരു തൂവൽ ഇട്ടിട്ടു പോകുന്നു.
ചെമ്പരത്തികളുടെ ശവങ്ങൾക്കിടയിൽ
ചെമ്പൻ നിറമുള്ള പൂച്ചകൾ
കഴുത്തിൽ മത്തി കുരുക്കി ആത്മഹത്യ ചെയ്യുന്നു .

പാരനോയ.
പേടി.
പാളങ്ങൾ കണ്ണി വിട്ടു ചിതറുന്നുണ്ട്.
കഞ്ചാവിലകളുടെ കൂട്ടത്തിൽ
മരങ്ങളിൽ നിന്നും കാട്ടു തേനിന്റെ മണവും കലരും.
കാടിനിടയിലൂടെ മലയിറങ്ങി എന്റെ ബസ്
കുലുക്കത്തിലാണ്.
എന്റെ മുലകളിലുള്ള അസ്വസ്ഥത
കാമത്തിന്റെതല്ല
പകയുടെ വിയർപ്പിന്റെയാണ്
പക പ്രണയത്തിന്റെയല്ല.
പകയിൽ നിന്ന് എന്നെ വേർതിരിച്ചാൽ ഞാനില്ല.
മടക്ക യാത്രയിൽ തീവണ്ടിയിലെ
മുറിഞ്ഞ സ്വപ്‌നങ്ങൾ,
ദേ  ജാവു ,
യാത്രയിൽ നിന്ന് പെറുക്കിയെടുക്കുന്ന ചിത്രങ്ങൾ
ഉടലിലെ മുറിവുകൾ,
ചോര കക്കിയ പാടുകൾ
ഒക്കെത്തിനെയും പറ്റി പറഞ്ഞു മടുത്തു.
എന്നെ ഞാൻ തന്നെ ഏറ്റെടുക്കുന്നു,
ലോകം എന്നെയോരിക്കലും ഏറ്റെടുക്കരുത്.

അതുകൊണ്ട്,
ഇപ്പോൾ ഞാൻ ഒരു ഗേറ്റിനു മുന്നിൽ നിൽക്കുകയാണ്
ഇതുപോലെ ഉരുകും മട്ടിലുള്ള
നീലച്ചായം തേച്ച ഗേറ്റ്
ഗേറ്റിന്റെ മേലെ കേറി നിന്ന്
ഗേറ്റിനു പുറത്ത് നിന്ന് അകത്തുള്ളവരോട്
സംസാരിക്കുന്നവരുടെ ഫോട്ടോ എടുക്കുന്നവൻ.
കലാപത്തിൽ
ഇലകളോളം മൃദുവായി നിൽക്കുന്നത് ഒന്ന് മാത്രം,
പല വേഗത്തിലുള്ള ശ്വാസം. 

Silent Emergency in University of Hyderbad

പൊളിഞ്ഞ പത്തായത്തിനകത്ത് കട്ടുറുമ്പുകൾ പായുന്ന ഒച്ച. 
മേലെ ചുരുട്ടിവെച്ച പായ. ഒഴിഞ്ഞ കുഞ്ഞു ഭരണി. 
കൊട്ടിലകത്ത് കുടുങ്ങിപ്പോയ ഒരു പ്രാവ്. 
പറക്കലിനിടെ അത് ക്യൂട്ടെക്സ് കുപ്പികൾ തട്ടി താഴെയിടുന്നു. 
നിലത്ത് ചിതൽ ഒട്ടിച്ചു വെച്ച ഒരു കളിക്കുടുക്ക. 
ഒന്നുമുടുക്കാത്ത ഓടിനടക്കുന്ന എനിക്ക് മണ്ണിന്റെ വിയർപ്പ് മണം. 
ഹോ! നാലാമത്തെ വയസ്സ്!!

ഇപ്പോൾ ഒരു പെണ്ണ് 
ഞാൻ കരിമ്പടം പുഴുവിനെ ഞെരിച്ചു കൊന്ന 
എന്റെ വിരലിൽ നഖം കൊണ്ട് പോറുന്നു. 
അമ്മ വരാന്ത കഴുകുകയാണ്. 
ജനലിലൂടെ മാവിലകളും കടന്നു കഷ്ടപ്പെട്ടിറങ്ങുന്ന സൂര്യനിൽ 
ഞാൻ എന്റേതായ ഒരു ബാലെ ഒരുക്കുന്നു. 
ബാലെ എന്താണെന്ന് എനിക്കറിയില്ല, 
എന്നാൽ അന്നെനിക്ക് ബാലേ നർത്തകിയാകനം .
എന്റേതായ നൃത്തം, എന്റെ നഗ്നമായ ഉടൽ, 
ചിലന്തിവലകളും ഉണക്കയിലകളും കുടുങ്ങിയ എന്റെ തല...
മടുക്കുമ്പോൾ ഞാൻ വെള്ളത്തിൽ മലർന്ന് കിടക്കുന്നു. 
ഓട്ടുറുമകൾ, പല്ലികൾ എന്നിവ ഓടിനടക്കുന്ന മേൽക്കൂരേ, 
വെട്ടത്തിനും എനിക്കുമിടയിൽ കോണിയും പാമ്പും കളിയുടെ വേഗം കൊണ്ട് പാലം തീർത്ത് കരി മണക്കുന്ന അമ്മയുടെ മടിയിൽ വെറുതെ ആകാശം നോക്കി കിടക്കണ മായിരുന്നു അന്ന്.
നീ ഒരു സ്യൂഡ് ആയിരുന്നു. മഴയത്ത് ചോരുകയും ഒരു വഷളൻ ചിരി കൊണ്ട് അമ്മാമ്മയെ വിഷമിപ്പിക്കുകയും ചെയ്തു. നീ ഒരു സ്യൂഡ് ആയിരുന്നു, ഞാനും എന്റെ പ്രാവും കൂടി സാങ്കല്പികമായ ഒരു വീടൊരുക്കി ജോലിക്കാരിയായി കളിക്കുമ്പോൾ നീയതു നോക്കി പുഞ്ചിരിച്ചതു പോലുമില്ല. ഞാൻ പിന്നെയും വളർന്നു. എന്റെ തൊണ്ടയിൽ ഞണ്ടുകളും വളർന്നു. എനിക്ക് തണുത്ത വെള്ളമോ കാറ്റോ യാത്രകളോ പറ്റാതായി. ഞാൻ രോഗിയും ധിക്കാരിയും തന്നിഷ്ടക്കാരിയുമായി. വേണ്ടി വന്നപ്പോൾ ഞാൻ ഉമ്മകളിലേക്കും കടലിലേക്കും ഒരു പോലെ ഓടിച്ചെന്നു. മണ്ണ് എന്നെ കാട് കാട്ടി കൊതിപ്പിച്ചു. ആകാശം കത്തുകൾ കാട്ടി കൊതിപ്പിച്ചു. മതിയാവോളം ജീവിച്ചാൽ മരിക്കാം എന്ന് തീരുമാനിച്ചു. എന്റെ ഒറ്റമുറി വീട്ടിലിരുന്നു പിന്നെയും കോണിയും പാമ്പും കളിക്കാനുള്ള തോന്നലാണ്...