Shailaja Paik was born into India’s Dalit community – one of millions of people who come from historically marginalized and oppressed castes because of their profession. They are so despised that they were known as “untouchables” for centuries. And even though modern India is changing, caste discrimination is far from over.
Pike faced prejudice as both a Dalit and a woman. She credits her parents, especially her father, for helping her (and her three sisters) overcome the prejudices they faced as Dalits and women. He made sure they got an education.
For Pike, schooling was a way to teach history in America, write books about the untold plight of Dalits, and now be called a genius.
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She is one of 22 recipients of the 2024 MacArthur Fellowship, one of the most prestigious awards for creative and intellectual achievement — informally known as the “genius grant.”
MacArthur fellows receive $800,000 over five years to spend as they wish — one of the few grants with no strings attached. Fellows do not apply and are not officially interviewed. The call informing them of the fellowship comes out of the blue.
Pike, a research professor of history at the University of Cincinnati, is not a public figure like some recipients. She has documented the deep social inequality resulting from India’s oppressive caste system, of which she is a part. Her focus is on the plight of Dalit women like herself.
In a video interview with NPR, Pike, 50, shares key findings from her years of research — and why this achievement is so important. This interview has been edited for length and clarity.
What was the moment like when you got the news that you won the MacArthur grant?
The call came around 5 p.m. I was relaxing after a long day of classes. I was tired and I couldn’t really believe what I was hearing. The foundation congratulated me, explained the award in detail and how it connected to my work. It was a very exciting and joyous moment.
How does it feel to be called a genius? Growing up, did you ever think this kind of recognition would come your way?
I have worked hard all my life despite the odds, and while my every success has been applauded and celebrated by parents, friends and extended family, I have never been called a “genius” before. It’s overwhelming, but when I think about how I got here – often a difficult journey – I’m going to accept it with gratitude.
Tell us about those early years.
Growing up, I had to work hard to survive. I was born in Pohegaon, a small village in [western Indian state] of Maharashtra.
My family moved to Pune in the 1960s, which is the nearest city [four hours away by road], where I grew up. We lived in a one-room house in a slum area in Yerawada on the Ahmednagar highway, which made it easier for my father to travel to our ancestral village to keep in touch with his family. Our house was about 20 by 20 feet and we did not have toilet facilities.
The neighbourhood we lived in was a densely populated, deprived area, populated by underprivileged people, some of whom were described as disruptive or dangerous. I have three sisters and we would not have had these opportunities if it were not for our father, who was determined to give us an education. My mother, who was educated up to the sixth grade, introduced me to the English alphabet. She worked very hard with household chores to dedicate me and my sisters to our education. She protected us and taught us to protect ourselves. She has been an example of patience, standing by me, teaching me to pursue my interests single-mindedly and to believe in my own efforts.
My father himself struggled for education. He went to what we call night school and worked during the day, waitering tables and cleaning in restaurants. He set up pandals [temporary scaffolding used for weddings or religious events] and learnt to play [pre-recorded] music during events. This way, somehow, he educated himself – and got a bachelor’s degree in agricultural science, the first Dalit person from his village to do so. Did his emphasis on education encourage you to pursue a career in academia?
Dalits have been denied education and the pursuit of knowledge for centuries. I have mentioned this in my first book, Dalit Mahila Shiksha Adhunik Bharat Mein, Double Discrimination. Women had to face double discrimination – because of being Dalit and because of their gender.
So this became an important motivation for me as well. To escape the slum, I had to get education and employment – it was the key to leading a better life.
This became especially important after my father’s death in 1996, as I had to support my family – my mother and sisters.
Soon after, that same year, I received my master’s degree from Savitribai Phule University in Pune. I started as a lecturer teaching history in Mumbai. A Ford Foundation Fellowship supported me to pursue a doctoral degree at the University of Warwick in the U.K. I arrived in the U.S. in 2005 after receiving a fellowship from Emory University.
For people seeing your work for the first time in South Asian history, what can they expect?
My work explores the role of power and identity. It highlights the fundamental inequalities in our lives that make some people more equal than others.
More broadly, it documents the inequalities we have inherited. My teaching and research focuses on systemic mechanisms of stigma and exploitation.
Those who are privileged elites have placed the burden of overcoming prejudices such as caste on Dalits, the burden of race on people of color, and the burden of gender on women, thus leaving the oppressed to fight for their rights and overcome their hardships on their own. My work shows that everyone – oppressed and oppressors – needs to work together to fight for liberation.
Over the course of your career, you have worked with Tamasha women, dance artists from the western Indian state of Maharashtra – some of whom are Dalits. What drew you to their stories?
Tamasha brings together drama, dance, mime, song, and is considered a traditional art form performed mainly by women from the Dalit community. However, it was often labelled as vulgar or obscene by the larger society. The performances and the performers were considered noisy, ostentatious, showy and indecent, rude, dishonest.
So growing up, I saw these performances both in my village and in my city and I understood how intensely these women artists were stigmatised. I found literary evidence from the 10th century that described this art as obscene and that no one should engage in or watch it.
When I began fieldwork for my PhD dissertation in 2002 and 2003, I interviewed around 180 women from different social backgrounds – from middle-class apartments and slums, from different castes and different Dalit castes. Among these interviewees were many Tamasha women.
There was very little information about the caste prejudice and violence that Tamasha girls faced.
I was surprised at how their voices were completely erased after being labelled obscene, and so I set out to build an archive that included newspaper clips, magazines, pamphlets, films, music and fieldwork focused on the experiences of Tamasha women.
So this topic has been on my mind for the last 20 years and became the subject of my second book, The Vulgarity of Caste: Dalits, Sexuality and Humanity in Modern India.
In your book, you discuss the vicious cycle of Tamasha women. Many despise their work because the dance is erotic and sexual. They know that others do not respect them and, worse, it makes them vulnerable to sexual harassment – society sees them as sex workers, which is not the case. Yet they cannot stop performing, because the discrimination against them will not allow them to take up another job or change careers. You call this a complex form of sex, gender and caste. Can you elaborate?
In the caste system, women are strictly controlled in terms of their sexuality – it is used as a means of controlling and branding them. Gender and sexuality are used to deny the dignity of Dalit women.
For example, this complex structure of sex-gender-caste very cleverly labels dancers, singers, and Tamasha women as prostitutes [as a result of their low caste status].
In my book, Mangalatai Bansode, a famous Tamasha artist who still dances today, has discussed how this complex structure of sex-gender-caste created difficulties for her. She recalled an incident that happened to her when she was 16 years old. She was forced by people in her village to dance on a bullock cart. She was the main dancer, and she and other women were herded into a bullock cart and had to dance while moving around her village. A wild crowd gathered, and the men were dancing and cheering around the bullock cart, trying to grab her and pull her sari. You can imagine how terrifying this experience must have been for a 16-year-old girl, and yet she could not refuse because if she did she would face violence.
In recent years, have things changed? Have modern Tamasha girls found a way out of this cycle of oppression and violence?
As I show in my book, the sex-gender-caste complex exploited Dalit Tamasha women, but some women like Bansode have made it work. They have created business opportunities for themselves, their family members and their troupe and promoted social mobility. Her granddaughter is now a medical doctor.
Tamasha women have also pursued various opportunities in terms of recording CDs, uploading YouTube videos, making reels, entering films – but still these numbers are very few.
Many Tamasha women are living in poverty, they do not get the pensions promised by the government, do not get assistance from local authorities and they continue to struggle. Covid was particularly challenging for many.
While it is not easy, is there a way to create a more equitable society for those who still suffer caste bias?
This is age-old discrimination so it is definitely not easy. There are many ways we can fight this discrimination and system. But first, we need to accept that caste divisions and bias exist.
This is something that especially upper caste elite liberals don’t want to talk about. Some [Indians] are quick to talk about the racial discrimination they face but don’t want to talk about the caste discrimination they perpetuate.
So we should talk about it and stop pretending that there is no caste in India and elsewhere. There are very intense discussions happening in the U.S. today, especially about caste and race.
The MacArthur grant distributes $800,000 over five years. Do you have a beach chair named after you? How does that factor into your future plans?
(Laughs). Honestly, it will take some time to figure out.
But I know it will help me conduct my research and write more easily on historical inequalities and social barriers and expose my students to these different perspectives.
You know — history is not a dead subject. Our view of the past shapes how we think about the present and how we shape our future.
What do you think the fellowship means for other Dalits?
This fellowship is a celebration of the enormous contributions of Dalits – their thought, work, history and fight for human rights – as much as mine as a Dalit woman scholar. I am indebted to the Dalit women who shared their lives with me and I hope this achievement will strengthen the fight of both Dalits and non-Dalits against caste discrimination in South Asia and beyond.
Kamala Thyagarajan is a freelance journalist based in Madurai, South India. She reports on global health, science and development and has been published in The New York Times, The British Medical Journal, BBC, The Guardian and other outlets. You can find her at @kamal_t
