Scan barcode
pravallika_manju's review
dark
emotional
hopeful
informative
inspiring
reflective
sad
tense
medium-paced
4.75
A great work of literature that explores what it is like to be a Dalit, Christian woman in Southern India! Not only does Bama delve into her childhood experiences, but also her encounters with the Church that shaped her world view. A must-read for anyone who wants to read and understand Dalit literature!
Content Warnings
Graphic: Misogyny, Sexism, and Classism
nuts246's review against another edition
5.0
“I never even knew my caste till I had to apply to colleges after grade 12”, many say to prove that the caste system is dead, and hence reservations should be abolished. What they choose not to realise that being “unaware of caste” is a privilege enjoyed only by those of the upper castes. A Dalit is reminded of her caste every single day.
In her searing memoir, Karukku, Dalit Christian writer Bama describes how as a young girl she was amused to see an elder from her community carrying a packet of vadai by it’s string. What if the string broke and the vadai fell down, she said while narrating the scene to her older brother. It was then that she found out that while carrying food for an upper caste person, a Dalit would have to ensure that he didn’t touch the packet even by mistake. She was mortified to hear that, but gradually came to realise that Dalits like herself were treated very differently by those of other castes.
She narrates how on public buses, she was often asked where she lived, and when the street name revealed her caste, she was ordered to vacate her seat after the person sitting next to her. When she refused, the other person would often stand up herself, but would not remain seated next to her. She talks of how her mother often advised her to lie about her caste since it was unlikely she would be found out, but Bama refused. She was rebelling on behalf of the community- for her it was an act of protest against injustice.
The most poignant passages, however, are those where Bama talks of how they started working even before sunrise, and kept working till dead of night, yet, remained poor. Dalits would be made to do the jobs that nobody else was willing to, and were kept poor by the upper caste employers who underpaid them (often a fistful of millets for a day’s work), and by upper caste tradespersons who always short changed them while bartering goods or services. Dalits, as she writes, work exceedingly hard, but barely survive-
”When I saw our people working so hard night and day, I often used to wonder from where they got their strength. And I used to think that at the rate they worked, men and women both, every single day, they should really be able to advance themselves. But of course, they never received a payment that was appropriate to their labour.”
“This is a community that was born to work. And however hard they toil, it is the same kuuzh every day. The same broken grain gruel. The same watery dried-fish curry, it seems they never even reflect upon their own terrible state of affairs. But do they have any time to think? You have to wonder how the upper castes would survive without these people. For its only when they fall asleep at night that their arms and legs are still; they seem to be at work at all other times. And they have to keep working until the moment of death. It is only in this way that they can even half-fill their bellies.”
If daily discrimination and not being sufficiently compensated for hard labour is not bad enough, Dalits often have to deal with the casual assumptions of people who do not wish them harm. Bama narrates the story of how she was forced to lock herself into a bathroom and cry during a college function, because she didn’t have anything to wear. “Why didn’t you write home and ask them to send you a silk saree?”, a friends enquires casually. How could Bama explain to her that her family is so poor they have never owned even a single silk saree. Her friend didn’t mean to hurt her, but the remark hurt.
After becoming a teacher, Bama decided she could make a positive difference in the lives of young Dalit school children if she joined a convent, so she took up vows. However, she encountered casteism even in the convent. She realised that “The Jesus they worshipped was a wealthy Jesus. I saw no connection between God and the suffering poor.” The nuns, she writes, were more interested in what they would cook and eat than in how they could provide the best education and the best pastoral care to those who needed it most.
Why can’t Dalits just study and move out of the cycle of poverty? Bama addresses that too. In school, Dalit students were made to run around performing menial tasks, and would be the first to be blamed when something went wrong. While there were a few token Dalit children in many schools, the students were not given as much attention as the others. When it came to jobs too, caste often became a reason to not recruit Dalits. On paper, the caste system has been abolished, but it flourishes in myriad ways, and keeps them down.
Karukku is a book we need to read to understand what it means to be a poor, Dalit woman. It peels off the layers of religious hypocrisy and caste discrimination and you are forced to confront the everyday lived reality of people. However, there is also joy. The games they played, the songs they sung, the religious gatherings they attended. It is when you read of how they continue to squeeze joy out of an existence that will crippled most people that the full enormity of the oppressive caste system really hits you.
Outspoken, direct and hard hitting, this book is a must read.
In her searing memoir, Karukku, Dalit Christian writer Bama describes how as a young girl she was amused to see an elder from her community carrying a packet of vadai by it’s string. What if the string broke and the vadai fell down, she said while narrating the scene to her older brother. It was then that she found out that while carrying food for an upper caste person, a Dalit would have to ensure that he didn’t touch the packet even by mistake. She was mortified to hear that, but gradually came to realise that Dalits like herself were treated very differently by those of other castes.
She narrates how on public buses, she was often asked where she lived, and when the street name revealed her caste, she was ordered to vacate her seat after the person sitting next to her. When she refused, the other person would often stand up herself, but would not remain seated next to her. She talks of how her mother often advised her to lie about her caste since it was unlikely she would be found out, but Bama refused. She was rebelling on behalf of the community- for her it was an act of protest against injustice.
The most poignant passages, however, are those where Bama talks of how they started working even before sunrise, and kept working till dead of night, yet, remained poor. Dalits would be made to do the jobs that nobody else was willing to, and were kept poor by the upper caste employers who underpaid them (often a fistful of millets for a day’s work), and by upper caste tradespersons who always short changed them while bartering goods or services. Dalits, as she writes, work exceedingly hard, but barely survive-
”When I saw our people working so hard night and day, I often used to wonder from where they got their strength. And I used to think that at the rate they worked, men and women both, every single day, they should really be able to advance themselves. But of course, they never received a payment that was appropriate to their labour.”
“This is a community that was born to work. And however hard they toil, it is the same kuuzh every day. The same broken grain gruel. The same watery dried-fish curry, it seems they never even reflect upon their own terrible state of affairs. But do they have any time to think? You have to wonder how the upper castes would survive without these people. For its only when they fall asleep at night that their arms and legs are still; they seem to be at work at all other times. And they have to keep working until the moment of death. It is only in this way that they can even half-fill their bellies.”
If daily discrimination and not being sufficiently compensated for hard labour is not bad enough, Dalits often have to deal with the casual assumptions of people who do not wish them harm. Bama narrates the story of how she was forced to lock herself into a bathroom and cry during a college function, because she didn’t have anything to wear. “Why didn’t you write home and ask them to send you a silk saree?”, a friends enquires casually. How could Bama explain to her that her family is so poor they have never owned even a single silk saree. Her friend didn’t mean to hurt her, but the remark hurt.
After becoming a teacher, Bama decided she could make a positive difference in the lives of young Dalit school children if she joined a convent, so she took up vows. However, she encountered casteism even in the convent. She realised that “The Jesus they worshipped was a wealthy Jesus. I saw no connection between God and the suffering poor.” The nuns, she writes, were more interested in what they would cook and eat than in how they could provide the best education and the best pastoral care to those who needed it most.
Why can’t Dalits just study and move out of the cycle of poverty? Bama addresses that too. In school, Dalit students were made to run around performing menial tasks, and would be the first to be blamed when something went wrong. While there were a few token Dalit children in many schools, the students were not given as much attention as the others. When it came to jobs too, caste often became a reason to not recruit Dalits. On paper, the caste system has been abolished, but it flourishes in myriad ways, and keeps them down.
Karukku is a book we need to read to understand what it means to be a poor, Dalit woman. It peels off the layers of religious hypocrisy and caste discrimination and you are forced to confront the everyday lived reality of people. However, there is also joy. The games they played, the songs they sung, the religious gatherings they attended. It is when you read of how they continue to squeeze joy out of an existence that will crippled most people that the full enormity of the oppressive caste system really hits you.
Outspoken, direct and hard hitting, this book is a must read.
dinojah's review against another edition
challenging
reflective
sad
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? No
3.5
liviaantony's review against another edition
4.0
Apart from her experiences, Bama's lucid prose makes this book interesting. It is easy to miss the nuances of the Dalit tongue in translation but Lakshmi Hölmstrom is a shrewd translator. Look for the index at the back of the book if you get confused.
aashima's review against another edition
emotional
reflective
sad
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
4.0
Karukku is a powerful subaltern narrative about caste hegemony. It also shows a spiritual and theological argument with the self. When a fraction of people monopolize faith and treat you as a lesser child of God, how do you reclaim it? Bama chooses to be vulnerable, saying, "I comfort myself with the thought that rather than live with a fraudulent smile, it is better to lead a life weeping real tears."
In an interview celebrating 25 years of Karukku, she said, "Celebration and assertion: these are the two wings. And that’s how we (dalits) fly." It shows how Bama worked from a breakdown towards a cleansing moment of clarity.
In an interview celebrating 25 years of Karukku, she said, "Celebration and assertion: these are the two wings. And that’s how we (dalits) fly." It shows how Bama worked from a breakdown towards a cleansing moment of clarity.
kavya09's review
5.0
My first encounter with Dalit writing - and it was heartbreaking, beautiful and powerfully moving. Can't stop thinking about the strength of her writing.
dhanyanarayanan's review against another edition
3.0
Let me begin this review by making a confession. I have always been proud of my identity as a feminist, bibliophile and bibliomane.(Please excuse me if my tone sounds overweening!) Inspite of that, all these years why did I not come across ‘Karukku’ written by Bama, a Tamil Dalit feminist writer? This book was first published in Tamil in 1992, but got translated to English by Lakshmi Holmstrom in 2000 and won the Crossword award that year. Was it entirely my fault that I did not stumble upon her because I was neck deep ‘immersed’ in medical books? Or was it because that the book was not reviewed or popularised in mainstream media due to Bama’s multiple ‘disagreeable’ identities? I wish to believe that my first hypothesis is true inspite of enough evidence in favour of the second one. It was not until last week, when my bibliolater friend-cum-elder-brother figure told about his ‘discovery’ of Bama, that I became aware of the existence of Bama and her autobiography, Karukku. For him, who is an avid reader, interested in history, literature and politics since childhood, it took years to chance upon this book. He opined that this could be a reflection of the pathetic state of affairs of Dalits and anything concerned with them in our country, whether it is Dalit literature or Dalit art forms.
Bama is the pen name of Faustina Mary Fatima Rani who is a Dalit Christian from Puthupatti in Tamil Nadu. She is a mathematics teacher by profession, a novelist by passion and an activist by nature. Bama attributes education as the absolute reason for all her achievements in life and emphasises that only through education a change can happen. Bama rose to fame as the first ever Dalit woman writer in Tamil with her book ‘Karukku’, which in Tamil means palmyra leaves with serrated edges on both sides. She has to her credit three other novels, ‘Sangati’ ,’Vanam’ and ‘Manushi’ and many short stories.
In Karukku, Bama attempts to provide us a glimpse of her life as a Dalit girl growing up in a village in Tamil Nadu. Though she was a good student, she never hesitated to do household work or help her mother and grandmother earn some extra money by working in a farm. As a child she failed to understand why inspite of hard physical labour, nobody from her village was able to live like the Naickers who were well off and lived comfortably enjoying the fruits of somebody else’s labor. This book is about her journey spanning over many years of hardship, when she finally realised why it was so. I am ashamed of myself for having failed to change the conviction of some of my friends who sternly believe that Dalits are responsible for their own ‘pathetic’ state because they are lazy, spend most of their money on alcohol and do not work hard. To wish that those friends would read Karukku would be immature and ridiculous; but I do hope, at least once in their life time, they find time to listen intently to what people like Bama have to say!
Chimmamanda Ngozie Adichie who is one of my favourite authors, says in The Danger of a Single Story, that there is an inherent danger in reducing human beings to just a single story; by doing so we are dehumanising them. When Muslims are known only by a single story of being religious fanatics and terrorists , when Dalits are described by a single story of being ‘cow eaters’ and nothing more, they are being denied the consideration we all deserve as humankind. In Karukku, Bama introduces us to her people who live like any one of us, trying hard to make a living but yearning to enjoy simple pleasures in life by singing and dancing amidst all hardships. Books like this should be read and taught because they impart a deeper understanding and could make us more empathetic and humane.
Much can be learnt about a society by observing the games children play because children imitate adults flawlessly. Bama remembers their games as children where they did role play as upper caste men insulting Dalits or as men who went for work and came home to beat their wives up! For making such observations, Bama was ostracised by her own people who took time to realise that she was working for their common good. Though she had to pay a heavy price by losing her job and comfortable life style, Bama emerged as a strong woman by taking a decision to leave the congregation where she lived for 7 years because the injustice within the ‘secure walls’ of the convent became intolerable for her. Karukku is also a truthful account of Bama’s evolution as a human being and her sincerity is something which cannot be missed.
With utmost humility I realise that Dalit is a Marathi word derived from Sanskrit word ‘dala’ which means ‘of the soil or earth’ or ‘rooted in the soil’, extrapolation of which could mean ‘ground down’. Irrespective of whichever caste you were born into, if you have ever been subjected to feel unworthy of yourself by anybody( be it society, government, family or friends), then you are a Dalit. I owe it to Bama and her book for this simple realisation which has dawned in me.
Bama is the pen name of Faustina Mary Fatima Rani who is a Dalit Christian from Puthupatti in Tamil Nadu. She is a mathematics teacher by profession, a novelist by passion and an activist by nature. Bama attributes education as the absolute reason for all her achievements in life and emphasises that only through education a change can happen. Bama rose to fame as the first ever Dalit woman writer in Tamil with her book ‘Karukku’, which in Tamil means palmyra leaves with serrated edges on both sides. She has to her credit three other novels, ‘Sangati’ ,’Vanam’ and ‘Manushi’ and many short stories.
In Karukku, Bama attempts to provide us a glimpse of her life as a Dalit girl growing up in a village in Tamil Nadu. Though she was a good student, she never hesitated to do household work or help her mother and grandmother earn some extra money by working in a farm. As a child she failed to understand why inspite of hard physical labour, nobody from her village was able to live like the Naickers who were well off and lived comfortably enjoying the fruits of somebody else’s labor. This book is about her journey spanning over many years of hardship, when she finally realised why it was so. I am ashamed of myself for having failed to change the conviction of some of my friends who sternly believe that Dalits are responsible for their own ‘pathetic’ state because they are lazy, spend most of their money on alcohol and do not work hard. To wish that those friends would read Karukku would be immature and ridiculous; but I do hope, at least once in their life time, they find time to listen intently to what people like Bama have to say!
Chimmamanda Ngozie Adichie who is one of my favourite authors, says in The Danger of a Single Story, that there is an inherent danger in reducing human beings to just a single story; by doing so we are dehumanising them. When Muslims are known only by a single story of being religious fanatics and terrorists , when Dalits are described by a single story of being ‘cow eaters’ and nothing more, they are being denied the consideration we all deserve as humankind. In Karukku, Bama introduces us to her people who live like any one of us, trying hard to make a living but yearning to enjoy simple pleasures in life by singing and dancing amidst all hardships. Books like this should be read and taught because they impart a deeper understanding and could make us more empathetic and humane.
Much can be learnt about a society by observing the games children play because children imitate adults flawlessly. Bama remembers their games as children where they did role play as upper caste men insulting Dalits or as men who went for work and came home to beat their wives up! For making such observations, Bama was ostracised by her own people who took time to realise that she was working for their common good. Though she had to pay a heavy price by losing her job and comfortable life style, Bama emerged as a strong woman by taking a decision to leave the congregation where she lived for 7 years because the injustice within the ‘secure walls’ of the convent became intolerable for her. Karukku is also a truthful account of Bama’s evolution as a human being and her sincerity is something which cannot be missed.
With utmost humility I realise that Dalit is a Marathi word derived from Sanskrit word ‘dala’ which means ‘of the soil or earth’ or ‘rooted in the soil’, extrapolation of which could mean ‘ground down’. Irrespective of whichever caste you were born into, if you have ever been subjected to feel unworthy of yourself by anybody( be it society, government, family or friends), then you are a Dalit. I owe it to Bama and her book for this simple realisation which has dawned in me.