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This set of graphics highlights women’s lived experiences of facing violence as domestic workers, sex workers, as people living with HIV, as people living with disabilities, and as students.
The Mardon Wali Baat programme enrolled 13 young men and boys as youth leaders who developed innovative communication materials on masculinity and gender using their own photos and developed post cards and posters. These posters were utilized in community engagement efforts that reached out to more than 500 young people across campus and public sites in Lucknow city to challenge dominant conceptions of masculinity and address gender based violence.
Rudraksh, a young man from Lucknow, longs to delve into the pleasures of sex. But what’s holding him back? Listen to his experience as he explores the meanings of sex, consent and self-love.
This podcast was created in collaboration with Agents of Ishq as part of the Mardon Wali Baat workshop.
When Rohit’s crush writers her cell number on a form he quickly memorises it. Then it’s love in full gear. They act like strangers in the coaching class and spend hours on the phone. And then, one day, there’s a cross-connection and the line goes dead. Did love have to turn into hate? Listen to this podcast and see what you think.
This podcast was created in collaboration with The Agents of Ishq for the Mardon Wali Baat workshop.
Let Manu take you on his journey of touch from naive bodily explorations with his male friends to the electric, experiences with the opposite sex, and along the way understandings about consent, mutuality and the simple pleasures of pleasure!
This podcast was created in collaboration with Agents of Ishq as part of the Mardon Wali Baat workshop.
In 1972, Mathura, a 16 year old tribal girl, was raped by two policemen in a police station in Maharashtra, while her relatives stood outside, consumed with frustration and hopelessness at their inability to reach her. An already growing feeling of discontent with the police and state authorities escalated to a national outcry upon the verdict given by the Supreme Court on this case.
The women’s rights movement gained unexpected momentum with a nation-wide anti-rape campaign being launched in the wake of the Mathura case verdict, which reverted the judgement that called for their imprisonment. But what was it about this verdict that served as an ignition point to a movement which spread across the country like wildfire? What set the stage for this unprecedented proliferation of autonomous women’s organizations across India?
The genesis of this mobilization was rooted in the excesses committed by the state machinery during the Emergency from 1975 to 1977. In post-emergency India, civil liberties organizations took up the cause of highlighting the rape of women in police custody, the mass rape of poor and minority women during caste and communal riots, and the sexual molestation of tribal women by para-military forces. The issue of custodial rape had already started mobilizations beginning in 1978. It was in this atmosphere of disillusionment with state institutions that the public outrage and the widespread press coverage, the Mathura verdict proved to be a tipping point. A nationwide anti-rape campaign was launched in 1980, which demanded the reopening of the case and for amendments to be made to the existing Rape Law, which was heavily skewed in favour of the rapist and placed burden of proof on the victim.
An open letter written to the Chief Justice by four law professors served as a catalyst for nationwide mobilizations. Roused by this letter, Forum against Rape (now called Forum against Oppression of Women) invited countless other organizations to coordinated protests. On March 8th, International Women’s Day in 1980, a formal demand was made pushing for the retrial of the Mathura Case.
The year 1980 saw coordinated activism take place across Delhi, Bombay, Nagpur, Pune, Ahmedabad, Bangalore and Hyderabad. Joint Action Committees formed in Delhi and Bombay comprising students from feminist groups, which invited socialist and communist parties to help coordinate the campaign. This period saw the emergence of organizations such as Saheli and Stree Sangharsh in Delhi, Forum Against Rape and Women’s Centre in Bombay, Chingari Nari Sanghatan in Ahmedabad, Vimochana and SJS in Bangalore. Autonomous research organizations also came up, like Center for Women’s Development studies, and women’s magazines, like Manushi, were established in Delhi. Externally, this nationwide mobilization paved the way to faster legal redressal, while internally the organizational structures of these groups evolved to accommodate growing participation from not only women, but men as well.
Additionally, protests against the growing incidents of police rape took place even in areas that did not have organizations to spearhead it. By mid-1980, even political parties could no longer distance themselves from the growing discontent.
The debates on the large scale rapes and atrocities against women reached the Lok Sabha in 1980 itself. The Law Commission consulted with women’s groups and came up with recommendations to amend the criminal law, which was codified in the Law Commission Report of 1980. This bill was presented in Parliament in August 1980, but recommendations made in the report were very selectively accepted. There was a constant tussle between the women’s rights organizations and the state institutions regarding certain clauses (concerned with, among other things, burden of proof, concept of consent, types of rape) which neither side was willing to compromise on. In the three years that it took for this effort to materialize into actual legal reform, the movement had lost its momentum and the energy that fueled it had dissipated. According to Flavia Agnes “by the time the amendment was passed, the campaign had virtually died down”.
Keeping in mind that the movement was never centrally planned, but spread spontaneously from one place to another, this was a watershed moment in feminist activism in terms of the level of coordination displayed for such spontaneous mobilizations. While reflecting on the campaign, commentators agree that the principal gain was that rape, hitherto a taboo subject, came to be discussed openly. Custodial rapes especially now emerged as a major civil rights and women’s issue, and public was far more aware of the power they possess to affect change. Previously, rape misjudgments or acquittals would go unnoticed, but in the following years, women’s movement against rape gathered force and organisations supporting rape victims and women’s rights advocates came to the fore.
Although there were differences in the approaches taken by these different organizations in terms of internal structuring and outward functioning, they continually played complementary roles in each other’s development. The process of these organizations coming together to work was not smooth, but an overarching solidarity based on the assumption of a certain level of commonality in women’s experience transcended any internal variance.
There is no doubt when it comes to the sheer bravery these women displayed by assembling together and standing up against a seemingly unbeatable force. The strength in their numbers and the relentless hope they had in their cause is something that did not fade away into the annals of history. In fact, we continue to reap the benefits of their persistence and fearlessness because many of these autonomous women’s collective continue to stand tall today, keeping the fire burning even decades later.
I learned about Shanar revolt back in 2009 from a small section in my 9th grade History textbook under the chapter “Caste Conflict and Dress Change”. The 19th century Shanar Revolt is a significant moment in history as it is a milestone victory of subordinate groups in breaking social hierarchies and rules of caste identity. And like any other revolt, it is important for students to be taught about the historical struggles that have paved the way in establishing current social status quos.
I still remember how exhilarating it was to read about it. It was there that my reverence for the NCERT history textbooks began. If you know me, you know that I absolutely loved our history textbooks, because simple as the language may have been (something my ICSE peers always scoffed at), it was beautifully formulated. So the minute I decided to write about the Shanar women, my immediate thought was to go back to the source. Imagine my surprise when I read that the CBSE issued a circular ‘asking’ all affiliated schools to omit the entire chapter from the curriculum, with effect in 2017.
Now, this is not due to any opposition from students or even teachers. In fact, the coordinator of the book, Professor Kiran Devendra, has gone on record to say that the section is factually correct and that there have been no complaints regarding the contents of the section from school students or teachers.
But for now, let’s put that debate aside, even as it continues to be a relevant and important conversation to have in our present context. Let’s also look at the role of clothing as an instrument of patriarchal control.
“Nowhere in India was the Hindu caste system more clearly defined and more meticulously maintained than in Travancore… It is one of the sacred countries of the Hindus, having been reclaimed from the sea… for the sole use of Brahmans. The Brahman is regarded as a foreigner but nowhere in India holds a higher rank than here. He is considered by the orthodox to be the actual lord of the soil. The Nayars are next to the Brahmans; below the Nayars, and classed among those outside the pale of orthodox Hinduism, are the two great classes called Shanars and Iravars, the former of who are found in the south.”
In Travancore, there were numerous restrictions imposed on the Shanar women (now called Nadars). These included maintaining a stipulated number of paces from the various upper caste groups, remaining barefoot, not wearing gold ornaments, and not building homes with more than one storey high. Two conditions particularly enforced were to carry water pots only on their heads as a sign of subservience, and not being allowed to cover their chests. Caste laws forbade both lower caste men and women from covering their upper bodies – a sign of respect to the higher castes.
In the 19th century, many Shanars converted to Christianity primarily due to their social status, which often required them to work for little to no wages and pay exorbitant taxes. Their conversion helped the Shanar women to extricate themselves from the oppressive system and began to advance economically, to the continues anger of the higher castes. From this clash arose the Shanar Revolt or the breast cloth controversy of the early 19th century.
The Shanar women successfully campaigned to be allowed to cover their breasts, and in 1813 the British dewan in the Travancore court issued an order granting the Christian converts permission to cover themselves. This order was later withdrawn when members of the council of the Raja of Travancore argued against the order, saying that it would destroy caste differences and pollute the state. This did nothing to deter the women from continuing their fight for their right to wear upper body clothing.
By the early 1820’s, violence against the Shanar women escalated. Schools and churches were burned down, and in 1822, Nayar women attacked the Shanar women and who tore off their upper clothes. Numerous complaints were filed in the court against the Shanar women’s dress change. They retaliated to by refusing to give free labour to the higher castes. In 1829, the Travancore government ordered Shanar women to abstain from covering the upper parts of their body. But the Shanar Christians, joined by the Hindus as well, continued to adopt the blouse and upper clothing.
In 1858, when an official of the government along with the higher caste women attacked and stripped the revolting Shanar women in the marketplace, it sparked 20 days of rioting. Later the military was called to quell the rioting, and once brought under control, the dewan issued a public warning against violating ancient customs, and promised swift and severe action against those who takes law into their own hands.
The spirit of the Shanar women refused to be extinguished, and by 1859, the government relented and issued a proclamation permitting Shanar women of all faith to cover their upper bodies, as long as it was not similar to the way upper caste women did.
The importance of learning about this struggle is not limited only to the knowledge of history, but to recognize that even today, a women’s right to choose how she clothes her own body continues to be dictated and regulated by patriarchal institutions.
Some religions, for instance, have a particular set of clothing requirements for women. In some sects of Hinduism, women are expected to cover their heads and/or faces with their dupatta or pallu, especially in temples. Within some Muslim sects, women are expected to cover their head, face and/or body by wearing a burkha, hijab or niqab. This has led to the evolution of this attire in a more modern set up as well, where we have seen innovations such as burkinis, and specially made sports hijabs for Muslim athletes. These often become issues of contention as well when the law, in an effort to liberate women, still impinges on their freedom to make their own choices.
But regulation of women’s attire does not exist solely in religious set-ups. Educational institutions impose highly restrictive dress codes on female students, an issue that has begun to be highlighted and challenged across the world in the recent past; professional workspaces sometimes have mandates directing women to wear high heels, or even specific types of dress.
Though the definition of ‘appropriate’ attire for women has evolved (or devolved) over time and varies from culture to culture, its regulation by external authorities is something that has stood the tests of time. Thus between questions of morality and law, women’s rights often become political or social issues, as opposed to being a matters of personal choice.
In its celebrations of Women’s History Month, TYPF conducts an interview-series called “Movers and Shakers: In Conversation with History” where we engage with feminist individuals from across the country. We hope to revisit significant moments and gain new perspective on our understanding of history through the experiences of these remarkable women.
Saba Dewan is a documentary film-maker based in New Delhi. Her work focuses on communalism, gender, sexuality and culture. Her films have been screened extensively across India and at international film festivals. Her most recent work has been a trilogy of films focusing on stigmatized women performers. The first of the three was ‘Delhi-Mumbai-Delhi’ (2006) on the lives of bar dancers; the second being ‘Naach’ (2008) which explores the lives of women who dance in rural fairs. The final film of the trilogy is ‘The Other Song’ (2009) about the art and lifestyle of the tawaifs or courtesans. She spent eight years researching and gathering information for making The Other Song, and the film has gone on to become a pioneer in a space hitherto forgotten. The film portrays poignantly the story of a tradition and a community lost in history.
Shannon: To start off, what got you interested in documentary filmmaking? And why did you chose the topics you did as the subjects for your work?
Saba: Well, my parents are journalists, so while growing up it was assumed that I would follow them. But I decided I’d be wiser off not going into that field, which is how I guess young people can be sometimes! By the time I was in high school, I was passionately interested in cinema and film. I could see myself communicating through images, so I took the entrance exam at the Mass Communication Research Centre at Jamia and got through! Of course, I didn’t know at the time that the specialization at Jamia was documentary filmmaking because I was too young to know those differences, so for me ‘films’ meant feature films. But I got interested – passionately interested actually – in something I didn’t know much to begin with. I just wanted to do films and as luck would have it, I ended up specializing in documentary which was a genre in which I felt I wanted to express myself. It’s not that I chose documentary, but it was rather destined that documentary chose me.
And as far as the kind of subjects I’ve chosen goes, I guess it’s because I think that film work – as I would think all creative work – is a reflection of one’s own concerns. So my work has focused upon issues of gender, sexuality and culture of course, and also issues of identity politics or what we in India call communalism. And I think that is because those are issues that I, as a person, have been engaged with. They interest me and so they find a reflection in the work I do.
Shannon: So you’ve been making films for the past three decades?
Saba: I graduated in ’87 after finishing my masters. So yes, of course, it has been thirty years! Exactly thirty years, in fact.
Shannon: In that case, happy thirty years in the industry!
Saba: Thank you! But mercifully, documentary filmmaking in India isn’t quite an industry. When we talk about industry, we talk about big capital. In that sense, documentary has been largely independent of industry. You know, the initial years are of trial and error and of trying to find one’s own language. Every filmmaker has to have her or his own personal language. And for many of us, that takes a long time to find. But yes, they were exciting years, and ones that define me as the person I am today.
Shannon: So how would you define your personal language as a filmmaker now?
Saba: That is a lot of reflecting to do so early in the morning! You see, I am spontaneous and I do things through impulse. And so, stylistically, my filmic language is very diverse; it’s the way a story tells itself to me, which makes the films take very different shapes. Foremost, I am interested in the lives of women. And if you’ve seen my work, it is a documentation of understanding women’s lives. Each time I explore someone’s life with them, it not as if someone is my subject; the thing about documentary filmmaking which excites me is that it’s a participatory process. But what I’ve now begun to understand is that what I’m looking for as a filmmaker, or what intrigues me about someone’s life, is often about understanding myself. And I think that’s true for many of us, not specifically for me. In some way, these are issues that we’re exploring within ourselves or that are important to us. Even though I’ve done so many films about other women’s lives, one is seeking certain [personal] answers. Perhaps it has added a layer of certain reflection in my work, where there is a recognition of my subjectivity that’s coming to play.
So I think my films are very personal, in the sense that it is very close to the bone. The aim is to get close to the people I am working with, to be true to their lives, and to reflect it in the measure that I have understood them. And in some process, they start reflecting parts about me or my concerns. That would be something that I have understood most about my own work. But it’s always a process, no? It’s the most difficult to reflect upon yourself and figure out why you do what you do.
Shannon: Coming to the trilogy you made which focused on stigmatized women performers, was that an impulsive decision or something that came after years of thinking?
Saba: Actually, years back I had started off with research in the 90’s on HIV AIDS. It was through that research project that I got a chance to visit a lot of red light areas, where I had my first encounter with sex workers. I was in Ujjain as a part of the project, and there the meeting with the sex workers was attended by these women who were tawaifs. And believe it or not, I was really shocked! Somehow, I had assumed till then that they were a figment of our imaginations; that they had essentially come down through Hindi films, and were creatures of cinema. I knew that tawaifs had existed at some point, but not that their families still survived. For many of them, they themselves were not in sex work but were the landladies of the sex workers. And then I realized that these were pretty well-off women – women of substance in fact – who owned property. And the kind of culture capital they came with was very different. It has obviously accumulated over generations, in terms of a certain refinement and sophistication in the way they spoke and conducted themselves. That was my very first encounter with a group of tawaifs, which interested me enough to start reading up on them and the courtesan culture.
In the meanwhile, I was very interested in doing a film about my own family, and reflecting on the lives of educated middle class women who had started working outside. My work is very historically researched, and it was while I was researching on 19th century educational reforms, I found further references to tawaifs. At one time, they were the only educated women in society, apart from the few from aristocratic families. So while I was working on my own family, who are kind of the opposite of the tawaifs in the sense that they were respectable women moving out into the public, I realized that the histories of women are very intertwined with each other. I guess when I finished working on “Sita’s Family”, it was the natural trajectory to move on to the tawaifs. And while I was researching, I came across the bar dancers and nautanki dancers too. So I hadn’t planned on a trilogy, but then the project just grew and grew.
Shannon: So with all three of these films, there’s a discussion on how the regulation of their sexualities possibly led to their marginalization.
Saba: The fact is that the tawaifs as a group have always existed on the margins of patriarchy. It was not as if they were considered respectable, and then suddenly that changed. They were highly skilled and educated women of means, they were the lovers and companions of the elite in the area, and they were sought after as entertainers and artists. Though they were not considered quite respectable because of the stigma attached to women being ‘outside’, they were not pariahs either. Till the early 20th century, you have accounts of the most elite courtesans, say from Varanasi, invited to preside over discussions about literature, because they were so educated. It was a very interesting, fascinating state. But with the coming of colonialism, that delicate balance really shifted. In the pre-1857 period, the Evangelists were very active with this very repressive Victorian morality. Where did the tawaifs fit in? Their presence was appalling because they don’t quite conform to the notion of Victorian morality. Then after 1857, there was the added need to justify colonial rule. There were various tropes that were used as arguments to show that Indians were inherently decadent, steeped in ignorance, and barbaric. And the tawaifs became a very convenient beating stick. The fact that they were very active in public life and in so-called ‘respectable’ spaces, meant the Indians were morally compromised. In that very narrow Victorian morality, the courtesan sexuality could be only understood as prostitute sexuality. So the tawaifs start getting painted in that way.
In the subsequent rise of nationalism, the nationalists themselves – who were English educated ironically – were part of the new middle classes and were imbibing in large measure colonial mentality as far as morality of sexuality was concerned. And so within that narrative too, the tawaifs become an issue. India had to be rid of evils, you see, of many evils including them, to reclaim the original glory. So within this span of time, you see the demolition of tawaifs. And then post-independence, that process got accelerated when the anti-prostitution laws targeted the sex workers, and in turn the tawaifs as they were put in the same category. There was also the question of their contribution to the arts, to Hindustani music and dance, which the nationalists wanted to “reclaim”. And it was argued that the tawaifs had to be cleansed out, to cleanse music, dance, and the heritage of ancient India. The practitioners themselves were thrown out, and their art appropriated. So it happened on many levels; many ways in which they got marginalized.
Shannon: Do you think it was perhaps easier to use them as a scapegoat due to their association with the Mughals?
Saba: I don’t think so. I think the reasons are even more basic than that; it’s patriarchy. Look at the devdasis in the south, they weren’t connected to the Mughal dynasty. Yet, they were treated much in the same shoddy way. They were custodians of the temples and were part of the temple rituals, and even they, more or less, suffered the same fate. And it’s not even like they were autonomous women; they were there because they were needed to serve certain sections of the elite men. See, the men had it all; they had the mistress and the wife. But the mistress was allowed more space because she had to be skilled in certain arts. That’s what the men came looking for- not just sex but for cultivating conversation and for entertainment. So she played a certain role, she fulfilled a certain need.
See, patriarchy and patriarchal norms never remain the same. It’s not as if pre-colonial patriarchy was more liberal, but it did have a space in it for women like tawaifs or devdasis. What happens is the way patriarchy gets restructured. It’s not that it got dismantled; it got recalibrated with the colonialism. With colonialism, the whole narrowing of the concept of the family took a very Victorian form, where the father was the head of the family, and there was the wife and children. The tawaifs did not conform to the narrow vision of being a wife. So it was the redefining of patriarchy in a very monogamous family system.
Coming back to your question about the Mughal association, though the tawaifs origins actually predates the Mughal dynasty, it is true that in North India they were associated with a certain “Muslim-ness”. I don’t think their association was the primary reason, but I will add two points. In addition to the restructuring of patriarchy, there was also the proximity of the tawaifs to the local aristocracy. Not just the Mughals, but rajas and nawabs too. The tawaifs became a convenient trope because the colonial rule was delegitimizing the local princes, many of whom took part in the 1857 revolts and had to be shown as being morally compromised. The tawaifs became symbols of that, which suited everyone. “Oh look, these guys are morally compromised! What are they fighting the British rule for? Fighting for the survival of their decadent, corrupt, immoral lifestyle. Look, they have these women, these prostitutes, who they keep openly!” So that was also there.
Then there was a certain nationalist discourse which was looking at India in a great Hindu civilizational glory. That narrative equated the Mughal and the Muslim rulers before them as invaders. Here it suited the narrative of equating the tawaifs with the Mughal rule in the north, by saying that they got involved in corrupt practices and that the sacred music also got compromised with involvement of the tawaifs and Muslim ustads. Those kind of narratives were also there.
But the primary narrative that remains was the reconsiderations of patriarchy. And it was not just the tawaifs, but other communities like the devdasis, who got disenfranchised. What was seen as an aberration was seen as a morally corrupt.
Shannon: Like you had said earlier, whatever we do know of tawaifs comes from how we see them portrayed in Bollywood movies. So after interacting with them in such close quarters and getting to know them, do you think there is any truth to what we see on screen or is it not true to reality?
Saba: See, the women I have met with are the first to admit that the profession continued well past its expiration date. You see the last of the tawaifs in my film, and even the ones I’ve worked with had long since retired and are not in the field anymore.
In Hindi films, it’s very common to show the tawaifs waiting for the hero to come and rescue her. The ones I met, they weren’t waiting for redemption. I mean that they had a very clear idea of what men were and of what use they were, which is fair enough because these are self-made women and patriarchy hasn’t treated them very well. They know their survival is dependent on certain things. So while they are extremely feisty and autonomous, they were clear that they weren’t waiting for some man to come, redeem them and lead them into a life of respectability. Of course, there is a need for companionship, of love and intimacy, but not in the way Hindi films show a male protector coming and making a wife out of her. I didn’t find anyone who saw herself as a fallen women; I didn’t find anyone who was dying to be made into a wife.
The kind of agency they possess is also missing from the movies; their agency gets vanquished when it comes to being victims of circumstances. Of course as women, we know that there isn’t any such thing as true agency for women in South Asia, where caste, class and even sexuality starts defining how much autonomy you can exercise over your lives. But these were women who, even with these constraints, exercised a great deal of autonomy. Unlike in the films, where you see them as cowering women who have some male figure towering over them or exploiting them, they are women who were heads of their households. This was an inversion of patriarchal household which was very refreshing, where authority passes from mother to daughter, or from aunt to niece. For me, coming from a [hetero] normative patriarchal household, the experience of seeing a space where you saw women being decision makers, where the money is controlled by them, and all the things that the male head would be responsible for are the responsibilities the tawaif head of the household enjoys – it is very different. Though I’m sure it’s changing now as the norms are changing, where the boys are becoming the breadwinners and the girls are being married off. And once that starts happening, authority itself will change hands. But these were the women who symbolized that way of life.
In reflecting the women centered places, where I thought the primary relationship these women shared were with other women, not with men. And I don’t mean solely sexual relationships, I mean it in emotional terms, the ones that sustained. The only film I feel comes closest to showing that sense of community would be Umrao Jaan, the Musaffar Ali one. And oddly enough, even Pakeezah. Although the whole narrative is about redemption, from the detail to the milieu itself one was able to get the sense that the director had some knowledge of elite tawaif families. The story itself is very much the stuff of patriarchal narrative, where the girl has to be morally reclaimed.
“I didn’t find anyone who saw herself as a fallen women; I didn’t find anyone who was dying to be made into a wife.”
In its celebrations of Women’s History Month, TYPF conducted an interview-series called “Movers and Shakers: In Conversation with History”. By engaging with feminist individuals from across the country, we hope to revisit significant moments and gain new perspectives on our understanding of history through the experiences of these remarkable women.
Manasi Pradhan is an Indian women activist and author, hailing from Orissa where she has done extensive work. In her early days, she founded OYSS Women with the motive to help girl students achieve higher education and develop them as future leaders in the society. The organization undertakes numerous activities and events and is widely credited for pioneering contribution in empowering women. The organization is also spearheading the ‘Honour for Women National Campaign’ – a nationwide movement to end violence against women in India. The movement has recently constituted the ‘Nirbhaya Vahini’ with over 10,000 volunteers across the country to take on the fight for women’s rights and oversee the implementation of its Four-Point Charter of Demand to tackle violence against women.
-This interview was conducted in Hindi and has been translated to English–
What made you start the Honor for Women National Campaign? What was your journey like up until that point?
I had this one ambition since I was a child. The village I was born in, I had observed that the women would always be very troubled, and there was a lot of domestic violence. These ladies were just not getting the respect they deserved at home; because of this, they would be resigned to being the food-makers, to being the baby-makers. And the area I came from, there were no schools close by, and levels of education for girls was very low. So I had this bug in my mind that if I ever get the chance, I would work for women, to develop and improve their conditions. Ever since I was a child, my one aim was that women should get honour, and that they should get respect. And that continued when I reached college – where I started actively working for women empowerment – in ’84, I started OYSS Women.
What all did you have to do to achieve this ambition of yours and further the cause you were working for?
Actually, I had some familial pressure on me. When I was doing my post-graduation – in the second year of my LLB – my mother got diagnosed with cancer. And at that time, my younger brother and sister were extremely young, and my father was bed-ridden. So the responsibility of taking care of my family fell on me. I was thinking that I would take up a job to provide for my family, but I couldn’t do all the work at home and outside. See, I had my own ambitions too, that of doing something for the society and for women. So any job that I would take up, I would put all that into my family, but I would still pursue my own ambitions side-by-side. So I started my own little industry [the Josodhara magazine], and I got a printing press, which I struggled and did on my own. I managed to start my printing and managed to be successful, and I got a lot of financial benefits from it. And then I finally made the decision to do some NGO work. And I got the support from a lot of young people – like writers, officers, and other highly educated individuals – and started an organization. You can only do so much alone, and I required the support of young people to build the organization.
So as I was going through your body of work, to see the kind of initiatives you’ve led. You’ve even been called a pioneer of the 21st century feminist movement. And you’ve been recognized for your work not only in India, but globally too. To have these expectations of you, does it motivate or inspire you work harder?
See, when you’re working and you get respect for what you’re doing, and you’re being told that you’re doing good work – and they want to reward you for your efforts – it is nice to be recognized like that. I didn’t start doing this work to get awards, but to get recognized that “yes, I am doing something impactful” gives you mental satisfaction; it inspires you work even more.
The fact that the public is so accepting of me, and my work, that is the biggest inspiration. Yesterday, I had gone to Bhagat Singh College as a keynote speaker for a Women Development programme. It felt so wonderful that as I was talking, they were really listening, responding, laughing, and learning. That’s it, I don’t need anything else. I don’t have some goal of being a rich woman; if I’m getting food, and I have a roof over my head, that’s more than enough. I’m just happy that I’m getting the opportunity to work. For example, you shouldn’t be thanking me for doing this interview, I should be thanking you for wanting to hear me talk. The fact that someone is listening to me, that’s all the satisfaction I need.
Your outlook is very refreshing.
See, when I was growing up, my father couldn’t afford educating me further. So I took it upon myself to educate myself and my younger siblings, and help them settle their lives. Even when my mother died, she left my brother in my left hand, and my sister in my right hand. She had so much faith in me and that was the biggest thing; my mother believed that her daughter could do it. If someone has placed their faith in me, then I will never break that trust. For me, my work is my god, and the faith to do work is my dharma.
When you put forward the four-point charter as a part of Honor for Women, this demand was made to the state governments?
So, when I made the enquiry in Orissa, it was unheard of because it was so dangerous; no one was willing to take it up. Even with the Munirka case – with the bar dancer – I had taken up that case. A lot of people told me not to because it would be dangerous, and all I could think was “So what if it’s dangerous? I have a duty to fulfill. What happens after that, I don’t know”. Then they told me that I have a little daughter, and that I should be thinking about her. To which I said “Yes, I have a daughter. And she is strong.”
So these four points that I had put forward to the Orissa government, one of them was to teach self-defense so that women can be strong physically too. I put it forward to the Government of India as well – four or five years ago – to put a ban on the liquor trade, institute fast track court, special protection for [vulnerable] women. I made this demand on the national level as well. Obviously, it hasn’t happened completely, but it’s happening in steps. Orissa has set up fast track courts, and there’s been much improvement otherwise too. I’ve been putting pressure on the government to get these things done. At the Mahila Vikas Samiti, there was a gathering of 4000-5000 women, many of them uneducated, who came together to talk about very important issues. For example, here you have these uneducated women whose husbands are daily wage labourers who earn maybe 200-300 rupees – most of which they spend on liquor – leaving some hundred rupees to run a household of four or five people. And when they’re not able to manage, they get beaten up. They get so disturbed that sometimes I get calls in the middle of the night asking me to help them, asking me what they are supposed to do. They say that their husband is doing this, their son is doing that, and about how they’re selling off her utensils to pay for more alcohol; they trusted no one. Now, when they start talking to someone about this, it shows that they are placing their trust in them. And then when someone does something – anything at all – to help them, that’s when they feel that they themselves can also alleviate their situations. It will take time, but it’ll happen. If the government helps, for example, by setting up fast track courts, and getting Special Investigation Teams, then it will create an environment where domestic violence can also reduce.
Another reason why I’ve been putting pressure for the four-point charter to be enforced, is because one of the points is of teaching self-defense to women. If they don’t get that training, how can they protect themselves? And once they are able to help themselves, they will be able to help others around them too. I cannot stress on the importance of being both mentally and physically strong. And the earlier you introduce it in their lives, the more effective it will be.
Do you think that in a few years all schools would have a self-defense curriculum?
I am hopeful. It is happening. But the speed at which it should be happening, that’s not there. It happens on pen and paper, sure, but that doesn’t matter. It needs to translate in practical terms. If it can start as early as school years, then it will have so much benefit.
What I really want is for there to be more awareness. The instances of high awareness that there is, is mostly in the cities. But Delhi, Bombay, Bangalore – these do not represent all of India, right? India has primarily rural and tribal areas, and there is less awareness there. When you have women stepping out, they are told “What are you doing? Your place is in the kitchen!” When their surroundings view women like this, how will the women view themselves? They worship all these devis, but they forget, that they have devis at home who they need to revere. You have the woman who comes to clean your house, why can’t you respect her too? She doesn’t come for two days, and the house falls apart, right? All us women – the ones who work inside the house and outside – we’re not asking for a lot. We’re toiling through the day, at least recognize that; recognize us as equals and give us some respect. That’s all.
“Dekho ki woh kitna devi ko puja karte hain. Maa kya hain? Woh toh mere ghar ke devi hain na? Pehli unki puja toh karo.”
Gender at Work Podcast, Episode 05: #MeToo on College Campuses
Esther Moraes from TYPF was part of a group of individuals from across the globe who were interviewed for the Gender at Work Podcast on #MeToo, with specific focus on sexual harassment in college campuses. In light of recent events in India and elsewhere, we’re re-sharing the podcast here.
