A snapshot of Rajan who broke stories but never saw a byline

It was the year 1997. A Ramanathapuram taluk office press release was terse. It merely said some 10 people in a Dalit village called Palkarai near Ramanathapuram town had converted to Islam. For a city-bred rookie reporter like me, it seemed like a juicy story to dig into. But a religious conversion story was a bit beyond me. I consulted senior journalists in Chennai and was directed to Rajan of Madurai. Rajan came to Ramanathapuram to be my chaperone during my field trip to Palkarai. Rajan was an apt candidate for Marxian theorist Antonio Gramsci’s idea of an organic intellectual. Born in a Pariar family, Rajan learned political theory from his milieu and from books. He knew the terrain and the people and, more importantly, the needs of journalists. Grassroots activists are often journalists’ best friends but they typically have organisational agendas. Rajan knew his Marx and Ambedkar but never really sought to be an organiser, let alone a leader. He did not have the self-importance to drive him. Although the issues mattered to him, he was anarchic and represented no organisation. He was an honest interlocutor for upcountry English language journalists. Rajan got by on a day-to-day basis. One good meal and drinks made his day. His pockets were often empty and he would ask for just enough money from friends to take him to his next stop by bus where he would crash at a verandah. Like the academic intellectual, and unlike the organic intellectual, Rajan often preferred to be an objective observer, not a participant. The foibles of the Left and the activists amused him endlessly. He would roar with laughter describing them to me. At Palkarai though, the Dalit villagers refused to engage with us. They were angry and suspicious of journalists. To break the ice, Rajan asked, “Can you get us some water? We are thirsty.” Rajan took a few gulps from the jug the villagers brought. I said I wasn’t thirsty, but he insisted that I also drink the water. He later explained that for Dalits, this meant breaking untouchability barriers. I asked them why some of them became Muslim. They had a counter question: “Why did the police put a case against our boys and let them out only on conditional bail?” Rajan loudly explained to me, so the villagers could also hear. A police case meant entering police records permanently. This in turn meant losing any chance of landing government jobs through reservation as Hindu Scheduled Castes. Conversion was, among other things, an act of protest for these Dalits who had nothing to lose, he implied. And Rajan was lending a sympathetic ear, which opened up the Dalit villagers even more to us. The case had been slapped on the youth for rioting during the caste riots that raged in Tamil Nadu at that time. Palkarai Dalits then spoke about the Thevar village next door and how Thevar youth would often call them names and harass them. No public bus stopped at...

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