This story was first published on May 10, 2024
A long and winding road leads to Bul Garhi village in Hathras. It’s 3 pm. Despite the high temperature, a cool breeze is blowing. Around 150 people are seen sitting under a crimson tent. A Bhagwat Katha has been organised by one of the families in the village. People are fully immersed in the proceedings. A few heads turn as our car moves towards the famous, or infamous, half-built house just across the road. Three CRPF jawans are standing in the courtyard.
We fill the daily visit logbook at the entrance of the house and walk through the metal scanner. The CRPF jawans let us in. A man emerges from t🍃he hꦇouse, tells us to park our car inside for “safety” and quickly escorts us in.
“People don’t like it when journalists visit us. Sometimes they threaten them,” he ♍says. He points at the tent and says: “The accused and their families are sitting there.”
On September 14, 2020, his sister, a 19-year-old Dalit girl, was allegedly gangraped by four upper-caste men. She sustained severe injuries in her spinal cord and her toওngue had allegedly been cut off. She struggled for her life for about two weeks but later succumbed to her injuries in Delhi’s Safdarjung Hospital.
Her death, and her hushed cremation in the dead of the night, sent shockwaves across the nation. Her brothers allege that she was cremated without the consent of the family. They say they don’t even know if it was indeed their sister who was cremated that day. After widespread protests, the case was transferred to the Central Bureau of Investigation (CBI).
“This is how it is now,” the younger of the two brothers says. “The ones who committed the crime are roaming free with their chests swollen with pride as if they’ve done something extraordinary. And we, on the other hand, we are prisoners in our own 𝓀home,” he adds.
Of the four accused, three were acquitted of charges and released in March 2023. The main accused, Sandeep, was sentenced to life imprisonment for culpable homicide not amounting to murder. The CBI had charged the four accused under Sections 376 (rape), 376 (D) (gang rape), and 302 (murder), along with offences under the SC/ST Act, however, the charges were💫 dropped by a district court in UP.
As the Dalit family still awaits justice four years on, a parallel tragedy has unfolded. The family—the girl’s two brothers, the el൲der brother’s wife and three children, and the ♏girl’s parents—is almost out of the compensation money they were given.
“We can’t go to work. Both of us used to work in Delhi but we had to quit and come here. My children can’t go to school. We can’t even freely ꧂walk in our neighbourhood or go to the market to buy vegetables. Everywhere we go, the CRPF jawans accompany us. We are literally under house arrest. We can’t even take our cattle out,” the elder brother says.
The Dalit family says𒅌 they’ve had to bear the expenses of travel to the High Court and the Supreme Court multiple times, booking private taxis that charge exorbitant amounts of money. “On top of that, all our living expenses have come out of the Rs 25 lakh compensation, but we are almost out of it now. What do we do? The government had promised to accommodate us because living in this village isn’t safe but nothing has been♋ given to us yet,” says the elder brother.
While the situation has deteriorated for the family, the accused, the brothers say, have been on a road to economic prosperity ever since they were released. “One of them recently bought a tractor and another bought a piece of land. The case had made international headlines and all their 🅺names had become public but they don’t seem to care at all. In fact, they actually feel invincible,” he adds.
Being one of the only three families in a village dominated by Thakurs and Brahmins, survival has been hard, the brothers say. “The caste divisions just got more pronounced when the incident happened. We had good relations with most people but the minute this happened, everyone turned their backs. We were shocked how people could stand with the perpetrators just 𒆙because they belonged to the same caste. Where is their humanity?” asks the younger brother.
They say the situation would have played out differently if the accused was a Dalit and the girl belonged to an upper-caste family. “We are like that insect which can be♓ squeezed between one’s fingertips,” the elder brother says.
***
In another part of Hathras, in Nayee Nagla, an area dominated by the Valmiki community, a feeling of betrayal washes over the residents. A young safai karmachari speaks up on behalf of the locals who’ve gathered in the congested lane. “I have a question for Yogi ji. If your administration is so strict, these people committing crimes like rapes and thefts, where are the💯y getting the courage from?” he asks.
The Valmiki community, which forms a major par♍t of the population in Hathras, has been disappointed by the way the case was handled, with some saying that it had shown them where their community actually stands in society. The gangrape case has emerged as a poll issue.
“Jo humari raksha na kar sake use kya vote dein (how can we vote for someone who can’t ensure oওur safety),” Meena Devi, who works as a cleaner at a hospital during the night, says. “The girl did not get justice. They released the three accused. One da🔜y, the fourth one will also come out,” she adds.
The people gathered in the lane said they fear sending their girls to school after they grow up a bit. “What if someone pounces on them in the market, or on their way home? And I’m talking about the main city where we are in such big numbers. I can’t even imagine the treatment that people from our community must get as the only Dalit families in a village full of upper caste people,” says Vishal Valmiki, a safai karmachari.
Apart f꧂rom women’s safety, rising unemployment, lack of educational access and inflation are som♊e other issues, the community says, which are driving them to the brink of poverty and making their survival a challenge.
“We are daily wage labourers. Depending on what we manage t﷽o earn, we eat accordingly. Sometimes, we eat leftovers the next day. This is the crux of our survival. We don’t have any savings,” says Kuku Kumar Valmiki, a resident of Nayee Nagla. “Our community has been reduced to dirt. We are nothing. We now want a change in leadership. We need to secure our rights,” he adds. When asked to comment on the Ram temple hundreds of kilometres away, he says: “Even if we dress up wearing our best clothes and go to the Ram temple, we will be denied entry. We are Valmikis, so no Ram Rajya for us.”
***
About 120 km away, in Budaun’s Sahaswan tehsil, locals are facing a different but similar struggle for survival. In Ismailpur, a village identified by an NGO, Model Village Trust, as one of the most backward, locals are awaiting “the fortunate day” when a government official would visit for reasons other than campaigning. Dusty unpaved tracks lead into the village and the first question we are asked by the locals as we reach is: “Gaadi theek hai aapki?” (Is your car fine?)
The roads, or the lack thereof, have been a major issue faced by the residents for decades. And when the river, by which the village lies, swells up during the monsoon se✱ason, the entireജ village goes under. The flooding turns the village into an island, cutting off access to the mainland. To go anywhere, the locals have to use boats.
For weeks, or sometimes months, the residents have to find work in the village itself and the children have to miss out on school. “No one in this village has ever graduated from high school. Everyone drops out after class five because there’s no school in the vicinity that offers secondary education,” Mode🌸l Village Trust coordinator Ajmal Husain says. Roshan Bi, a local who is a member of the committee formed by the NGO, says the villagers want their children to be educated but have no option due to the remoteness. “No one will be happier than us if a school is built here,” Farzana, another local, says.
Most of the Ismailpur residents either chop wood or work in brick kilns. Many used to be fꦇarming families but switched to other work when they incurred losses due to climate change.
Another industry facing a setback is the horn craft and bone handicraft industry in Sambhal. Traditional craftsmen, who have been doing this work for decades, say the lack of government incentiv♊es has forced the industry into decline.
Mohammad Nazir, the owner of a horn craft workshop, says they’ve stopped making the traditional items d♐ue to lack of demand. “There has been a complete change in the kind of items we used to make—like combs, walking sticks and spectacles frames. Now we mostly make mugs and drinking 🙈horns, and these are exported. There’s no local market here.”
Nazir says the 🐭government recently announced it was giving aid to craftsmen to promote the craft “but only bigger workshop owners got together to form a committee and got the benefit from it, the common man didn’t get anything.”
In the lanes of Sarai Tarin in Sambhal, a whirring sound is heard and a cloud of white dust is seen before Shafique Ibrahim’s bone craft karkhana comes into view. He sits cross-legged and places a tiny cub💦oidal piece he just polished on the frame placed in front of him. “This is a photo frame. It has over a hundred such tiny pieces. It’s not easy work. ♍It takes half a day to make one frame.”
The craftsman, who has been in the business for over two decades, says the market was once thriving. “There’s nothing now, we ar🍎e hardly getting by. We would appreciate some help from the government in furthering our craft,” he says. “And if nothing for the business, then at least help us with our medical expenses. We inhale bone dust every day. All of us have developed respiratory illnesses, some worse than 𓃲others.”
Zaina Azhar Sayeda in Hathras, Budaun and Sambhal
(This appeared in the print as 'Lullaby for Loss')
