Charu Nivedita is a prolific writer. Bold, unapologetic and defiantly truthful wordsmith. His work has stirred up stagnant social settings, melted down the clouds of norms and mores, and boiled the wrath of the conventional schools of thought. With all of that, millions of readers have gathered around him from all over the world. The Asian Review welcomes Charu Nivedita for a special guest writer column for a special fortnight edition, a column dedicated to his story that is more than one million lives, ‘My life My Text’. We invite all our readers to join this special column that appears every mid and end of the month. 

Here is the episode 01: 

My town Nagore is situated at the confluence of the Vettar, a tributary of the Cauvery, and the Bay of Bengal. At this point where it meets the sea, the river water takes on the salinity of the sea. Our small house was in Kosa Theru (Potters’ Street), adjacent to the street where the Thombar community lived, who were treated as untouchables. In our area, the number of pigs was greater than the number of humans.

The Thombar community predominantly speaks Telugu. The men from this community were employed as sweepers by the municipality. 

Less than a quarter of the households had proper sanitation facilities. Consequently, like the animals, like the goats, cows, pigs, and the dogs, residents in our area resorted to defecating in public places.  Wealthy households had a private toilet known as an eduppu kakkoos. The eduppu kakkoos, a dry toilet, was commonly found in the backyard of many homes. Women who belonged to the Thombar community would collect the faeces from these dry toilets and carry them in baskets attached to their waists. No one ever paid them for doing this. Every evening, women would appear before every home, from where they collected human excrement, and would beg for the leftover rice and gravy. Such was the reality of Indian life sixty years ago. 

These women were not allowed to enter the houses where they had to collect the human excrement. Each house had a narrow path. They used that path to reach the kakoos and bring the faeces. Women in our area who had no access to a toilet used the area behind their houses, near the bushes. As a very shy person, I used to go to the Vettar, located half a kilometre from home. There’s a cremation ground next to Vettar. 

Defecating always feels risky, like playing with death; hence, we had to seek the favour of the spirits first, especially me, the first male child of our family. (Ghosts like the first male child, my grandma used to say!) Oh, did I mention that in our area, there were more pigs than humans? No, there were more ghosts than humans, particularly female ghosts. Those who killed themselves became ghosts. Men didn’t commit suicide, perhaps, thanks to the alcohol. 

The fifties and sixties marked a period when prohibition was in effect in Tamil Nadu. However, the people of Nagore faced no issues with drinking. The reason was Vanjur. You crossed the river, and there was Vanjur. Since Vanjur was part of the Union Territory of Pondicherry, alcohol was readily available there. There was a toddy shop, an arrack shop and a wine shop. When I began drinking, I discovered that these supposed wine shops sell brandy, rum, and whiskey, but not wine. I still don’t know the reason. 

Another thing became evident – it seemed as though women were not rescued by the deities they worshipped, unlike alcohol, which saved the men. Near our house, there was a tamarind grove, a significant sanctuary for women contemplating suicide in the town. During those times, houses didn’t have fans, so it was common to hang a saree or a half saree on a tree in the tamarind grove. (Half sarees are among the many things that have disappeared from the lives of Tamils. In my view, half sarees are the sexiest of all dresses.) 

Another simple way for women to commit suicide at that time was to grind and drink arali seeds. My aunt chose that path. I was probably twelve years old when I secretly fell in love with that amazingly beautiful aunt. What was the problem? My uncle beat my aunt with a broomstick. Unable to live with her anger, she crushed arali seeds, drank it and died. My love came to an end without anyone ever knowing of it. What I still remember is that I was taking out and putting away the broken sticks that were stuck in my aunt’s body. 

My aunt had a daughter who was in her teens, just like me. While I was contemplating the possibility of falling in love with her and marrying her, she became a sex worker. My uncle, who was an alcoholic, remarried. With no one to care for the daughter, she chose that way of life. 

During the 1950s and 1960s, prostitution was widespread in pilgrimage-centres- the places where the pilgrims spent the night. As one of the primary duties of the Indian police is to uphold the chastity of Indian women, one day, they placed a sign on the door of my uncle’s daughter’s cottage stating, “Prostitution does not occur here.”  Eventually, the girl went away to someplace in Kerala. 

One of the places I’d frequented a lot during the twenty-four years I spent in our town was the cremation ground. Besides ghosts, two other things made one fear for his life – snakes and pigs. Many had lost their lives due to snake bites there. However, a pig’s bite doesn’t lead to death, but it may result in some flesh being taken off. Our local pigs are quite voracious, darting around to snatch the “food” even before it comes out. However, there was no need to fear if we are careful. It was crucial to wash our ‘feet’ in the river. There had been unfortunate incidents. Valakadiyan snakes inhabited Vettar, and many people had lost their lives to their bite. 

I went to that cremation ground for three reasons. First, to poop. Second, to masturbate. Third, to study. I didn’t know when I went to the crematorium that Georges Bataille had elaborated on the connection between death and sex. I didn’t know if the women of that time were familiar with things such as masturbation, etc. One day, my sister ran off with a pimp when she was fifteen. The pimp used her for a few days and sold her to a brothel in Trichy. I will tell you that story in the next part.

By Charu Nivedita