We stared in stunned silence, our squabbles silenced by the building we were looking at. It was a large hall – if one could call four walls topped by a crumbling roof a hall. There were spaces for doors and windows, but no doors or windows. The tiles on the roof had fallen off with disuse. A fire in its indeterminate past had blackened the inside walls of the building and sent out wings of black soot from the gaping door and window spaces. No doors, no windows, no water, no electricity, no rooms, no furniture. And obviously, no bathrooms, definitely no. Lonely and neglected it stood a little away from the main village which stood spread out on the slope below. We had walked 13 kilometres carrying our knapsacks, our kitchen utensils and provisions of food for the next 3 days to reach this crumbling, fire blasted solitary building on an isolated forgotten, forest covered hillside in Chhotanagpur. It was to be our home for the next 2 weeks. This was the first semester of my post graduate course in rural development. And in class, we had been told that these ‘rural camps’ would be the most intense and constructive learning experiences of our lives. That ordinary people and their lives were the best class rooms one could have. For the first few hours that October evening I may have made the mistake of thinking that this godforsaken place and its people, could never serve as a classroom. But I never made this mistake again. ( I also redefined 'godforsaken'.)
In the years that followed, as I navigated the exciting and unruly world of rural development, I often returned to that building - in my imagination. Such wanderings of the mind were triggered by workshops and discussions on 'emerging frameworks' 'feminism and neoliberal govern mentality' and 'the intangibles of content'. My body would remain at the table as my mind returned to that abandoned building in Chhotanagpur. And I would remember how in the first 24 hours there, my life had changed forever. And how so much of what I knew including my feminism started from that building. Our professors had been right. The 4 rural camps (all of which included accommodation as mentioned above) changed my mind and vision for ever. Since this blog is about men and women, I shall focus on how this influenced my understanding and interpretation of feminism. Feminism was not part of my course on rural development and I began to read feminist literature only years later. But by then, the women that I worked with and for had already taught me much. And so, whenever theory, concepts, frameworks were argued about, what I would remember was what the women would say. And so, instead of sharing the round table discussions with you( you may wander away, as I did) let me tell you what the women said.
What women said: on the very first day of our rural camp, we were sent off individually to mingle with the villagers and establish a rapport with them. The morning having brought with it that special magic of Chhotanagpur, all our exhaustion and disapproval had vanished. I stepped out smartly and came up to a solitary women harvesting a field full of crop with a 'Hasua' (a locally made sickle) with a baby strapped to her back, Chhotanagpur style. She was friendly and happy to talk till she discovered that I did not know what crop she was harvesting. At first she was incredulous, then sorry for my parents because they had a daughter as stupid as me, then summarily dismissive of me - Everyone repeat, Everyone knew this crop was Marua. The Hasua was waved in the direction of the waiting harvest. If I didn't know that, I had no hope in life and was not really worth her time. All this was delivered with one hand on hip, the other dangling the Hasua, pity and dismissal in her eyes and the happy baby beaming at me from behind the mothers back. Distraught, disbelieving, and all my pretensions of being intellectual and academic fully and effectively shattered on that half harvested Marua field, I climbed back up the hill, humbled and frantically re assessing myself.
What I learnt: The good fight is fought on fields of Marua, in household courtyards, under the neem trees, on the steps of the temple, on the local bus service and unfortunately behind the closed doors of our bedrooms. The more equal world we feminists seek is fought for and won and lost in front of and with our colleagues, friends, lovers, spouses, parents, relatives and very often with our children strapped to our backs. And what gives me knowledge and power is what I fight with. One feminists tool may be feminist ideology and theory. Another's may be the knowledge of Marua and the skill to harvest it with smiling babies clinging to you. One needs to know which to use where and that each are powerful tools on their own.
What women said: A wonderfully articulate woman in the rural backwaters of Khulna, Bangladesh had once told me, “They say men are unimaginative. That they can't think of new things. They can't work hard. I always remind such people – that is not true. See how creative they are - how many ways men devise to abuse their wives. See how much of hard work it is – every single day, getting up in the morning, having to decide – today how shall I harass my wife? How shall I beat her? How shall I create chaos at home? Shall I throw her out today? Or just shout at her? Shall I pull her hair? Or shall I just say nasty things to her? And even after all this, people think men are dull and lazy.” As an afterthought she added, “Tch, tch.” And spat out her ‘paan’ juice.
What I learnt: The perpetrator is consistently evolving, and working hard. Therefore the protestor must constantly evolve and work hard too. Hence - feminism is a movement, not a revolution. Challenging and changing the system therefore happens slowly, brick by brick, through simple, mundane daily activity and behavior patterns. It does not work on a one time upheaval, after which I can retire. And so I learnt that if I was to be a feminist, I could never to give up. Never stop. Is it exhausting? Yes. But you could always stop to rest awhile and at that caravanserai, meet interesting women like the Lady of Khulna....
What women said: A young woman leader in Jharkhand, was a great believer of bringing separation, abandonment, divorce cases to the panchayat and resolving them in public. When I asked her why she did so, wasn't a divorce a private issue? She looked at me thoughtfully and said "Think."
Puzzled, I said, " Well it does appear to be what most people - "
She cut me off with a "hmmmph" and glared at me. "Don't talk about most people if you want things to change. Most people are donkeys. I say, divorce could be private yes, but only if a marriage is also private. Now, if a marriage sees the participation of the whole family and community, divorce also should, should it not? Divorce, after all is one of the logical extensions of marriage. If everyone was feasting with me in good times, they have bought their tickets and boarded the bus. They have to be part of my tough times. That responsibility is theirs as much as mine."
What I learnt: Feminism in practice is best based on arguments that are logical, rational and compelling. Weeping, wailing, raving, ranting, screeching, sympathy, acing the martyr act - all of these may work to attract attention. But once attention is attracted, we must have something relevant to say. Personally I would be happy only with the argument part of it, all the other things exhaust me. But how can I take away the joys of others? For myself, I stand in solidarity with a grass roots women's rights group in Jamtara (Jharkhand) who argued with their local mosque that if it allowed the system of triple talaaq, they should rule that triple the contract price should be given to the divorced woman by her divorcing husband. What was the argument of this women's group? - That the rule of 3 should apply to everything. The local priesthood had been stumped by this gem of an argument, as was I. But they got their way, and in the end that's what matters.
What women said: A women's rights activist from the grass roots of my beloved Chhotanagpur was often offered alcoholism as an explanation of domestic violence. And told that her women's rights group should work on removing alcoholism, then domestic violence would easily disappear. And I was never tired of her response to this. First she would confuse them by asking he group how many of their freinds and family drank regularly and how many of their drinking freinds/family had domestic trouble. As the weakness of their argument began to present itself to them, my freind would launch her final attack - "And now," she would ask, " If alcoholism gives rise to violence, how many people in the drinking corner, on the way back home and inside the home does the alcoholic man beat up?" No one but the wife? Yes, she thought so too. Did the group have an idea why the wife stood out in this alcoholic haze? Yes? Ah, she did too. And then, having got the group to the foot of the stairs, she'd start pushing them up, one difficult step at a time.
What I learnt: The root cause of the problem should drive feminist thinking and praxis. At the end of the road of every patriarchal system lay one common principle - women are secondary to men. Anything else was an aside. A drunk man beat up his wife only because he saw her as secondary to him. Not because he was drunk. And so, if we wish the break down this system, feminists need to focus on equality, not necessarily prohibition.
And so it went, my Feminism of the grass roots, learnt in that language. What interested me the most was the depth of wisdom of my teachers. And the extent of their often amused contempt for the men they knew and saw. As in one animated, angst ridden discussion on how violent our world had become, one of the older women in the group said it applied only to the men. Only the men had become violent, the silly creatures that they are. And we asked - the women weren't? No she said, women were not as silly as the men. They did fight their battles though, they had more honor than the men. Her tranquil reply to our agitated questions was "Termites" - you can't see termites. You can't hear termites. You can't count termites. And the outsides of the furniture they attacked was left untouched. Yet once the termites got at it, everything was emptied out from inside - everything broken and eaten and digested. The woman smiled to herself in satisfaction and I can still see her moving her hand in a circular motion, fingers outspread, saying, "All gone! All empty inside!" - as she said it," ander sey khokhla!" And hence, armed with my battle mascot, the Mighty Termite, I ate and digested my own demons, learning much from my Mighty Teachers. That would be material for another post though.
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