A village of beggars

A village of beggars
Chetan Kulkarni

In a country where 40 per cent of the teeming billion scratch out ahand-to-mouth existence, news that there existed a village of beggars seemedto merit a shot of scepticism. A friend had alerted me to Ranidongri whichwas inhabited by beggars to the last man. A village of beggars, for beggars,by beggars? It sounded too good to be true, and after some initial spadeworkI couldn't rein in my journalistic instincts to have a dekko at it. Thiswould be a story out of my usual sports beat, and I wanted to make a properjob of it.

Armed with the appropriate sanctions from my editor, I set out for my datewith beggars. Alighting at the Betul railway station, I trudged around fordirections about the Basdevas whose clinging to the one of the oldestprofessions in the world was about to get the right spin from yours truly.

But to my surprise, and later increasing horror, nobody seemed to have heardof Ranidongri. It was as if the village was striving to keeps its shamefulpresence away from prying eyes. After much inquiries, I was directed to acamp of the elusive Basdevas, and immediately set out in a hired jeep.

This is where I encountered the bearded sixtysomething Ram Kishore a richspecimen of the beggar species I was hankering after. I implored thegrizzled creature to accompany me to his village, but he refused pointblankciting "professional" reasons (read: it was time to beg). Having no othergo, I promised to make good his earnings and he reluctantly entered the jeepwith his teenaged son, who was a fresh initiate into beggary.

As the jeep kicked into gear, so did my intense grilling of Ram Kishore.When did it all start? Are all the denizens beggars? Do they marry withinthe community? No sooner had he finished answering one query, another wouldfollow, rapidly filling up my notepad.

I was thrilled to note that my guide knew the area like the back of hishand, and also kept me informed about landmarks like the Sampana dam andneighbouring villages. One wouldn't expect a beggar to be alive to politics,but again he surprised me with his knowledge of democratic essentials likegram panchayats (he was the village committee vice-president), the localMLA, district collector, et al. Obviously he took some time out from beggingto attend to his duties as village committee vice-president.

With five sons in the family, he narrated in a listless voice how his sons,despite their interest in studies, had been forced to take to the beggingbowl. One of his sons had studied till the fifth standard but financialconstraints forced him to give it up. As if his penury wasn't reason enoughto beg, the doctor's negligence, he alleged, resulted in one of his sonslosing his leg. "He's handicapped for life and has been damned to begging."We stopped at Amla for breakfast. Such was the bumpy road that it took usmore than an hour to cover the 17 km stretch. Upon reaching Ranidongri, Ilearned there were no barbers, farmers, etc, there. Only beggarsabounded.

Marriages were arranged among beggars only. No question of upward mobilityhere. The local MLA was reviled and badmouthed as a "beggar who begs forvotes from beggars".

But, unlike elsewhere, the youth did not hold out much hope in erasing thislowly slur. For a change, some young beggars had polished their skills toappeal to the do-gooder in everyone, by going in for ballads and songs ofmythological figures like Shravan and Harishchandra. Apart from this therewas no inclination to shed their rags and turn over a new leaf.

Thus, having garnered enough information for my story, I started on thejourney back. As I turned to thank Ram Kishore for his help, he promptly puthis hand forward for the promised compensation. I couldn't help thinking:Once a beggar, always....