One of the many inspiring, instructive slogans the government has painted on the walls of some houses in this village says in Hindi: “Do not leave the village, change the village.” The villagers, however, don’t aspire to change much, except the name of their village.This tiny village in Baswa tehsil of Dausa district of Rajasthan has got its share of the usual problems, perennial shortage of water and electricity and so on.

They bear them all—just as they smile through droughts that are recurrent in this unforgiving land and walk three kilometres to fetch drinking water though all nearby villages get water. Their name, however, is a different matter. To change it, they are using all their might, which has not amounted to much so far.

But why are they so desperate to change the name of their village? What exactly is the name? Beating around the bush will not do, so let’s spell it out: Chamaron Ka Bas. There’s more in the name than just a criminal and casteist slur, it is a veritable road block whenever a youngster wants to study further, secure scholarships or get a job. It is the name that keeps dragging them back to the nineteenth century every time they attempt to move on.

How a village is born in records
When the village was just a hamlet, existing blissfully outside government records, people used to refer to it as Kuwan Ka Bas, after two old wells. Ramswarup (he winks when he says with a smile that he must be “at least 60”) remembers the time when they used to tell their visiting relatives to ask for Kuwan Ka Bas, a stone’s throw away from Hingota village.

Three hamlets and two villages made up the Hingota gram panchayat. In the early 1980s, the state government undertook a delimitation-like exercise, in which expanding hamlets were recognised as villages. Apart from Hingota and Bavdikheda, which existed on records, three more villages got an honourable mention in the government books: Garhmedhya Ka Bas, Kharin Ki Jhonpadi and Chamaron Ka Bas.“We did not even know for three-four years that our village had got a new name,” Ramswarup recalls. “Later we realised what had happened. A patwari (a revenue official also known as lekhpal) called Gopiram Sharma had come. He did not visit this village, he stayed for a while over there,” he says, pointing to the village across a barren field. “He stayed there in Kharin Ki Jhonpadi. He asked the people there­­—they are all Meenas —he asked them what this village is called and they said it is called Chamaron Ka Bas.” With one stroke of a pen of a lazy, lowly sarkari clerk, the name, identity and fate of an entire village were changed. “We have been struggling ever since to get the name changed,” says Ramswarup.But now that Chamaron Ka Bas was etched in government records, reversing the atrocity was not easy. Government procedures, you see...!
Naresh Mehra, a graduate in his early 20s, says: “And the problem is, we are not Chamars. This village is more than a 100 years old, nobody has done the work of a Chamar here. We are from Bairwa community, which is a Scheduled Caste, but we are not Chamars.”

That of course is not to say that the name would have been justified if the caste was right. “Chamar” is a casteist slur which attracts the provisions of a very strict Atrocities Act. But when the law breaks the law, it takes 30 years (and counting) for a return to sanity. Bairwa in Rajasthan, numbering 931,030 according to Census 2001, is one of the five major castes that combine to form 69.6 percent of Rajasthan’s total SC population. Chamar tops the SC caste list in terms of population.

As the men sitting on a charpai —farmers or farm labourers, like everybody in this village—discuss caste details, Mohini Devi, in her 40s, turns to the other women sitting on the ground and says in a hushed voice: “It (the name of the village) is insulting. It surely shames us.”

How a name can hurt you in the real world
The name of this village, of course, hurts much more than an insult can. A boy listening to the elders’ talk finally clears his voice and says, “I have lost my scholarship because of it.” The class 12 student had applied for a state scholarship meant for needy students but he preferred not to mention the name of the village in the application form and mentioned a nearby village, as many others do. It didn’t tally with his other documents and therefore he did not get the money.

Puran, in his late 20s, too speaks up. “I am making a living as a labourer because of this name. I left studies. I could not mention this name anywhere. The school here has classes only till fifth. Then we go to a neighbouring village. (Other villages have smaller population but they have got secondary schools.) We fill up the form and they say ‘he is from Chamaron Ka Bas.’ We feel belittled. I would have none of that."

Narendra lost his scholarship because he did not want to name his village on the application

“I was rather good in studies. So I wanted to sit on one of the front benches but teachers used to say ‘you are from Chamars (Chamaron Ka Bas), sit in the back row. I often got scolded for arguing with teachers. So I quit studies.”

Chetram adds that teachers from other parts and other castes do not want to teach at the only school in this village. “Even if they come, they leave soon.”

Naresh, among the few who have completed BA from a college in Bandikui town, recounts insults and ignominies. Look for a room on rent and they ask where you are from. Name the village and they shut the door on your face. We find it difficult to bring the name to our lips. In college, we fill up forms for various things and we get branded.”

The old keep hpoing that things will change for their children

The name tag keeps hounding them not only through student days but also later on job hunts. 

“It is a severe problem especially for those of us who are young or educated,” he says. Surendra chips in, “We have to bear with all the slurs, they can tell us this... since the name is on record.”

Thus, calling somebody a Chamar can lend one in jail under the SC/ST (Prevention of Atrocities) Act, but on the way to this village, you have no option but to ask around, which way to Chamaron Ka Bas?

Strangely, a bystander even asks which Chamaron Ka Bas; there’s one in Alipur here, one touching Hingota there and so on. While the rest of them have the tag informally, one of them is called so by the government. And it has been adamant in calling it so, as it has refused to change it for 30 years.

To prove the point, some villagers run to their homes and return with cards—voter identity cards and National Rural Employment Guarantee Act (NREGA) cards—and point out how the State has been insulting them—officially. The address on the cards reads Chamaron Ka Bas.

A milestone, reading “Chamaron Ka Bas 0 km”, had come up but villagers removed it. The current milestone adopts a compromise formula: “Bairwa Ka Bas 0 km”.

Hate crime or shame? The school shies way from naming the village it stands in, even when someone has scratched out the offending initial

However, the administration is in two minds. Search for Chamaron Ka Bas and it would crop up in census records, in Panchayati raj ministry documents and so on. But on the ground it’s different. A signage hanging on an electric pole right next to the milestone mentioned above names the village as Govindpura, one of the many new names proposed over the years. To its right is the only school of the village, which too has a signboard that shies away: “Government Primary School, Ch. Ka Bas”, though the Ch part is not legible anymore. It stands effaced after constant  stone-throwing.

How to change the village name: a manual
Throwing stones at the school signboard was the sole act of aggression from the 1,200-odd Bairwas of this unfortunate village that cannot take its own name. They have their faith in the organs of State intact, even if they have learnt not to believe in promises.

It was way back in 1987 when they started the campaign for change. They have been making representations and pleading for dignity before MPs and MLAs, ministers and bureaucrats, and the countless commissions that seemingly serve no purpose other than providing gainful employment to politicians past their prime and retired officials.

Mention Dausa and people outside Rajasthan will immediately mention Rajesh Pilot who represented the constituency for years. The villagers met the late Congress leader, his wife Rama who was elected to the Lok Sabha later, and also their son Sachin who too represented Dausa from 2004 to 2009 when it became a reserved constituency.

“We met Rajesh Pilot, Rama Pilot, Sachin. We often went to Delhi. Sachin Pilot had even come to this village. He had told us: have faith. But we have been betrayed,” says Naresh. “There are three-four ministers in Rajasthan who are Bairwa. To no avail. We have also met the current MP, Kirodi Lal Meena. He too promised to do the needful.”

The village feels ashamed of the one of its many name that has stuck due to official apathy

Among others, they also met Murari Lal Meena, not only a local legislator, but also “state minister for technical education (agriculture) (independent charge) and revenue, colonisation (sic) & sainik kalyan”, and a Bairwa to boot. As a junior minister of the revenue department, this matter falls right in his jurisdiction. He also assured them remedial action.

So politicians come around these parts ahead of various elections, make promises and go away. “In a sense nothing has changed since independence. Untouchability continues like before. It used to be  slightly more earlier, now it is slightly less,” says Ramswarup. The state has been ruled by the Congress and the Bharatiya Janata Party in turns in the last two decades, but the villagers see no difference between the two as far as their plight is concerned. Surendra says they are so angry with the political class that “once we decided to boycott an election. We returned the voting box empty”.

For the past 23 years, this is what is happening. The Bairwas go to the Hingota gram panchayat, where they say 25 percent members support their demand and the rest are either indifferent or think the name is quite appropriate. The panchayat moves a resolution, proposing alternative names (considered so far: Kuwan Ka Bas, Shivpura, Govindpura, Kushalpura and Vidyanagar—the last one suggested by a former panchayat chief named Vidya, an upper-caste woman from Hingota). The resolution then goes to the district collector, who after due diligence, sends it to the state government. The state in turn forwards the letter to the home ministry, which has the final authority in this matter.

The sign on this pole mocks the village which is still called Cham*ron ka bas by travellers, offcials and others while the village can't take its own name

For example, on the Republic Day of 2002, the villagers got a letter typed, most put their thumb marks on it, a few put their signatures, and requested the Dausa district collector to change the name to Govindpura. He forwarded their application to the state government recommending the new name but nothing happened on the ground. On September 12, 2006, they went to meet the then district collector (villagers refer to him as H K Damor), but they were in for a shock. The official, during arguments with them, burst out saying (according to the villagers), “so, let’s rename the village as Brahmano Ka Bas.” The villagers complained before the authorities, citing the SC/ST Act, but the official was not punished.

This was when the younger generation in the village took over the campaign, Khem Chand, now in his early 20s and studying to become a teacher, and others approached the National Human Rights Commission with a complaint and requested intervention. The Commission on September 28, 2006, issued a notice to the Rajasthan chief secretary, asking for a report within eight weeks.

The crusade of the village's youth might be for symbolic ends but it does help fight casteism

The Rajasthan government responded, on August 8, 2008, saying that “no misbehaviour was found to have been committed by the collector.” It also said that the state government had agreed to change the name of village to Kushalpura with the consent of all the villagers. The Commission, therefore, closed the case in December 2008.

It should have become Kushalpura then but for a twist in the tale. The home ministry, the final authority in this matter, has framed rules for the name game—spelled out in “letter No. 130/53–Public, dated the 11th September, 1953” written by “Sardar Fateh Singh, Deputy Secretary to the Government of India, Ministry of Home Affairs, New Delhi–110002” to “all state governments (A, B, C & D) except Jammu and Kashmir”. This is the vintage communication that is referred to when Madras wants to be called Chennai and Bombay wants to be known as Mumbai.

Among other rules, one says an existing name cannot be granted to another village or town so that confusion is avoided. For this purpose, it routes all name-change pleas through all relevant ministries and departments. One application, requesting Kushalpura as the new name, went past all levels but the railways ministry raised an objection. It said there was a transit railway station called ‘Kushalpura Halt’. The home ministry then asked the state government to suggest another name though the villagers insist there is no Kushalpura Halt anywhere in the region. They also list out several instances of what can be called synonymous villages. “There’s a relative of Meenas in the rail ministry. This is their ploy,” says a youngster.

The villagers once approached the National Commission for Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes, which is set up to deal with matters precisely like this. Its members have visited the village three times so far.

How the State shows a sense of humour
Tired of dealing with labyrinthine systems of governance, the villagers started writing polite letters to the president, the prime minister, the Congress party chief, Minister of State for Communications and IT Sachin Pilot, local MP Kirodi Lal Meena and NHRC. “We have written five letters to them all,” says Surendra. “There’s no reply.” The last one they wrote to them on June 16, 2009, got a reply within 10 days, from the president referring the matter to the Rajasthan chief secfetary for “appropriate action”. But it was the motto on the President letter that caught their attemtion. It said: kal kare so aaj kar, aaj kare so ab.” That Kabir doha says  “do today what you plan for tomorrow/do now what you plan for today”.  The chief secretary obviously did not get the message.

How patience (let’s hope) pays
Last year, Khemchand and company approached the NHRC again. The Commission again took up the matter with the state government. The state government replied on September 9, 2009 that a list of alternative names was forwarded to the home ministry for approval.
The Commission waited for five months for progress but got no response from the home ministry and the district collector, so it asked the home secretary and the collector to submit status reports. 

The administration has dilly-dallied on the issue of renaming the village for decades now

The district collector then said he had written to the state government for the name change but “no information was received.” The joint secretary of the home ministry informed the Commission on March 10, 2010, that “the proposal of change in the name of the village ‘Chamaron Ka Bas’ to ‘Kuwan Ka Bas’ is under examination with the ministry in consultation with other ministries and departments. As and when the views of all concerned are received a final decision shall be taken on the proposal and conveyed to the State Government of Rajasthan.”

This was when the Commission decided to talk tough. In its proceedings on May 5, 2010, it observed that it “is distressed to note that in a democratic country like India, whose Constitution clearly prohibits any discrimination on the basis of castes, religion, languages etc, the name of the village ‘Chamaron Ka Bas’ is not only derogatory but, perhaps, also constitutes criminal offence under the Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes (Prevention of Atrocities) Act, 1989. Here is the case which is in direct conflict with the Constitutional mandate.
“It is highly frustrating that a matter which was represented against in the year 2006 has dragged on, on account of the bureaucratic rigmarole. If enough sensitivity had been displayed, the name of the village could have been changed much earlier and the feelings of a particular community could have been assuaged.

“It will be appropriate to ask Secretary, Ministry of Home Affairs to get the matter expedited and the decision of the Ministry be communicated to the Commission as early as possible.”

Though the Commission gave six weeks time for response, the ministry got the message and replied on May 24 itself that it had no objection if the name of the village was changed back to Kuwan Ka Bas. In fact, the home ministry also “requested the Government of Rajasthan to issue a notification changing the name of the village.”

The Commission then went a step further and on May 26 recommended that the Rajasthan chief secretary “hold an inquiry as to how the old name of the village ‘Kuwan Ka Bas’ was changed to ‘Chamaron Ka Bas’; find out the errant Lekhpal, and submit the report along with the notification changing the name of the village within four weeks.”

At the time of writing, the deadline is nearly over. It is not clear where the paper trail has reached. When asked, Dausa district collector Lal Chand Aswal said the matter was “settled” though he could not confirm it.

When told about the latest from the home ministry and NHRC, the villagers show no emotions. They are not celebrating yet. “Really? Will it happen finally” is what many keep asking. One of them, Chetram, says it is still a “bas” by another name. “Why ‘bas’ at all? Aren’t there any other names? Why not Govindpura? Somebody wants this village to be remembered as that ‘bas’.”

The hopeful ones, however, are already dreaming of the precise dates when the official ignominy would be over. “If it happens before the school admission time, it would be better. Then the new admissions will not bear the old name. Ration cards will also reflect the change,” says Surendra. “If the name has really changed, we would be able to look into people’s eyes and say the name.”
While the first round of Census 2011 relating to the household survey is over, with the same name on records, the villagers hope the name would have been changed by the time of the headcount early next year. Then there’s Unique ID card too, they have heard of it. “It would be better if these new cards too bear the new name,” says Naresh.

For many, the shame's official now

Mohini Devi, Khemchand’s mother, keeps folding her hands, with the same request: “Just do this much for us. Just this much.” A youngster asks her to keep quiet, but she mocks a foolish smile while adjusting her sari over her head and resumes the refrain: “Just do this much for us. Look at them. What if they were your children? You people can help. Just do this much.”

I wish I could. I wish returning Kuwan Ka Bas its old name and honour was as simple as scribbling it on some god damned file like that lekhpal did 30 years ago.