From the Introduction to the stories by Githa Hariharan, “At the Pace of a Thousand Storms”

… the short story is a flourishing genre in all the Indian languages; rich ground for mining the diverse voices—and narratives—of a mosaic.

This is what the stories in this collection tell us. Some are, clearly, the work of ‘literary’ voices; others seem to speak directly, without props and costumes, of people’s lives, their frequent sorrows and their rare moments of joy. They speak of themselves; of the community they belong to. Some speak in solidarity, of experiences they have not had, but which have to be told and retold because these stories are interwoven—no, embedded—in the collective Indian life.

But all—authors, translators, stories, subjects, location, language—all look, really look, at the reality of their own India…

There is that evil old monster that refuses to go away on its own; caste dares us to annihilate it. Meanwhile, its age-old horrors and its updated, newfangled cruelties thrust themselves afresh on our consciousness. Poverty, always. Hunger, heat, cold, homelessness, turning people to desperation, to the point where they have to struggle to hold on to their humanness. If others don’t think you are human, that you have rights, how do you remain human? Baburao Bagul’s vivid account in “The People on the Ground” asks this searing question.

Bama’s story, “The Verdict”, probes deep into the psyche of a people trapped in caste prejudice; so much a part of everyday life, as if it is something ordinary, a given, so self-evident that even a thirsty child looking for a sip of water, or the school headmaster ‘educating’ this child, cannot escape it. In Aparna Karthikeyan’s “Sridhar’s Father”, another child, this one in an upper-caste home, is deprived of his father till it is too late. This is the story of the usual collateral damage of a marriage between people of different castes.

But there is the other side of the picture always; the counternarrative that gives us the hope to stand upright and move on. The struggle to gain self-esteem, to live out ‘dignity politics’ through some unexpected, or even everyday gesture, is a powerful assertion in several stories. In that moment, the person—child or adult, man or woman—grows tall, takes charge of her life, becomes a full-fledged agent for change.

The Irula girl in Zai Whitaker’s “Roots” chooses school though she is teased and ridiculed there; she has learnt the hardest lesson of all without having heard of Ambedkar or his ‘Educate, organise, agitate.’ This little girl learns, from a real-life encounter, that she can and will speak up when Irulas like her are cheated. And to do that, she needs to educate herself. In Dalpat Chauhan’s “The Visiting Card”, a young woman insists on her right to redressal against discrimination—by chasing, against all odds, education and a professional life. Her PhD becomes a brave statement: not just to others who want to put her in her ‘place’, but to herself. She can be a person, a citizen, no less than anyone else.

There is the more complex moment of assertion—of a choice that is deeply political—in Sharankumar Limbale’s “Sunflower”. A Mang boy, battered by a caste-hounded life, is on his way to Banaras with his mother’s bones. But the story takes him to Bhimnagar as his holy destination. With a rupee he has got by selling the bones,

He turned around and looked back. He could see Bhimnagar at the distance of a shout. He set out in that direction, the direction of Bhimnagar. Like a sunflower at the pace of a thousand storms.

This new journey will be for himself, for his dead mother and all their kindred souls.