Everything is ready for the evening prayer at the ashram. The boys have queued up, the overseer has inspected their dhoti-kurtas, and they are now waiting patiently for instructions from the priest , who is on the phone.
I am at the ashram gate, wondering if the priest will let me in. I walk in hesitantly, but the monk smiles warmly and points to an empty chair.
The ashram is located in the South Andaman island. Some 60 boys live here: they are between 6 and 16 years old, neglected or orphaned. Here they receive free shelter, food, clothes, education and spiritual or religious training.
A few years ago, the island’s administration handed over two young boys to the ashram. They belonged to the Andamanese tribe, a historically isolated indigenous community of the Andamans, whose total population in 2013 was just 57.
Soon, the ashram decided to send the boys back. “They were entirely different from the rest of the children. We found it extremely difficult to handle and discipline them,” the priest tells me. One day, the Andamanese boys went missing from the ashram’s hostel. The duo were finally found near a pond, relishing a raw fish. The priest took it upon himself to ‘correct’ such behaviour, but all in vain.
“Who eats a raw fish? Have you ever seen any other boy in the ashram eating it raw?” he confronted them, in Hindi. The older boy defiantly replied that everyone would start eating raw fish when they realise how good it tastes.
The younger Andamanese boy was merely seven or eight years old. The ashram’s food upset his stomach. He would frequently soil his pants during the day and wet his bed at night. The other residents were disgusted and the ashram decided it was time the island’s administration took him back.
“Look, here he is, posing with his birthday cake,” the priest says with excitement, showing me the only picture of the boy on his mobile phone. “We loved him, but the stench was unbearable.” After his companion left, the older boy became lonely and melancholic. He made several attempts to run away from the ashram at night, and eventually the island’s administration took him back.
Suddenly, something disrupts our conversation. I turn around and discover that the overseer has just slapped a young boy. Apparently, the boy had not tied his dhoti correctly. He now readjusts it and joins the queue again.
“They need a lot of disciplining,” says the priest calmly.
I ask about the boys’ performance at school. “Most of them are uneducatable,” he says.
I try to argue. The priest asks, “Do you know who these boys are? The British exiled two types of people to Kala Pani — freedom fighters and hardcore criminals. Most of these boys are the descendants of the latter. What can we expect from such a lot?”
After saying this, the priest signals the boys to move. The head boy leads the congregation to the temple where everyone sits on carpets in two age groups. A few priests sit among them, but on special pooja mats. One boy plays the harmonium and a priest plays a tabla. The head priest begins an aarti and everyone joins in.
After the aarti , the head priest begins preaching. The younger boys soon lose interest. They tease each other, scratch their heads or armpits, pick their nose, bite their fingernails.
Destined to toil
As the priest walks me to the temple door, I ask him about the future of these boys. “After 16, they will go home and start supporting their families,” he replies. “All of them are destined to become daily wage workers. With our spiritual and moral training, they will at least become good and honest labourers.”
A young boy, who has overheard our conversation, comes forward sheepishly and offers me two pieces of batasha. He steps back and stands still, avoiding eye contact. The boy brings back a childhood memory: a mathematics teacher had suggested to my father that I work on a farm rather than ‘waste’ time in school. Every moment of that tedious conversation had felt like an eternity to me.
I want to tell the priest that if he would shed his prejudices and ignorance, the boys could be much more than ‘honest labourers’. But all I do is allow an awkward silence to end the conversation.
The writer is an Assistant Professor at Tata Institute of Social Sciences, Mumbai.
