Dispossession and the Caste System
A Ceylonese Boyhood
Our village was a tapestry woven with stories whispered by the rustling coconut palms and secrets hidden beneath the fertile rice paddies. Belonging remained an elusive concept, its threads tangled in the intricate web of the Ceylonese caste system.
Like most, my family belonged to the Govigama caste, the dominant thread in this social fabric. We were farmers, our ancestors tilling the land for generations, their calloused hands mirroring the sun-baked earth. Yet, even within the Govigama fold, there were subtle grades and sub-graces, whispers of who was “more Govigama” than others.
In the island's highlands, where the air is as crisp as their starched saris, the Upcountry Radala held their heads a notch higher than the coconut palms. They harboured a cheeky notion of superiority, whispering over cups of Ceylon tea that they were the island’s final holdouts in a game of colonial tag with the British. Their men walked with the grace of ancient kings.
My parents, thankfully, were untouched by this social disease. They treated everyone with the same gentle respect, a stark contrast to some, like one of my grandmothers, whose pronouncements were laced with thinly veiled caste distinctions.
Beyond our village, the social landscape stretched further, revealing other threads in the caste tapestry. The Karava fishermen, the Durava toddy tappers, and the Salagama cinnamon peelers, all descendants of Ceylonese and some immigrants from India had woven their way into the fabric, their rise a testament to their resourcefulness.
However, for many, the caste system was a cruel taskmaster, its sting leaving deep wounds. Some castes were relegated to menial tasks and were ostracised, their very existence a constant reminder of the arbitrary pecking order. Even the Ridee washermen and women, with suds and water, cleanse more than just linen; they wash away the day’s toils. Berava drummers, though essential to village life, faced subtle forms of discrimination.
Caste-based insults, sharp like thorns, served as a constant reminder of one’s place. While my parents shielded us from this venom, its echoes lingered in the whispers of others.
But change, like the monsoon rains, was slowly eroding the rigid caste lines. In the bustling cities, new professions emerged, blurring the boundaries between traditional occupations and social standing. The village blacksmith, once a fixture of a specific caste, might now be the son of a doctor, his calloused hands wielding a stethoscope instead of a hammer.
Perhaps, someday, the caste system, a relic of a bygone era, would fade entirely, leaving behind a society woven with threads of mutual respect and understanding. Until then, however, my childhood remained a testament to the complexities of this enduring social order, a story whispered on the wind, carried on the currents of change.
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