Drumming on discrimination

In a seminal 2015 essay titled “Caste Privilege 101: A Primer for the Privileged” Thenmozhi Soundararajan and Sinthujan Varatharajah wrote, “Dalits, Bahujans, and Adivasis have so far been the only ones to raise the issue of caste. Just because we bear the brunt of the violence of this system, it does not mean it is only our problem. Caste is, in fact, a structural problem. Therefore, it needs structural solutions that are grounded in collective and inclusive actions to dismantle it.” 

The first writer is a Dalit-American transmedia artist, journalist and theorist. The latter is a Dalit Tamil scholar, artist and activist. Their essay emphasises the responsibility that upper caste people must take by owning their privilege instead of making vacuous statements about not believing in caste. This involves confronting bigotry in families, workplaces and social networks. Who wants to do that when the status quo brings material rewards? 

This essay offers a useful framework to read T M Krishna’s Sebastian & Sons: A Brief History of Mrdangam Makers. Apart from achieving global recognition for his contributions as a Tamil Brahmin vocalist in the Karnatik   tradition, Mr Krishna received the 2016 Ramon Magsaysay Award for his “forceful commitment as artist and advocate to art’s power to heal India’s deep social divisions, breaking barriers of caste and class to unleash what music has to offer not just for some but for all”.

Mr Krishna gives readers an intimate view of how caste-based discrimination thrives in the world of Karnatik  music. He is particularly interested in the stories of “distinguished mrdangam makers, many of them Dalits”. These artists who make “a cylindrical two-faced drum, the primary percussion instrument used in Karnatik  music performances and Bharatanatyam recitals” have been denied their place in history and continue to “remain on the fringes of the Karnatik community.” He hopes to right this wrong with a book built on personal interviews, archival material and self-reflection. 

The labour of mrdangam makers is indispensable for mrdangam players. Their work involves handling cow skin, goat skin and buffalo skin, which are used in making the instrument. Mr Krishna does a remarkable job of showing how Brahminical ideas of purity and pollution deem certain occupations as inherently superior to others. Therefore, mrdangam players are able to maintain a high moral ground even as they use instruments made of animal hide while the mrdangam makers who select the animal and fashion the skin into an instrument bear the brunt of being called “dirty, uncouth and dangerous.” 

Sebastian & Sons  is filled with anecdotes about several personalities, their idiosyncrasies and hardships, but two men stand out — Parlandu and Palghat Mani Iyer. The latter found fame not only because of his musical talent but also due to his caste identity as a Brahmin. The former, a Dalit Christian, was the second of mdrangam maker Sebastian’s three sons who ruled the industry but his contributions had to be pieced together since Dalit histories are often erased in the hallowed portals of Karnatik music. 

Sebastian & Sons 
 

Author: T M Krishna
 

Publisher:Context/ Westland
 

Pages: 376
 

Price: Rs 799

 

Mr Krishna is familiar with these discriminatory practices that ensure concentration of power in the hands of Brahmins. He lives in Alwarpet, a Brahmin stronghold within the larger Mylapore area in Chennai. His book provides a trenchant critique of how the city is organised around caste clusters, and admits that his caste privilege is deeply connected to where he lives. “As far as popular imagination goes, tradition, history and culture are all found in this tiny locality. But there are thousands who do not fit this pretty picture, living in tiny homes and housing board flats abutting the polluted Buckingham Canal, which cuts through the heart of Mylapore — completely invisible in plain sight,” he writes.

Recognising caste privilege demands understanding one’s own complicity in systemic violence. 
 

Mr Krishna admits that he wondered if it was ethical to pose sensitive questions while interviewing people who do not share his caste privilege. He also became uncomfortable when “there was no hoo-hah about his arrival” and he found himself “seeking recognition and legitimacy.”

He struggled to shake off his Brahminical conditioning. He says, “I assumed that, while experientially the makers knew what they were doing, they did not possess the knowledge to understand chemical changes. I needed a Harvard scientist to validate what they were talking about. It was necessary evidence of my inability to understand knowledge that has a different operating system from the one I grew up with.” 

These candid reflections make the book worth reading. Unfortunately, Krishna makes no reference to Dalit academic scholarship even though he attempts to “bring together socio-politics, aesthetics, chemistry, biology, acoustics, engineering and physics.” Dalits are reduced to being “native informants” — the anthropologists’ term used for people who translate their culture for the researcher, who is an outsider — while the author, a Brahmin, reinforces his position as the knowledge producer. Who benefits in terms of speaking platforms, writing opportunities and social justice credentials?