An Extract from: Jai Bhim!
From chapter 17

There was no way that anyone from the Hindu village was going to attend our meeting, but that was hardly the point. The Buddhists were showing us off, and, in the process, raising a little hell. Each time we passed a temple, the volume of the chanting increased and the lezhim team put even more fervour into its performance. By now they were running with sweat, and dancing as if possessed. This was a display of endurance. The Hindus squatted by their doors and shops, looking on through narrow, enigmatic eyes.

Jyotipala walked tall, dignified, and stern of countenance, throwing the occasional groan from the side of his mouth if I tripped over a boulder, or became entangled in weeds.

We arrived at a rather stately hut, set in its own courtyard. The lezhim team proceeded to the door of the building - which looked remarkably like a low slung mushroom - and formed themselves into an ellipse. Eight women now appeared from the door of the hut and entered the ellipse bearing trays of flowers, candles, and incense. Jyotipala stepped forward from the other end to meet them.

The dancers danced, the drums grew louder.

Jyotipala stood - statuesque - in their midst while the ladies prostrated before him, waving their trays under his face and generally making much of him. Meanwhile, the men shouted at the women, telling them what to do, and in what order, making them ever more nervous. Nagasena joined in, rushing up to pour a schedule of works into their ears as they performed their ritual.

Disaster almost struck. A lady on her way upwards after a prostration struck her head on the underside of a tray in the hands of a lady on her way downwards. In the event, just a few marigold blossoms fluttered to the ground. Calm, impassive, Jyotipala stood before them: 'Sukhi Ho ... Sukhi Ho!' - 'Be happy ... Be happy!'

As soon as I had the chance, I asked Nagasena why there had been so much fuss. Why couldn't the men just let the women do things in their own way?

'Well this sort of thing is very important for our people. Until just a few years ago these ladies were not allowed to perform any kind of religious ritual at all. None of us were. Now that we have got rid of caste restrictions, everyone wants to get things exactly right. If the ladies can learn to do things just as they should be done, they will feel very pleased and confident. But it will take time to learn.'

We were now on our way back to the stage and Jyotipala was beginning to enjoy himself.

'I mean, look at me. A miner's son! From Barnsley! How on earth have I managed to get myself caught up in something like this? Eh? I mean, if I was a millionaire I still couldn't get an experience like this, could I? There are some things you can't even buy. Not even with money!'

A fat full moon wallowed in the trees when we finally arrived back at the stage. It was six-thirty, and we had had a long, hard day. Without ceremony, Jyotipala and Nagasena threw themselves down onto the mattresses and fell asleep in instants. As before, our hosts looked on with satisfaction.

The stage was really a large room, open to the world at one end. At its rear, liberally dressed with marigolds, a shrine stood beneath a portrait of Dr Ambedkar (here portrayed in his military incarnation). Wires had been hung around the loud pink walls and a loudspeaker system was being concocted. Obviously our hosts had not been sure that we were really coming, and had left the practical arrangements until we were physically present. A fluorescent tube tied with string to a beam near the front of the stage flashed on and off rapidly while someone fiddled with its starter. At last it remained alight.

Jyotipala murmured in his slumber: 'Fiat lux.'

I decided to try for a nap myself, and had just dropped off when I realized I was being kicked in the ribs.

'Come on. Grub.'

We were led round a corner and offered tea in the porch of a tiny barn-like structure. Outside, gathered around little fires, the other villagers set to eating. Back at the stage, a smartly dressed young man from Jalna tortured the night, passing live wires over the terminals of an amplifier. The moon was bright and threw a pale sheen over the fields.

These fields, I discovered, belonged to the Buddhists and were farmed by them. A generation ago, in Ambedkar's time, the Scheduled Caste community had given rise to four exceptional leaders. Inspired by Ambedkar's words and deeds, they had succeeded in unifying the local Untouchables in a struggle for their rights. In the end they forced the municipality to grant them the rights to the land.

It was good land, and they all seemed to be healthy and well fed. They were proud too: proud of their achievement in carving out this slice of freedom, and proud of their record as Buddhists. Although they lived in such a remote spot, they managed to organize some kind of Buddhist event, with a guest speaker, most full moon nights. They were also aware that in this respect they led the way for Buddhist communities throughout their region. Even city Buddhists rarely got so many opportunities to hear the Dhamma. While we drank, I could hear the tinkle of bicycle bells; people were arriving from neighbouring villages, and even from Jalna.