Let's Not Photograph Pity

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Few days ago, I came across a news report in Hindustan Times, about the plight of widows of farmers who had taken their own lives. The widows had not yet received compensation despite promises, and life as widows meant a life of vulnerability and unaddressed emotional needs. It was a good report, yet the accompanying photograph was disturbing.

To begin with, it was a staged photograph. I understand that often photojournalists (and so do I) have to recreate scenes in order to tackle bad light, or simply because, sometimes, the composition is not visually effective. Staging a scene is still journalism, as long as the truth is being conveyed. But this photograph was staged in a way that was condescending to the women being photographed. It seems that the photograph was taken with severe lighting constraints, yet this is not justification to make the women seem as poor helpless widows. I have a problem with the triangular position instructed by the photographer, because this makes the scene so forcible constructed.

Besides the aesthetics, I am livid that the women were made to carry the photographs of their dead husbands. Where is the sense of respect towards someone who has suffered loss? Perhaps they did not utter a word when they were instructed to stand in that order. Perhaps, for them, this photograph after all would get noticed, and they would deserve the due they had been promised.

From my previous experience of working with photojournalists on assignments, it was unbelievable to watch them wield power over those who had to be photographed, especially with those who are in the vulnerable section of the society. The consciousness of class difference would automatically bring in a sense of humane indifference.

Let's imagine these three women as widows from a fancier part of Bombay. Would the photographer dare ask them then to stand carrying the photographs of their dead husband, and construct their spatial triangular position, and go click-click-click?

This photograph disturbs me because it does not elicit a sense of respect towards the women, even though the intentions might have been otherwise. Did the photojournalist see anything beyond pity, which he translated through his photograph?

I want to see a photograph where the pride of moving on in their lives, despite the strife, is visible. Let's assume one of these women had a toddler for a child. Let's assume she could not stop grinning upon watching her child gurgle. To me, that would have made a stronger photograph, for it would show me her desire to move on, and her strength and hope in raising a child, despite all odds. If this news piece is an attempt at making the woes of the widows heard, the photograph ought to convey that, instead of looking down upon them.

But I guess editorial boards have a narrow mandate of how a photograph ought to be. The blurred lines are hence erased: a sad story needs to go along with a sad photograph only. When a photojournalist has the ability to turn around the way we view society, it is appalling that stereotypes (of pity, in this case) continue to thrive.

Photographer Tejal Pandey knows this position too well, when her attempts at shifting perceptions have been thrown in the bin, so that the line is not crossed beyond that what is comfortable and safe. Few years ago, when she worked with The Times of India, she was sent to photograph the marathon. Her editors wanted to see images of the sport through sweat and muscles. But Tejal saw something else.

Tejal describes what she photographed, and how it was perceived:

When I reached the venue, I was aghast at seeing these men leering at a female athlete. For them, she was just someone to be ogled at. I took the photograph to my editor, with a caption in mind that would reflect what I had seen. But it was very sad when the underlying truths behind this photograph was ignored, and the photograph was published with a caption that just mentioned that another athlete was running. At such times you realise that your image is likely to get modified so that it fits into a certain framework that the publication wants to put forward and in this case the real message was ignored beyond what might seem obvious – just talking about the marathon and the athletes is fine, but it is not okay to write about the men leering at her... because that would call for another angle to the story, perhaps that of how Indian men look at sportswomen, or at how our blinkered perspective on appropriate clothing cripples our views on sports or sportspersons.

Going back to the original photograph that prompted this post: the photojournalist – Anshuman Poyrekar – is a dear friend. He was the first photojournalist I worked with, in my first assignment in my first job as a journalist at The Asian Age, eight years ago. The assignment was to visit the Marriott Hotel, where a chef was making a series of exotic chocolate delicacies. I was nervous there, but Anshuman had eased me saying that we journalists are the boss, when we are covering an event. When the public relations executive asked us if we would like to have coffee, he had said a prompt yes, while mine was a hesitant one. As the PR executive disappeared, I whispered into Anshuman's ear, “I shouldn't have said yes to the coffee. I cannot afford the coffee! This is the Marriott! Please pay now on my behalf and I will repay you when I reach office.” Such was my naivete, and Anshuman laughed aloud. But he was kind enough to keep this a secret and not embarrass me before my colleagues in the office.

Anshuman is a senior, and a gifted photographer. I only hope that he understands that we journalists are indeed powerful, and hence we ought to use this power to change perceptions, through the stories we tell or photograph.

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Revolutionary, Dreamer, Unsung Hero: Dabar Kalundia

On January 30, the valiant struggle of the residents of Kalinganagar, in the eastern Indian state of Odisha, lost its hero Dabar Kalundia. A Ho Munda adivasi (indigenous tribe), a farmer, a visionary, a revolutionary – 43-year-old Kalundia had been in the forefront to stop steel companies from taking over vast areas of land that indigenous peoples like himself have long been sustaining themselves with. Widely revered by his peers and equally loathed by the administration, Kalundia's integrity was unshakeable; his arguments were radical, his speeches were rousing, and his ability to celebrate resistance in the face of suppression unbelievable. On at leat three occasions he cheated death from attempts at assassination – his death would have meant easy access into the villages for the administration. Yet, it was a failing kidney – something so curable – that brought his breath to an end.

Few days before his sudden death, Kalundia had been admitted to the civil hospital in Cuttack (the nearest big town 100kms away), but he learnt that he would not survive. So he insisted on returning home so that he could breath his last at home. All these details emerged much later, after slowly digesting the shock of his death.

If one were to visit Kalinganagar today, large steel plants would be the first thing that would be noticed, followed by houses with thatched roofs of red tiles spread sporadically. For many people who have long been associated with the people's movement in Kalinganagar to prevent the onslaught of steel plants, the movement was a failure.

Kalundia's life goes unheard of in the limited scope of the understanding of victory and loss in a people's movement. And hence perhaps, there was not a plethora of obituaries written about him – he died just about the time when columns and air time was filled (rightly so) with the life and work of Pete Seeger as he passed on too. Only one memorial meet took place on January 10 in the state capital of Bhubaneshwar, 200kms south of Kalinganagar. But to understand why Kalundia should not be forgotten, and why his revolutionary vision cannot be called a loss, one ought to understand Kalinganagar.

Kalinganagar is the name given to the industrial industrial complex that was set up in the early 90s, and encompasses 11 steel plants. According to the indigenous Ho Munda community residing in those lands spread across several villages, the extent of the industrial complex has not been determined: every now and then, farther and deeper into the villages, there would be signs that indicate that the industrial complex was expanding. When I visited the place in June 2010, some of the 11 steel plants had already been constructed; some others were yet to acquire land from the people. One of those companies was Tata Steel, a subsidiary of Indian conglomerate Tata Group (Tata Motors, from the same conglomerate, had acquired Jaguar Land Rover from Ford Motor Company in 2008).

Surya Shankar Dash, a filmmaker, had been documenting the struggle in Kalinganagar since 2006. That's also when he first met Kalundia, and realised how the people's articulation, on why Tata could not take over their land, was far beyond the Leftist rhetoric. Dash feels that the movement in Kalinganagar evolved entirely through the strength of the people; it did not have the support of any NGO or mainstream political party. Neither was any outsider sympathetic to their struggle made a leader to guide them. “All decisions were collectively made by the community that stood to be affected by the projects, and this is something I have not seen in other movements,” says Dash.

When I met Kalundia in June 2010, he had invited me to a simple yet delicious lunch, that he had prepared by himself. During our conversation, he had said something, which helped me understand why the adivasis understood buzzwords like 'development' and 'sustenance' better that revered scholars. “We adivasis buy only two things for our kitchen from the market – cooking oil and salt. Everything else is found here. If I want to eat spinach one day, I will take some from my neighbour's farm. If he wants to cook tomatoes one day, he will take some from my farm. This is how we have always been living – in harmony with each other,” Kalundia had said, as I licked off my fingers to finish the meal.

 The only photograph of Dabur Kalundia in my archives, from my travel to Kalinganagar, in June 2010. © Priyanka Borpujari

However, it was this sense of independence, a keystone among indigenous communities, that brought Kalundia his untimely death. “Adivasis are the kind of people who would rarely complain. They ask very little of you. Everyone knew Dabar was a bit unwell with his kidney, but he behaved as though all was well. He had always put his personal issues aside,” remembers Dash.

Yet, there is no denying that Kalundia was a man listening to his own tune, when it came to responding to situations of repression. “He converted occasions of repression into celebrations of resistance,” says Dash. Once, the District Collector (the highest officer in a district) visited the village. Unlike in other villages where the reverence towards the Collector is shown by putting out a chair and table for him, Kalundia ensured that everyone sat on the mat on the floor, including the Collector. He recorded the proceedings of the meeting with his camera. Instead of trying to explain why they companies had no right in acquiring people's land, he directed every word towards the Collector, conveying that the latter was responsible to listen to peoples' issues. “It took a lot of courage to challenge the Collector and tell him that he wasn't doing his job well,” says Dash.

Kalundia was the leader with no declaration or frills. He was attacked at least thrice, and he escaped each time. He knew that it was important to respond to the repression in every possible way, and was hence open to new ideas. When Dash once suggested that he ought to be documenting all that was happening in Kalinganagar, he needed no explanation. “One day, he called me and said that he had saved up Rs 15,000 ($ 250), and asked me to get him a video camera. When I got one, he began to shoot and made more effective use of the camera than I would have,” says Dash.

Knowing about Kalundia's camera play comes a full circle for me: in 2010, I had seen some videos about the repression in Kalinganagar which motivated me to go there and report about the struggle. I had known that Dash had edited the videos and had uploaded them on Youtube. But it is only now, at his death, that I learn that Kalundia, inadvertently, invited me to Kalinganagar. However, according to Dash, Kalundia was soon bored with his new “toy” and had begun to train other men to use the camera. He knew that as a leader, he had to delegate work in the spectrum of a resistance.

But true to the democratic nature of the movement, Kalundia also faced the ire of his own people. He had sometimes undertaken contract work for the companies, and that angered the people around him. But he would explained his rationale behind taking up those works, stating that it was easy for the companies to bring people from outside to do the work, thus making way for those outsiders to dominate the natives. “Just because I am doing contract work does not mean that I would stop fighting the acquisition of our lands. It is my right to fight for my land, and it is also my right to work in a dignified way. I am not working as a petty labourer,” he would assert.

But increasingly, with more and land being taken over by Tata, Kalundia became an angrier but silent man. During the Martyrs' Day meeting on January 2 this year, he rebuked anyone who wished him 'Happy New Year'. Martyr's Day is observed on January 2 by the people of Kalinganagar since 2006, to remember the 14 men and women who had died that day, when they were attacked by the police that had charged at them, to forcibly drive them off of the land. Nobody had known that the land had been mined.

This year, on Martyrs' Day, Kalundia delivered a speech, in the state official language of Oriya. Here are excerpts from his profound – and last – speech:

“On Second January 2014, as everyone in our country and the world are wishing each other a Happy New Year, I would like to tell Naveen Patnaik [Chief Minister of Odisha state] that he has sold our flesh to the people of the world, he has sold the flesh of the people of Kalinganagar, he has sold the flesh of the tribal population.... The ministers, the police, the officials… they have consumed the blood of the people, and they have celebrated Holi [Indian festival of colours] with their blood. I will not forget this day, as long as I am alive. I will say this as long as I live… to this democratic nation, this democratic state, and the democratic political system…

In the name of democracy, they have brought all these companies here, who are preying on us for money… and are having a new year feast.... The ruling government in this country, in Odisha, and in the other states, has only one agenda – to exploit the common man....

In this world, there is not a single politician or government that has not taken money from big companies… nobody has the guts to speak out against the big companies… but I do… and I will speak against them...

Today, everyone is running after money, no matter what his income is… everyone wants more and more… but you cannot eat money… you can only eat rice, dal, roti, which come from the land… it does not come from factories… If anyone can prove to me that rice, dal, roti comes from a factory, I will kiss his feet. ...”

When Tata Steel was finally able to start constructing its plant on some of the arable land owned by the people, activists deemed the movement as a “lost” one. But what is a valid definition of a successful movement? For some, success means the mobilisation of people and a real democratic process, rather than one piece of paper into the ballot. For others, success is perceived as preventing any construction by the authorities. In the case of Kalinganagar, therefore, the fact that the 11 steel companies set up their plants on the lands of the indigenous communities is a “failure”. So, did Dabar die a vain revolutionary?

Only in his death can the richness of Kalundia's life and his revolution be understood – he was the catalyst that brought together several villages to put up a brave front before the combined magnanimity of the State and steel companies.

According to Dash, the struggle in Kalinganagar, and Kalundia's leadership, were not in vain. Tata Steel did set up its plant on significant parts of arable lands, but it could not displace people from their homes. They were not able to displace the residents of Baligotha, Chandia and other villages. “We activists seem to celebrate a half-baked victory only when a politician might openly support a movement,” says Dash.

A fortnight after his death, at least 50 people attended his memorial service in Bhubaneshwar. They were mostly activists and academics in solidarity with the Kalinganagar movement. Each spoke about Kalundia's unflinching integrity. Everyone remembered his lucid articulation; his distinct and unique style to reverse perspectives during arguments. They all knew how he would calmly listen to activists yet deliver a better speech himself.

“Can we pack our bags and move on, when some people take the petty compensation and the steel plants are built, while others resist every attempt at repression? People like us extend solidarity to peoples' movements, but we seem too distant to provide basic medical aid, especially when places like Kalinganagar are not at all inaccessible,” says Dash, in equal parts angry and sad about the avoidable death of one hero, unfazed by anyone, Dabar Kalundia.

(I visited Kalinganagar in June 2010 and reported about the movement in a six-part series called 'Kalinganagar Diary'. I had vowed to return soon, but it's been almost four years since.)

Fruits Of Afforestation

Adivasis in southern Madhya Pradesh see salvation from malnutrition in a drive to plant fruit trees (This article first appeared in the Down To Earth magazine dated December 10, 2012)

On December 8 last year, drumbeats sounded from deep inside the forests of Umberdoh in Betul, Madhya Pradesh. People had assembled there from far away villages, many having travelled for nearly 12 hours. The sun gave way to a full moon, the wintry winds began to blow and people huddled around a fire while songs of freedom from oppression began to echo. Rapt attention was paid to details and testimonies were presented of a new process that promised salvation from chronic malnutrition, while ensuring a robust livelihood.

A year since, and many more meetings later in other villages in Betul, the idea of planting fruit tree saplings is slowly taking root among the Korku and Gond adivasis of southern Madhya Pradesh

Two grassroots organisations, Shramik Adivasi Sangathan (SAS) and Samajwadi Jan Parishad (SJP), have kick started this afforestation drive. Aimed at addressing the decreasing forest cover in Madhya Pradesh—the state accounts for more than one-third of the forestland diverted from the country since 1981—this process has already found acceptance among villages in Chincholi and Ghodadongri blocks of Betul.

SAS began the campaign for fruit sapling plantation on July 1, 2011, when the Hari Jiroti festival to welcome the monsoon and celebrate the sprouting of new crop was being observed in the region.  Faldaar paudhe lagaayenge, bhukhmari mitaayenge (through fruit sapling plantation, we will eradicate malnutrition) and Purkhon se naata jodenge, jungle-zameen nahi chodenge (we'll establish links with our ancestors, we won't leave our land and forests) were the slogans raised on that day.

 

People from near and far off villages assembled at the December 8 meeting. They paid rapt attention to details and testimonies of how planting fruit trees promised salvation from chronic malnutrition (Credit: Priyanka Borpujari)

“We requested for 50,000 fruit tree saplings from the district authorities, but received none. But that did not deter us,” says Anurag Modi of SAS, who has been working in the region for almost two decades. Modi claims that so far, 20,000 saplings of fruits like Indian gooseberry (amla), jamun, mango, guava and custard apple have been planted in the forests, close to water bodies.

Study in contrast
Giving back the responsibility of maintaining the forest cover to  adivasis, and thereby ensuring their access to what could possibly provide them with the nutrition they lack, is in stark contrast with the Green India Mission-2011 of the Union Ministry of Environment and Forests (MoEF). The mission's objective is increase of forest cover on 10 million hectares of land by year 2020. The total cost of the mission has been projected at Rs 46,000 crore over 10 years.

The ministry's projects are all heavy on funds. In fact, Rs 871.25 crore has already been allocated by Madhya Pradesh towards compensatory afforestation, as on June 30, 2011, according a statement of the minister of state for environment and forests, Jayanthi Natarajan, made in the Lok Sabha. Natarajan also stated that 176.54 million trees had been planted on public and forestland in the state in the past three years. In a separate correspondence between the office of the principal chief conservator of forests (development), Madhya Pradesh, and the CEO of ad-hoc Compensatory Afforestation and Fund Management and Planning Authority (CAMPA) of MoEF, dated March 18, 2010, an annual plan of operation for the utilisation of the amount of NPV (net present value) from the afforestation fund was submitted. In that proposal of a financial requirement of Rs 17236.29 lakh, a significant amount had been quoted for the conservation of wildlife and protection of forests, which includes building patrolling and forest chowkis, purchase of wireless equipment, utility and range-level patrolling vehicles, firearms and promotion of energy-saving devices.

“Why do we need such a large budget to protect forests with firearms and fences, when adivasis have been taking care of forests for generations?” asks Modi. “The government mostly promotes monoculture, and it wouldn't be wrong to say that trees it plants would be to ensure commercial gain in future, like teak or eucalyptus,” he adds.

Modi says that the government is wasting its time in trying to implement such schemes, which end up being huge scams. “Adivasis have survived on wild fruits for centuries. They understand best how their survival revolves around forests, and know how to take care of it,” he says.

During its campaign, which included a foot march to promote the need to reclaim government wastelands and a large meeting in December, 2011, SAS put emphasis on the adivasis' symbiotic relationship with fruit trees in forests. The announcement pamphlet circulated by SAS and SJP for the meeting urged people to bring symbols of their gods and goddesses to the venue in order to honour the deities. The pamphlet further explained how the British rule in India was responsible for systematically doing away with fruit trees from the forests and replacing them with teak plants; this practice continued well after Independence. “The livelihood from mango, jamun, mahua, cashew, jackfruit, tamarind on just an acre will ensure that the forest regenerates. The livelihood thus gained will be more than what could be derived from agriculture on 10 acres of land. Let's clear off the weeds of lantana to enrich the wastelands collectively,” says the pamphlet.

A conflict brews
During this meeting, workers of SAS, as well as residents of nearby Chirapatla village, described the place fruit trees have in the adivasi ethos of living. Some spoke of the need to protect the river by planting trees; others explained how saplings could be procured from SAS and SJP. Modi explained how people in Chunajoori village had developed their own system to keep a tab on the plantation. First, the people cleared the weeds. They then planted the saplings, dug a well and even developed a nursery. This is a significant way to protect those species of fruits that are disappearing. The people of Chunajoori are also maintaining a register for the attendance of people planting fruit saplings. Roughly 300 man days from the labour of 100 people have been decided by the village to be dedicated for this process.

Modi says that this process had begun sporadically in few villages, but the forest department officials destroyed the saplings. “They also demolished the well that was dug up especially for this plantation. Finally, another set of saplings were burnt down by the JFM (Joint Forest Management) Committee of another village at the department’s instigation. But we are reviving this process slowly,” he adds.
             
People in the forest department are sceptical. R B Sinha, who until recently was the Conservator of Forests, Madhya Pradesh, says that horticulture is not permitted in forestland. “As per the Forest Conservation Act of 1980, fruit trees cannot be grown over forest land.” The adivasis find this response ridiculous. “Fruit trees have always been growing in forests. We won't be planting any videshi (foreign) fruit trees here,” says an old man.

“About 30,000 children in Betul district are malnourished. Vision loss is a prominent condition among the children. Feeding them fruits from the trees you plant is the best way to provide nutrition to your children, without any additional cost. This is why the threats to keep away from forests have not deterred them from deciding their own fate. They do see hope in these fruit trees,” Modi says. 

Priyanka Borpujari is an independent journalist, and is the IWMF (International Women's Media Foundation) Elizabeth Neuffer Fellow for 2012-2013

 

Defiance In The Ganges

(This article first appeared in Waging Non-Violence on November 28, 2012)

Two women walk away from the Ganges river, carrying its water with them in the urns

 

Type “dalit” into Google News, and you will be flooded with gory reports from across India of women from this supposedly lower caste being raped and murdered, of men being hacked to death. In the northern state of Haryana alone, over two dozen dalit girls and women have been raped over the last month. There was a 16-year-old victim of gang rape who immolated herself; a woman who was gang raped at gunpoint in front of her three children; and another 16-year-old girl who was gang raped by eight men while four others recorded it and circulated the video, after which her father committed suicide.

The National Crime Records Bureau reports that every day three dalit women are raped, two dalits are murdered, 11 are beaten and two homes are burned down. Yet in the face of such persistent hatred, dalits continue to assert their humanity. Rallies are often held and lawsuits are routinely filed. But it isn’t clear whether these efforts have triggered the kind of empathy needed to shift Indian culture toward recognizing dalits as equals. That is why dalits in the eastern state of Bihar have begun to try something different.

In February 2011, 1,001 dalit women from the Dom community walked through the town of Parbatta, carrying pails of water from the pious river of Ganga (or Ganges). In symbolic fashion, they were taking claim of the river from those who had dominated and oppressed them.

The Ganga Kalash Yatra, as it was called — kalash meaning earthen urn and yatra meaning rally — was the third annual such event in Bihar’s Khagaria district, one of the most deprived districts in the entire state. Dalits comprise about 70 percent of the population. But with unequal land holding patterns on top of the caste system’s social oppression, the options for employment are limited. Many work as farm laborers — where they are exploited in the fields with low wages for strenuous work — while others migrate to cities for rudimentary jobs. Often, women bear the worst consequences; being abducted by feudal lords is commonplace.

Traditionally, Doms never had any land holdings, and thereby no income of their own. They were forced to do important jobs that no one else would take up — cremating dead bodies, cleaning the toilets of the people in the village and managing the dead bodies of animals. Like other lower caste communities, they were prevented from having a relationship with the Ganges. For whatever religious needs that were to be met, they could only access a tributary of the river. Every such symbol of oppression had to be reclaimed. And this is what the Yatra aimed to do, says Sanjeev, a longtime supporter of the Dom community, who has been instrumental in galvanizing the momentum behind their revolt.

From riches to rags
Sanjeev’s story in itself is nothing short of a utopian tale. Until 2004, he was leading an urban life in the Indian capital of New Delhi. He had at one point been a runway model before working as a marketing executive. The death of a relative in 2004 brought him to Khagaria, the place where his parents are from. After the customary rituals and dinner, he stepped outside where he was shocked to see a man fighting with a dog over food thrown into the garbage pile. He went back inside and asked his relatives to get a plate of food for the man, and to invite him into their home. But his request to help this Dom man was met with ridicule.

Later, during that same trip, he was shocked to see what he had only heard in stories — people from the same community were not allowed to take water from the hand pump that was situated in the upper caste area. He began to think about the idea of equality as he went back to his comfortable life in New Delhi. Months later, he returned to Khagaria without a round-trip ticket or a plan.

Not knowing where to begin, but observing the obviously unsanitary conditions, he began bathing the Dom children, one by one, near a hand-pump. People watched in disbelief and doubt. Then he walked around, talking to people and asking women if they would like to read and write. Soon, a ramshackle hut of twigs and mud became a classroom. His students were women, who hid their faces behind veils. This made the men suspicious and they burnt down the hut. But within in a few years, they were learning along with the women.


 The community then formed Bahishkrit Hitkari Sangathan (BHS; Organization for the the Benefit of the Untouchables) in 2006 and with that the upper castes began to face challenges in their habitual domination of the dalits. Some responded with violence. Sanjeev was forced to leave Khagaria after his cousin was murdered in an attempt to intimidate Sanjeev and stop him from doing his work. Guerrilla Maoists, who have a certain influence in the region, also began to feel threatened that the young boys of the lower castes would no more be inclined to join their ranks to fight against the oppressive system.

Nevertheless, BHS continued to thrive, with membership growing to over 10,000 people. It soon launched a campaign to stop the Doms from having to eat leftover food from the garbage. Meanwhile, the education work continued, and some of the Dom children were enrolled in schools — many for the first time in their families’ history. But once again, these changes were met with resistance. Parents from the upper caste protested the demographic mixing in schools and some teachers even neglected the Dom students.

“People feared that if these children were educated and then employed at better jobs, it would not be possible to practice untouchability, which would signal the end of their own dominance in the society,” Sanjeev explained.

This didn’t stop BHS. In fact, they started to receive some funding and established a core team of 12 organizers, including six women. Yet, something bigger was still needed. There was a need felt to assert the Dom identity, while also reclaiming universal symbols and resources, like the Ganges, which had come to be an instrument of oppression. Through meetings and brainstorming sessions, the idea of the Ganga Kalash Yatra was born. February was decided upon as the time for the Yatra because that was when the women had less work in the fields; summers would have been too difficult for a rally.

Down by the riverside
While attending the Yatra in 2011, it was remarkable to see women from far off districts and villages travel to Parbatta in the biting cold of the winter. They chipped in small amounts of money to collectively hire a tractor, that would take them to the Yatra. In the first year, 175 women participated, but about 400 did in 2010. I was told that the process had been the same each year: They had managed to take leave from their chores at home and participate in a celebration of their identity as women and equal human beings. Among them were Muslim women, who face religious subjugation and fall under the category of Other Backward Classes.

For a month prior to the Yatra, women from the Kumbhakar caste — kumbhakar means potter — were making urns to be used by the women. Other logistical arrangements included buying fruits and packing them in plastic bags. Tents had to be erected at an assembly ground; microphones and loudspeakers also had to set up. Sanjeev said, “This time, we are having someone from the Dom community to preside over the function, and he will sit next to a politician who we have invited. This will give out the signal that the Doms are now capable of taking the lead for themselves, rather than having politicians decide for them.”

The night before the Yatra, women had taken shelter in a small hall. In one corner, lentils, rice and vegetables were being cooked for everyone. As the temperature dropped that night, and the lights went out, lamps emerged and songs were sung by the women. Soon, only the crickets were heard, for everyone had to be up by 4 a.m. to get to the banks of the Ganges.

Even before the sun was up, the women grabbed their bag of clean clothes and jumped into tractors to head to the river bank. Many trips were made by the tractors and a few jeeps. At the river bank, the women began to bathe; adolescent girls frolicked in the water. As the sun came up, the women carried water into the urns; some women applied vermilion on their foreheads and wore red-and-golden bands — just like the upper caste women would do on a pilgrimage.

By 8 a.m., the women began to walk back to Parbatta. In two straight lines, with the urns on their heads, they headed to the meeting ground four miles away. A few jeeps with BHS banners glided between the moving queues; loudspeakers shouted slogans of empowerment. The town of Parbatta watched the rally go by. They had seen it in the previous years, but this one was larger. People stood in their balcony to watch the once-oppressed walk in stride, carrying the symbolic river waters.

By noon, everyone had placed their urns at a specified location, and sat under a huge canopy. An oil lamp was lit, and a series of speeches followed by the visiting politician and the chosen president of the ceremony. Women broke their fast by eating the fruits and later, a cooked meal. The space and opportunity was used to convey people’s grievances to the representatives of the local administration. On the fringes of the meeting ground were small booths that gave out information about various government schemes, including those related to health, nursery for children, housing and employment.

By 4 p.m., the ceremony was over. Women rested or walked around. But the air continued to be filled with remnants of the sociological process: priests were hired to chant ‘Sita Ram’ for 24 hours, continuously, without a single break. They began at 4 p.m. that day, and continued through the night, in different tones, until the next evening.

At about the same time, the women took the pots and returned to the riverside once again. They threw the pots into the river, and collectively took a vow that they would not let themselves be oppressed in the year ahead.

“What I am trying to do is to get the Dom to realize that nothing is owned just by the upper caste — neither the river, nor the rituals,” Sanjeev explained. “But this process is just one small yet significant step towards making the Doms heard. They have been suppressed for centuries. The government has so many programs for the lower castes, but has that changed the mindset of the oppressor?”

The work that remains
Although the Yatra did not take place in 2012 due to a paucity of funds, many want it to return. As Sanjeev told me over the phone recently, “They want it as a chance to get together, have some fun, and feel their own strength.”

In the meantime, Sanjeev is focusing on getting the government to allocate homes and arable land to the Doms by getting the children involved. They have been making demands of the government for arable land, so that their fathers have work, which would thereby enable them to go to school.

“They [the Doms] will have to stand up on their own and bring about the real change,” said Sanjeev. “I’m just a cog in the wheel.”

Members of Bahishkrit Hitkari Sangathan carry a sign that says, 

“Towards A New Horizon.”

Dignity In A Bag

(This article first appeared in The Hindu on July 28, 2012)

Can do with a little help: Bebitai Mohite on the job.

A paper bag is all it takes, proves a Pune organisation, to ensure that waste pickers won’t have to lay their bare hands on soiled discards.

Everyday, Bebitai Mohite sifts through garbage bins of about 100 homes of Pune, segregating waste. She often injures her hand from pins and glass pieces. But the worst form of waste, 48-year-old Bebitai says, are “sanitary napkins and diapers”. Her hands often dip into a rotten wet discard of red or brown.

Among the new forms of waste today are the non-biodegradable sanitary napkins. More urban women are using hi-fibre sanitary napkins, even as rural India still uses cloth. The muslin nappy for babies has been replaced by thick diapers. More adults today suffer from incontinence, thus increasing the usage of adult diapers. None of these are biomedical waste, yet, are toxic.

In an attempt to reduce these encounters with putrid filth, a square paper bag made from newspaper has been designed for the disposal of sanitary napkins. It has a sticker that announces its purpose; waste pickers thus need not unwrap it to see if it contains anything that could be sold. In 2009, a local organisation SWaCH (Solid Waste Collection and Handling) developed the bag, in consultation with its 1,867 members. SWaCH provides door-to-door waste management across three lakh Pune households. Aging or pregnant waste pickers, or women from slums, were taught to make the bags. A yellow sticker with text in Hindi and English was pasted. Each bag is sold for Rs. 1, and only packs of 50 are sold.

A string originally meant to fasten the bag has now been replaced by an adhesive peel-off strip. A new origami fold makes the bag sturdier. There is a pink sticker instead of the yellow, bearing the universal symbol representing women. And women from the middle class are “thanking” waste pickers through these bags.

Worth it

“The most expensive sanitary napkin costs Rs. 8. We can surely spend another rupee for its safe and clean disposal,” says Smita Rajabali, who has convinced several women in her 154-home housing society to buy these bags. Smita says that during a festive exchange-gift event at her yoga class, the male participants insisted on taking the bags for the women in their homes.

Aarti Patil, Principal of Vidyanchal School, has made it mandatory for female students and staff to use them. “Students should understand that we owe everything to the environment and the society. We have been segregating the waste in the school anyway. Students have observed how waste pickers work, and hence there was no need to explain about the bags. The staff readily agreed to using it,” says Patil.

Similarly, Charuta Mahabale gifts these bags to women during haldi kumkum. “Most women are happy to learn about these bags. But some worry about their family’s reaction when these bags are taken home from a religious gathering,” she laughs.

Far away from Charuta’s high-rise apartment, Layla Pathan and her daughter-in-law Shaheen make these bags in their slum dwelling. It takes them 10 minutes to fold one, and Layla sometimes makes 100 bags through the day. They earn Rs. 25 from SWaCH for every 100 bags. “This bag is a good idea but it is strenuous to make them. It would be nice if we are paid Rs. 40 for every 100 bags,” says Shaheen. Both the women are illiterate. They feel the stickers on the bags are pointless.

“Almost every waste picker is illiterate. How will he know what this bag is for? Even if he can read, he has no time. It is easier to tear apart the bag and see if its content can be sold as scrap,” says Layla.

What, then, would work? “There should be an image of the sanitary napkin on the sticker,” says Layla. Agrees Sangita Jadhav of SWaCH. She travels by crowded buses daily to deliver about 500 ordered bags. She knows best what it means to sell something that hasn’t been promoted. “Customers often tell me that the bags need to be marketed well. We need a better sticker to communicate with the waste picker,” she says. Only the members of SWaCH, and the 8,000 members of KKPKP (Kagad Kach Patra Kashtakari Panchayat) — the association of waste pickers through which SWaCH was formed — are aware of the bag. The rest of the city’s waste pickers would still possibly unwrap them.

Better marketing needed

Maitreyi Shankar, business development manager at SWaCH, who has seen the evolution of the bag, says the door-to-door supply isn’t cost effective. Bulk purchase is a solution. So far, just one office of a software company has bought these bags. “I have been speaking to officials at Kimberley Clark Lever to include these bags with their sanitary napkins, as part of their extended product responsibility. But these things take time to materialise,” she says. There are about 1.5 lakh bags waiting to be sold, halting further production. “I haven't received the materials to make the bags for a while now. Even if the pay is low, it still provides me with some money,” says Layla.

But Bebitai is optimistic that the residents of the housing complex where she works would readily purchase the bag, if a SWaCH representative were to formally introduce it to them. “Even though some women never wrap their napkins despite repeated requests, I think we should talk to them as equals — as one woman clearing off the trash of another,” says the polite lady, who has also visited Copenhagen to attend the 16th United Nations Climate Change Conference (COP16).

Smita has an Utopian idea. “Shouldn’t such an eco-friendly sanitary napkin become the reason for competition among manufacturers? The napkins were developed for the comfort of women; these bags are for the comfort and dignity of those women who handle our soiled napkins.”