Sebagai orang luar, saya tidak mampu bicara banyak tentang kasta di India. Karena tahu saya amat sangat superficial, kawan yang lebih tahu saya undang untuk menambahkan atau mengkoreksi.
Memang benar IIT (Indian Institute of Technology) dan Tata Institute of Fundamental Research dan lembaga lain yang memakan pikiran dan daya imajinasi, isinya banyak kasta brahmin atau yang dipersamakan dengan brahmin yaitu Parsi dan ismailiya. Tapi beradanya mereka disana bukan karena pilih kasih, namum semata-mata karena merit. Sedang kasta ksatria dan vaisha berjaya di imdustri dan dagang. Dahulu kala, soal kasta dihubungkan dengan kerja (okupasi) secara rigid. Makanya ada surname Doctor, Engineer, Contractor. Ada anak beranak yang semuanya jadi sopir semua. Sekarang Engineer tinggal surname saja, orangnya boleh jadi apa saja, misalnya ulama Ali Asghar Engineer sahabat Gus Dur. Juga orang punya surname Contractor belum tentu jadi pemborong, misalnya Farzana Contractor yang editor-in-chief koran Afternoon dan majalah Upper Crust itu. Sejak lama pemerintah India melakukan kebijakan affirmative action untuk mengangkat golongan untouchables (scheduled caste, atau harijans, atau dalits). Dengan kebijakan itu, orang dalit dapat masuk sekolah tinggi sekalipun nilainya lebih rendah dari nilai minimum yang disyaratkan. Orang dalit yang berhasil adalah Dr. Ambidkar pembuat UUD India, mantan presiden Narayan dan Shusilkumar Shinde, mantan Chief Minister Maharashtra. Salam, RM ----------------------------------- washingtonpost.com Low-Caste Indians Carve a Niche Female Mechanics Test Gender Roles and Class System By Rama Lakshmi Special to The Washington Post Sunday, December 5, 2004; Page A19 CHOTI MADHAIYAN, India -- Savitri Kabirdas, a short, lower-caste woman in a torn pink sari, had just squatted on the mud floor of her kitchen to grind curry spices when a bicyclist came to the door. "Mechanic Sir?" the man called out to her. Kabirdas, 50, sprang to her feet and came out of her thatch-roofed hut. "The water hand pump in my village has broken down," the man said. "There has been no water for a week. Come with me right away and repair it." Asking her daughter-in-law to take over the cooking, Kabirdas loaded some tools onto her head, atop which rural Indian women often carry heavy loads. She was joined by two other women, also mechanics, and within minutes she was walking along dirt tracks, past rows of sorghum farms toward the bicyclist's village, five miles away. Kabirdas and her team are among 45 illiterate lower-caste women in this district who were trained 10 years ago in pump repair, traditionally a male preserve. It is a sign of change that the man seeking help from Kabirdas referred to her as "sir," -- the job of mechanic is traditionally a male role. But Kabirdas is a pioneer not only for breaking stereotypes about women's work but also for taking a job previously barred to members of lower castes in India's still-rigid class system. Keeping the pumps in good working order is an essential task in rural India, because villagers depend on them to draw safe drinking water from deep wells. In taking on such an important role, the female mechanics have challenged feudal notions of gender roles in village society, after centuries of prejudice and discrimination by members of upper castes. "For a long time people taunted us when we arrived with our tools," Kabirdas said. "They shooed us away. The upper castes would say, 'You untouchable women, stay away from our hand pump. What do you know other than making bread and collecting cow dung?' " But when the women began repairing the broken pumps promptly, they carved themselves an important niche in the hierarchy of the water-scarce village. "These were the homes we could never enter. Our pots could not touch theirs when they filled water," she said. "Now they make us sit on the cot and offer us tea and food. They even call us Mechanic Sir." Today, Kabirdas's team maintains and repairs more than 1,600 hand pumps in 144 villages and has trained 800 other women. Not long ago, in this rocky, drought-prone region, a broken hand pump meant a long, frustrating delay. The villagers' petition had to pass through labyrinthine processes of bureaucracy. The area had only three government mechanics for 900 pumps. "We had to wait for months for the government mechanic to come," said Balkesh Yadav, a rich farming landlord. "Women had to walk miles to fetch water from open ponds. The water was not always safe and made the children sick." Development workers say that training women as mechanics makes perfect sense. "Water is a woman's burden. When a hand pump breaks down, women bear the brunt. It is only logical that women should have access, control and power over their water source," said Raj Kumar Daw, a senior water officer for UNICEF in New Delhi. The U.N. agency has supported local initiatives to train women to repair hand pumps in seven Indian states. Female mechanics such as Kabirdas are hired by local councils and earn three to four dollars for each job. The 40-day training that the women received from the male government mechanics in 1994 was not easy. "All the names of hand pump parts were in English," said Sundhi Kolin, 45, as she followed Kabirdas toward the repair site. "So we learned them by naming a fat woman 'cylinder,' calling a slender woman a 'pipe wrench.' Another was called 'lifter.' " After an hour-long walk, Kabirdas and her team reached the broken hand pump at Bandhin village. They pushed back stacks of colorful glass bangles on their wrists and began to dismantle the 450-foot-deep pump and well assembly by removing the handle and water tank. A total of 10 long metal pipes were lifted one by one. After two hours of grueling work, the pump's cylinder was finally extracted. "The ceiling ring of the cylinder is broken. We will replace it," Kabirdas explained to the men. Three hours later, as the water gushed out, beaming village women began to line up with their pots and buckets. "These women mechanics have not just repaired hand pumps. They are role models. They have changed the way women are perceived," said Madhavi Kuckreja, of Vanangana, a women's group that works with the mechanics. The mechanics also report cases of domestic violence they hear of during their visits to the villages. The Brahmins have also grudgingly accepted the lower-caste mechanics. "Today the untouchables not only touch our water, they are also touching our water source," said Balmukund Mishra, 42, a shopkeeper. "It would be unwise to resist change. We cannot do without water." Washington Post ------------------------ Yahoo! Groups Sponsor --------------------~--> Make a clean sweep of pop-up ads. Yahoo! Companion Toolbar. Now with Pop-Up Blocker. 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