In the biting winter of 2011, an eleven year old me, was riding an old, sturdy 24-inch, Hercules bicycle way back to the toli from the Zilla Parishad (ZP) school. The road running southwest to northeast, from a small town Sonke to the tehsil Pandhapur, had witnessed many accidents. My elder uncle had twice been in a life and death situation, crushed under the trolley of a tractor carrying tonnes of sugarcanes to the sugarcane factory in tehsil. From the village Bohali, a small unpaved road running southeast to northwest passed through orchards of pomegranate, grapes, jujube berry and large sugarcane fields owned by Maratha and Dhanagar landlords. Along the roads, almost no houses were visible; instead it was surrounded by expansive agricultural greenfields. I pedalled in hurry as the sun had already set, and the roads slowly filling with darkness. Whenever a house appeared, dogs would start barking, something I was deeply afraid of in those days. The smaller road intersected the main road at a junction where the famous stone crusher plant , owned by a Dhangar (OBC) landlord, was located. Beyond this junction, the road ran straight for about 300 metres before turning towards the landlord's farmhouse. Our toli was based at just 100 metres from this khadi kirchar, eleven or twelve huts with uniform sky-blue and yellowish tarpaulin, standing amid the noise and dust of the crusher.
They stood still and firm, resisting the winds with ropes and bamboo tied to three stakes at triangular points. Bone chilling winds were colliding on the tarpaulin tied across bamboo in triangular shapes. In the midst of silence, the whistling winds moved across sugarcane fields and hit tadpatri’s. Many labourers could not even afford tadpatri, so they reused old Ambedkar Jayanti banners as roofing for their huts. Some huts were beautifully decorated with sugarcane waste. I parked my bicycle on its back stand, took a large cooking vessel filled with cold water, placed it on the three-stone chulha, and began to warm the water. In the same toli, another uncle and aunt, along with their three children, were also sugarcane labourers. It was 7 p.m. groups of men, women, and their children were returning to their huts. Some women carried bundles of sugarcane leaf blades on their heads. My mother, then 21 years old, used to wear my father’s full shirt and pants over her sari. Standing behind the hut, she asked me for warm water so she could freshen up. Sugarcane leaf blades cause irritation and itching because of their tiny silica hairs, so covering the entire body and face with cloth is essential for protection. My father had not returned yet; my mother told me he was waiting to sell a bundle of vada. During those days, ten pieces of vada together made one bundle. Each family depended on selling these bundles every day to survive. On some days, we managed to sell 40–50 bundles, with each around 1–1.5 rupees. With such meagre earnings, our entire family survived.
Meanwhile, I remembered my school homework. A sturdy, multicolored nylon grocery bag served as my schoolbag. Inside it, I would carefully keep all my books and notebooks, covered in newspaper, with my name written neatly on each in sharp handwriting. However small the hut, the small place was always reserved for Laxmi Mata, our Kuldevta and Lord Shiva. For Mahar families, with Laxmi, the photo of Babasaheb Ambedkar tied to bamboo was there in the hut. A small trunk, something almost every sugarcane worker’s family carried for their necessities stood nearby. I sat in front of the trunk, on the hip of blankets, lit a small oil lamp and placed it on the right corner of the trunk. That trunk was my study table for many years. After a few minutes, I heard my fathers loud voice. I went out with excitement if he had brought us anything. Pamu potraj, a priest of goddesses Laxmi, belonging to Mahar caste was a close friend of my father. They both had brought together onion fritters for us. Mayuri, the daughter of Pamu uncle, was my classmate. During those months at toli, we will go to school on the same bicycle riding 12 km/day. Almost every child stopped going to school, many of the workers, married their daughters before coming to toli. Many had kept their children with their relatives.
Early in the morning, men would return to the sugarcane fields so that they could finish most of the hard work before the sun rose high and slow down during the remaining hours. Women had to bathe before sunrise for privacy, as there were no bathrooms or toilets. The sugarcane fields were used for open defecation. For water, entire families depended on the wells of landlords, and many times workers slipped and fell into them. Though rare, sometimes huts would catch fire, burning a family’s few belongings. Children often slept under trees during the day, sometimes unattended. Occasionally, a small patch of shade made from sugarcane waste protected them from the harsh sun. For school-dropped children, the only learning was how to use a sickle, how to climb trees, and how to tie sugarcane into bundles.
At times, I skipped school because riding the bicycle for such long distances was exhausting. Instead of going back to the sugarcane fields, I spent time with Bihari drivers at the stone crusher, who transported large trolleys of stones for crushing. In those days, sitting on the tractor carriage, I dreamed of becoming a great driver. Sometimes the drivers would perform stunts, lifting the tractor’s front wheels so it ran only on its two large rear wheels. Sometimes, I even went to the sugarcane factory with the drivers who carried sugarcane trolleys, hoping that on the return journey I might get a chance to handle the steering. In the toli,men cut the sugarcane while women tied it into a bundle. For men, the work was dangerous because of the sharp sickle; for women, it meant hours of bending. One day, while helping my father finish his work, I excitedly took the sickle and began cutting sugarcane. While cutting, the sickle brushed against my knee. After a few minutes, my pants below the knee turned reddish. I realized the injury had cut deep into my skin. That wound remains the most painful memory of my childhood. Because missing work meant a penalty, my parents never took me to a hospital. Instead, they applied turmeric and tied the wound with a torn strip of my mother’s sari. With that wound, I continued cycling to school for the next few months. Sometimes it would bleed; sometimes a whitish fluid oozed out. My family used whatever old tablets were available at home, crushed them into powder, mixed them with oil, and applied it to the wound. Many days, I had to walk long distances, carrying my bicycle along the 11-kilometre road with a painful wound. For a few days, I stayed with my paternal aunt. At school, my classmates sat away from me because I often bled. I remember those days as the most humiliating experiences of my childhood. On top of that, people referred to me as the grandson of Dnyanu Mang (an “untouchable” caste). Hearing that word filled me with shame and guilt, and I tried to avoid public spaces. Though I was a bright student, during those days I sat in the last row. I still remember one teacher who asked me to sit separately because of my wound. That wound shaped my entire worldview in later life.
“To avoid missing work and the fines it would bring, many were structurally forced to remove their uterus through surgery.”
During those times, my aunt underwent an operation. I did not fully understand what it was, but we often heard that “she had removed her bag. ” A few other women had also undergone the same procedure. In later years, I came to understand the precarity of my aunt’s life, and that of many other women. Because of menstruation, women could not work as they normally did. During the 5–6 months of intense sugarcane work, women had to rest every month. To avoid missing work and the fines it would bring, many were structurally forced to remove their uterus through surgery. My mother bravely chose not to undergo the operation, but many women were compelled, risking their lives in the process. During these 5–6 months, migration was an everyday reality. Walking 5–10 kilometers to reach distant sugarcane fields was normal.
The toli would settle at a central location from which all nearby sugarcane fields were accessible. After completing the work in one area, the entire toli would pack their necessities and move to a new location, often far from their previous base. One day, after coming home from school, my parents told me that we would be moving the next day. I don’t remember the exact location, but I remember the journey vividly. Migration was often done using tractor trolleys. Workers packed their trunks, bedding, tarpaulins, and bamboo into the trolleys. Buckets and other items were tied outside, leaving space for people to sit inside. Women and children sat in one trolley, men in another. In the scorching sun, towels tied on our heads served as makeshift caps as we set out on the journey. After leaving our first base, I had to stop going to school. For the next few months, like many other children in the toli, I became a school-dropout. When we arrived at the new location, nearby fields were full of sugarcane. Some local villagers opposed the toli settling close to their village, arguing that they were unhygienic and would defecate near the houses. They feared theft and viewed toli members as “uncivilized, criminal, and dirty.” Eventually, the villagers won, and the toli had to settle far away from the village, forcing people to walk long distances even for small tasks. We learned that there was a wedding hall in town, and during those two months, many children from the toli would go there to eat at uninvited weddings. I remember one time when I was stopped and heckled for entering the hall and eating there. One of the most painful memories from this location stays with me even today. Our toli had newly settled under a large neem tree, on a barren piece of land far from the town. Bapu, a boy from the Mahar caste, and I had a big fight. Our personal quarrel escalated into something larger, our anger spilled over onto the icons we revered. I sat on a branch of the neem tree, Bapu on another, and in our fury, I hurled abusive words at Babasaheb Ambedkar, while he did the same to Annabhau Sathe. That day, we used the harshest words possible.
What happened to the toli after that, I do not remember clearly. But after 6th grade, my family left me again, they went somewhere I did not know. I stayed with my relatives. From that point until my first job in December 2024, my family remained trapped in feudal debt bondage, a system I eventually helped free them from, with the support of some generous people.
Even now, sitting on the banks of the Regent’s Canal in London, I feel a faint pain in my right knee joint. But the deeper pain is not physical, it comes from the realization that I had once abused my emancipator, the leader who dedicated his life to humanity and the upliftment of our people. I reflect on the lives of the Mangs, Mahars, and Chambhars; on my mother, my aunt, those brave women, the innocent children, and our entire toli. All my brothers who were part of the toli had to leave school; some remain in debt bondage. All the girls were married early. Even before writing this piece, I inquired, and many of these workers are still laboring. Time has passed, yet almost everything remains the same.