‘No one from the Maharashtra Mandals in the US ever came to meet me'
How did your sudden US tour come about? The wait for US visas is interminable, yet you got one superfast.
I did nothing, except to say I had no objection to performing at the University of Michigan, when asked by another artiste who had performed there! It was all arranged by professors at the university. They sent the invitation, accompanied with a letter by a senator, and a return ticket.
The one question that resounded through the visa interview was: 'Who are you? Are you a VVIP?' The question was asked by the officer who called me from the US embassy in Delhi, and again during the interview at the Consulate in Mumbai.
A similar query – 'Tu hai kaun?' – was asked by a passport officer in Mumbai in 2012, ahead of my trip to Singapore where I was travelling to receive an award for my play 'Shivaji Underground in Bhimnagar Mohalla'. I had none of the necessary documents, having left home as a teenager. Somehow, my friends, through their political contacts, got some letters of recommendation from IAS officers, and I also managed to get my school leaving certificate.
Did you have a tough time at immigration?
No. When the Detroit immigration officer asked me where I would be staying, I told him: 'I don't know where Ann Arbor is; I don't know where the hotel is. Here is the programme fixed for me by a professor from Michigan University; please ask him.'
When asked about how long I was going to stay, I showed them my return ticket and told them I was a performer. I had performances lined up back home.
Most of your performances were arranged by Ambedkarites. What are their concerns in the US?
The first fallacy is that Dalits in the US have left caste behind. Wherever Indians go, they take their caste with them. Brahmins reached the US long back. They now dominate high posts, including in government, and like in India, they don't like to see Dalits rise. That's why caste discrimination has been made an offence in some US states.
In all the cities I visited, no one from the Maharashtra Mandals came to meet me, even though in Maharashtra, I'm recognized as the successor to Lokshahir Annabhau Sathe. It's not as if Marathi-speaking artistes are not invited by these Mandals – but they are Brahmins, not Dalits. The two exist as two separate nations in the US.
Are most of the Dalits there in academia?
The younger ones are. There are more girls from Vidarbha and Marathwada than boys, which makes me very happy. The older ones are in all fields, and their children are totally American.
It was a culture shock to me to hear the daughter of a Dalit couple, who'd invited me for lunch, speak to me in an American accent. I don't see these families ever returning to India.
Do the Ambedkarites follow Indian politics, especially Dalit politics in India?
They contribute to Dalit causes – they feel they must. They attend programmes like mine. But otherwise, they are not politically active. They feel they've reached where they have after generations of struggle. They don't want to lose it.
I wish I could have had mixed audiences. That happened only in New York, where young non-Dalits too turned up at a programme arranged by a Dalit organisation.
In Dallas, an Ambedkarite group arranged for me to perform with other music groups: African American, Latin American, Pakistani, Palestinian. But I found that these groups also did not interact with one another. The 'unity of the oppressed' seems to be a myth.
You visited five cities. Your impressions?
My first stop was at Ann Arbor. I found the city planned in rectangular grids, not zigzag like our cities. This reminded me of the highly developed planned city of Mohenjodaro, recognised as an advanced example of urban planning.
Three things struck me about the University of Michigan, where I first spoke. First, the entire city of Ann Arbor is dominated by the university. Second, the university is more than 200 years old, but its buildings are still in good condition. Finally, its library occupied an entire building. Imagine how many people must have worked to choose books to fill every floor.
While we critique America's capitalist culture, we have to acknowledge the value Americans have historically given to learning. What also stayed with me were the images of Black victims in Detroit's Charles H Wright Museum of African American History. They reminded me of the anti-Dalit violence I'd seen during the Namantar agitation in Marathwada in the '80s – the same remnants of burnt homes, broken toys, wounded people.
And I can never forget the sight of everything covered with snow as we entered Boston.
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Hindustan Times
16 hours ago
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The Print
2 days ago
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Women in the community are responsible for the intricate work—braiding, stamping, and attaching the T-strap to the toe ring. 'I learned it from my father, and later my husband taught me the finer sheep braiding used in the strap of Kapshi,' said 53-year-old Bharthi, with a bunch of sandal bases kept to one side. On a good day, she earns between Rs 500 and Rs 1,000. But during the monsoon, business slows down. Many of these shops are now run by second-, third-, even fourth-generation owners. For them, the shop is more than just a place of business—it's sacred. Customers are expected to remove their shoes before entering. Inside, the air carries the rich scent of rose and sandalwood. Prasad Shate, who runs his father's 70-year-old business, said that while there are many variations of Kolhapuris, the four main styles are: Kapshi, Khaas Kolhapuri, Kurundwadi, and Buiwadi. Each of these has multiple subtypes. The differences lie in the 'kaan' (ear-like side flap), the braiding, the leaf, T-strap, stitching, colour, and embellishments. The type of leather varies as well and is a factor in the price, according to Shate. Buffalo hide is the cheapest; ox hide is the most expensive. Cowhide used to be the priciest, but with the closure of slaughterhouses, it's no longer available. Over the years, artisans have also adapted to changing markets by using rubber soles. At Shate's shop, a pair made with animal hide and a rubber sole sells for Rs 600-700, while a fully traditional pair crafted entirely from leather using age-old techniques starts at Rs 1,800. 'The price goes up to Rs 30,000-35,000, depending on which animal hide is used,' Shate said. Twenty years ago, Kolhapur had over 10,000 artisans, according to the Kolhapur Chappal Association. Today, only 2,000 to 3,000 still practise the craft. Satpute's workshop now hums with the steady rhythm of 12-13 seasoned artisans, all in their 40s and older. But what he hopes for is a space where wrinkled, time-tested hands work side by side with young, eager ones. 'That's the only way this 800-year-old craft will survive,' he said. (Edited by Asavari Singh)
News18
2 days ago
- News18
Kristin Cabot Leaves Husband Shocked During His Japan Work Trip With 'Kiss Cam' Row
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