From silence to testimony: Dalit women’s words as counter-history

 Dalit women's autobiographical writing in India is emerging as a formidable archive of political resistance, functioning less as personal memoir and more as collective testimony to centuries of caste, gender and class oppression, according to a comprehensive analysis by Professor Garima Srivastava. 

In an unpublished paper titled "The Great Call of the Voiceless: Dalit Women's Autobiographies", Srivastava examines narratives across Tamil, Bengali, Marathi and Hindi literatures, arguing that these texts are not merely literary exercises but radical acts of reclaiming identity from the margins of Indian society, where entrenched power structures have historically silenced Dalit voices while mainstream publishing circulated unchallenged and educational curricula deliberately excluded non-Brahminical perspectives.

Srivastava, who is with the School of Language, Literature and Culture Studies,  Jawaharlal Nehru University, contends that Dalit literature as a whole constitutes a literature of resistance, born from accumulated discontent and an effort to move from untouchability to visibility. She emphasizes that Dalit women have faced multi-layered exploitation, trampled upon in the name of patriarchy, gender and caste by upper-caste men and women alike, and even by Dalit men. 

The lack of education and basic facilities long denied them the ability to think and decide in their own favour, yet their autobiographies now demand analysis through a feminist lens that seeks to replace male-centered consciousness with an alternative history written from the periphery.

Drawing on the Latin American concept of testimonio, Srivastava cites scholar John Beverly to argue that these texts function as first-person narratives where the protagonist bears witness to collective suffering, bringing readers close to the oppressed with an authenticity that statistics alone cannot convey. 

The paper asserts that Dalit autobiographies cannot be understood as individual life stories alone; rather, they are community narratives that document torture, labour exploitation and sexual violence while attempting to reconstruct the self against fragmentation and destruction.

The analysis traces this literary emergence to the women’s movements of the 1980s, when small booklets and translations began reaching audiences outside large publishing houses. Yet Srivastava notes that educational institutions have systematically excluded Dalit literature from syllabi, studying caste only through sociological lenses while avoiding Ambedkarite or Satyashodhak viewpoints. 

She warns that generalized feminist slogans claiming all women are Dalits often marginalize the specific institutional question of caste, blurring the distinct oppression faced by Dalit women and overlooking the interrelationship between social structure and contemporary change.

Among Tamil narratives, the paper highlights Veeramma’s dictated autobiography "Life of an Untouchable," where she describes how members of her Paraya community prostrated themselves before upper castes and how her childhood marriage to an older man felt like kidnapping by those who made her a woman. Veeramma transforms her personal account into community testimony by addressing an imaginary interlocutor, contrasting past wages of one and a half rupees with government-mandated rates today, declaring that in this Kali Yuga the government itself takes care of people like her. 

Bama Faustina Mary’s "Karukku," the first Tamil Dalit autobiography to gain wide readership, moves deliberately from I to we, comparing her sharpened words to a thorny leaf that makes oppressors feel the sting. A Christian Dalit, Bama exposes caste discrimination within the church and the nexus between state power and upper-caste violence, including police atrocities where Dalit women were left behind to face daily sexual assault while men fled to the jungles.

In Bengal, Baby Haldar’s "Aalo Andhari" traces her journey from child marriage at twelve and domestic servitude in Delhi to literary recognition, inspired by Prabodh Kumar, grandson of Premchand, who encouraged her to read and write. Srivastava highlights Baby’s transformation from a woman terrified of train conductors questioning her presence in a particular bogie to someone who fearlessly produces her ticket, and her refusal to adopt her husband’s surname, questioning why girls must change their identity after marriage when boys do not. 

Kalyani Thakur’s "Ami Keno Chandal Likhi" makes the political personal by adding Chandal to her surname in 2003, documenting how she was denied a chair in government offices, made to sit in corners without fans while colleagues were troubled by her very existence, and forced to bring mats from home to sit in school verandahs outside the classroom.

The Marathi autobiographies form what the paper calls a golden age of Dalit testimony. Shantabai Dhanaji Dani’s "Raatra Din Amha" recounts childhood hunger so severe that her mother beat her for begging a neighbour for bread, then cried and fed her late at night. In college, Dani was served food thrown from a distance into her plate and barred from the girls' bathroom, confined behind a bamboo barricade. 

Mukta Sarvagond’s "Mitaleli Kavade" details how Dalit labourers cleaned wedding grounds with their bare hands and received kheer that had been placed on piles of human excreta as remuneration for four months of work. Baby Kamble’s "Jin Amuchya," written secretly on scraps of paper hidden from her husband, exposes domestic violence within the Mahar community, where she notes that if Mahars are the other for Brahmins, Mahar women are the other for Mahar men. 

Kumud Pawade’s "Antahsphot" chronicles her forbidden pursuit of Sanskrit, facing professors who asked what sin caused them to learn the language from a Dalit woman, while Urmila Pawar’s "Aaydan" describes how her illiterate mother, a bamboo weaver, confronted a teacher who beat Urmila for refusing to clean cow dung, threatening him until he retreated and transforming her daughter’s sense of possibility. Pawar later critiques the patriarchy within Dalit movements themselves, noting that women were denied chairs and leadership roles even in meetings organized for them. 

Mallika Amar Sheikh’s autobiography breaks silence on the private brutality of public revolutionaries, describing her husband Namdev Dhasal, founder of the Dalit Panthers, as a violent drunkard who sidelined her while party workers applauded male dominance.

In Hindi, Kaushalya Baisantri’s "Dohra Abhishap" explicitly addresses the double curse of being born both Dalit and female, while Sushila Takbhaure’s "Shikanje Ka Dard" frames caste oppression as a claw that crushes Dalit women into cages. Kaushal Panwar’s "Bavandaron Ke Beech" recalls a teacher who slapped her for daring to study Sanskrit, declaring she was born only to carry filth, and describes burning her hand on a hot rod to escape a contractor’s sexual advance. Sumitra Mahrol’s narrative adds disability to the intersection, documenting how as a Dalit woman with polio she faced neglect so profound that her parents did not worry unnecessarily about her safety.

Srivastava concludes that these writings should be read as life evidence essential for building an anti-caste society, echoing critic Gopal Guru’s observation that Dalit narratives serve as warnings to those with discriminatory mindsets. They create shame and guilt while filling historical gaps that upper-caste narrators long controlled. By translating pain into testimony, Dalit women autobiographers are not merely recording the past; they are forcing open the doors to an egalitarian future.