Engaging with Ambedkar

Even though the Covid crisis has occupied our consciousness, it is difficult not to recall Dr BR Ambedkar on his birth anniversary. In fact, even amid this crisis we are witnessing what he spoke of with heightened intensity—the hierarchical/exploitative character of our society: a fragmented and caste-ridden society without the spirit of ‘liberty, equality and fraternity’. The misery of the migrant labourers (as caste and class tend to overlap, most of them belong to the marginalised castes of ‘Hindu social order’), or the way the state machineries sought to stigmatise them indicates that there is no escape from the questions Ambedkar raised relating to hierarchisation, stigmatisation and exploitation.

As I invoke this thinker-activist, I feel the need for self-introspection. With my ‘forward caste’ background, is it possible for me to understand Ambedkar? I ask this because in the age of appropriation and politics of symbolism (even the Hindu right seeks to hijack him; and quoting him for everything seems to have become a standardised practice), there is a high degree of trust deficit. I know there are Ambedkarites who can say that Ambedkar is their monopoly, and a ‘forward caste’ academic like me, who has never experienced what it means to be a Dalit, has no right to talk about him. While I understand the reasons for this anguish, I must say that empathy is also a way of crossing the boundaries; and we continually evolve through learning and unlearning.

I have never been attracted by Manusmriti—a text, which, as Ambedkar argued rightly, sanctified patriarchal Brahminism. Instead, I loved the Upanishads—the meditative poetry of the self, or the quest for the transcendental; I engaged with the Gita—the way it helped me to understand the continual struggle between egotistic desire and sattvic calmness, or the rhythmic interplay of love, knowledge and practice in a quest for redemption; and I valued the tradition of inner critique as developed by the likes of Ram Mohan Roy, Swami Vivekananda and Gandhi. I valued our heterodoxy and pluralism which, I feel, would eventually succeed in resisting the Talibanisation of Hinduism. So I ask myself: What should be my response to Ambedkar’s vehement critique of Hinduism?

Unlike a bunch of ‘forward caste’ reformers, Ambedkar came forward with a mix of his own experiential domain (the humiliation he experienced because of his ascriptive identity) and rigorous socio-historical and political reasoning, and debunked the ugliest aspect of organised Hinduism—its dharmashastras like Manusmriti, and its repressive principle of caste hierarchy. Ambedkar’s Annihilation of Caste or Phule’s Gulamgiri enabled me to see the world beyond my sanitised Hindu philosophy, and understand the historic need of the assertion of the marginalised castes to assume the role of active creators of history. I understood the significance of the Mahad satyagraha, or even Ambedkar’s politico-philosophic debate with Gandhi on nation, caste and representation. This does not mean that I negate the finest aspect of my tradition—say, the tales of Nachiketa in the Katha Upanishad, the spiritual elasticity of Ramakrishna, the liberating possibilities in the journey of the likes of Narayana Guru, or Gandhi’s ability to transform religiosity into a language of resistance. As a pluralist, I wanted Ambedkar to enter my consciousness.

The result is a non-deterministic and creative engagement with Ambedkar. For me, it is difficult to see the world through the prism of Gandhi vs Ambedkar duality. Enough has already been said about Ambedkar’s critique of Gandhi, and why he was not convinced of the Mahatma’s engagement with the caste question. However, I see Gandhi as an enchanting figure whom we need to create a spiritually enriched egalitarian society. I value his insistence on self-purification, his own evolution as far as his approach to the caste question is concerned, his ability to bring the issue of untouchability in the mainstream nationalist movement. We need his religiosity, Ambedkar’s politicised Buddhism, and Marx’s humanism (even though Ambedkar chose Buddha, not Marx) to resist exclusionary practices. I have no hesitation in critiquing a fashionable intellectual tradition that gives the impression that Ambedkar can be celebrated only if Gandhi is demonised, or for that matter, communists are seen as a ‘bunch of Brahmins’.

Ambedkar was a great force—a scholar with penetrating insights, an inspiration for the subaltern, a constitutionalist with modernist principles, and above all, our conscience. We could see his impact even on the domain of culture and aesthetics. While the proponents of Dalit literature would question the hegemonic status of the aesthetics of the privileged, there were writers and artists who, despite their privileged location, could articulate the voices of the oppressed and sensitise us. While a Dalit autobiographical text like Om Prakash Valmiki’s Joothan shattered our taken-for-granted world, Bimal Roy’s Sujata or Satyajit Ray’s Sadgati captured the deeper layers of Dalit consciousness. And today, historians and social scientists are becoming more and more sensitive and articulating the voices of the oppressed.

At this moment of history, we are passing through terrible darkness. While Covid has once again revealed the internal cleavages within our society, the propaganda machinery of the ruling regime has not hesitated to castigate an entire community simply because a section of the orthodox clergy has not behaved responsibly. Casteism, communalism, fundamentalism and elitist indifference to the downtrodden continue to characterise our social landscape. This is why we need an inclusive ethos. Let Ambedkar, Gandhi and Marx walk together, even if this proposal might disappoint the adherent champions of identity politics.

Can it be our tribute to Ambedkar?