The stench that refuses to go away

When I was a boy, the one thing that affected me deeply was the sight of those women who were engaged in manual scavenging.

When I was a boy, the one thing that affected me deeply was the sight of those women who were engaged in manual scavenging. In those days, in the underdeveloped parts of Madras city, people were using dry latrines. West Mambalam, where we lived, was one of them. Every day in the morning came these Telugu-speaking women carrying on their shoulders, buckets in which they would collect night soil from door to door.

Even though they carried people’s stool on their shoulders, they remained uncomplaining and happy. They bore no anger, no ill will towards the society which did not consider them as humans. Instead of being grateful to these unlettered women who migrated from the remote villages of Andhra to the city of Madras in search of employment, people treated them as untouchables and unworthy of being even looked at. Wearing faded saris and chewing tobacco, these women would go about cleaning toilets. I used to watch them as they entered our gate submissively after making sure that they would not run into occupants of the house.

When occasionally, accidentally they happened to encounter the occupants, they faced a torrent of rebukes. Some people covered their mouth and nose while walking past these scavengers. I hated the people who looked down upon these women. Some of these women had babies in their arms. Babies would be left crying and kicking their legs in the air on a piece of dirty cloth spread on the ground under some tree while their mothers were going about their duty.

I clearly remember having told my father, “I can’t stand this anymore. Can’t we move to T Nagar where houses have Bombay latrines?” How these women cringed for Diwali and Pongal ‘eenam’ before each house on the street. Before throwing a coin or two the heartless residents would scold them with humiliating gestures and words.

How on earth can these women bear such indignities with poise? I used to wonder. Was it because their senses were dulled by the stench they faced every day? It is true that we have come a long way since those days of dry toilets. But the plight of those hapless women has not left my memory. In my eyes they will always remain as Night Soil Nightingales.

M R Anand

Email: mr.m.r.anand@gmail.com

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