Freedom

“main sochti thi main badi ho ke gareebon ki seva karungi. par main toh khud hi gareeb ho gayi” (I used to think that when I grow up I shall serve the poor. But I myself became poor), said the short, lean woman from the Balai community in her 20s, with a smirk. I was shocked. Not only at the way she said it, in a tone that seemed to kind of mock at her audacity to even aspire the way she did, but also at the way she looked right into our eyes as if pointing out how privileged we were to have been able to be in the position where she daringly aspired to be.

My first fieldwork taught me to question about my position, my identity, my role as a researcher. It was then that I for the first time realized how privileged I am being an ‘Indian woman’ and yet not necessarily conforming to all the strict restrictions and norms that the women, who were then our ‘objects’ of study necessarily conformed to. These were women in their twenties, same age group as mine, but with so many differences in terms of their knowledge, attitude and practices, given their location in terms of social class, geographical setting, educational level and very significantly their caste positions. Before I actually stepped in the field, I had an idea that the aspirations of these women even though they belonged to the same age group as mine were very different. Not that I credited this fact to the difference in socialization process that we undergo, but I was quite sure that these women did not aspire for ‘freedom’ in the same way that ‘we’, the urban, middle class, formally educated women did. The ‘us’-‘them’ divide seemed to be quite distinct in my head till then. My idea changed abruptly with a blow as I was roaming the village with my backpack which contained my note pad, pens, umbrella, sanitizer, clip board and water bottle. In an informal interaction with the young bahus of the village, they enquired about our marital statuses and got to know that we were unmarried. Sharp was the comment in no time at all, beginning my process of unlearning - “inhe dekho yeh kaisi azaad panchi ki tarah fir rahi hain bina shaadi ke. Hum to yahin reh gaye hain” (look at them, how they are roaming like a free bird without having married. we have stayed behind).

Among the many things fieldwork taught me, a very significant one seemed to be how our ‘objects of study’ considered us as ‘ungendered objects’ not expecting us to conform to any gender role as such. There, we happened to be ‘researchers’ – neither men, nor women; neither ‘she’ not ‘he’ but an ‘it’ in the strict sense of the term. We were the ‘madams with bags’ or ‘didi’ after a certain level of acquaintance. We violated the norms of womanhood by carrying backpacks, not covering our heads, wearing wristwatches and unisex floaters; we were often questioned whether we were married. When replied in the negative, reactions were more of shock than of surprise. Different reasons for our parents not being able to marry us off even though we looked around twenty years of age were voiced. Disability featured foremost amongst those reasons. They often suspected me having some kind of disability which must have detained my getting married. Offers to search grooms for us too were not uncommon. We were ‘objects’ of curiosity.

From the women of the village there were mainly two kinds of reactions towards us. Some of them felt the need to teach us to behave in a womanly way, which we seemed to be unaware of. However, the young bahus seemed quite envious of our position wrapped in ‘freedom’ – freedom to board the public transport alone, freedom to not cover our heads in public, freedom to talk to people- men and women face to face, freedom to carry backpacks, freedom to laugh out loud in front of others, freedom to control our own bodies, freedom to roam the village not fearing caste contamination, and the list was endless. That’s when I learnt how ‘free’ I was, never ever realizing it before this.

 For men however, we were the alien being who no doubt was ‘female’ biologically but not ‘women’ at all. Unlike their women of the village, we were raised to a platform where the men considered us capable enough to discuss matters regarding the village economy and polity. Unlike the women there, we could sit and chat with village elders at the local tea shop. Not that it surprised them. We were already so different. However much we tried and covered our heads with our dupattas, we still remained the urban researcher- noone had any trouble to search and pick the odd one out! This was probably the first time in my life that I tried making a conscious effort to hide my urban middle class identity, specifically my ‘privileged’ identity. It was in such circumstances a matter of guilt and shame.

Talking of guilt and shame my first ever field study haunts my memory. It was an urban slum. There was no space to place one’s shoe-covered feet. It was filthily dirty with human and animal wastes, vegetable peels, pieces f rugs and so on. Open drains marked the paths dotted with single roomed residences housing numerous families within the area. The rooms opened out to the drain and once one crosses it one had to step on to the grubby clayed alleyway. It was a small survey that I was a part of during my University days. When I returned to my room at the end of the day I was feeling sickened at the dirt and filth I had been in through the day. The thought, that we had just gone there once to do a one-time survey and that numerous families actually live there day in and day out, struck me hard. ( I correct myself… my sister Shyamasree pointed it out to me, not that it struck me on my own at the first go, I am ashamed to say). This was my first encounter with reality, with soil.

During my days of work in the village, I realized how privileged I was most importantly in matters of marriage. We, urban, middle class educated women were privileged enough to not get married till our late twenties and roam the village talking to village women exactly of our age or even lower, about their experiences and opinions regarding their lack of privilege on such issues. The women there say, “jab chhoti thi, sochti thi shadi nahi karna. Padhai karke koi naukri karna hain…par gaon mein umar nahi dekhte. Badi dikhte hain toh shadi karwa dete hain”. Starkling anecdotes emerged through our interactions. One of them, a twenty year old woman from the SC community in a Rajasthan village shared, when asked whether she wanted to get married at that point of time, “moino toh patah hi na chala. Jab aise patah bhi na ho. Jab sagai hui mein khub roi – mujhe bhi jana hai..sab ja raha hain. Jab sab bole, aree tera hi toh sagai ho raha hai ” (I did not even know that. I cried a lot when everyone was going for the engagement. I cried saying I too wanted to go. Then everyone explained that it was my engagement only). Apparently funny an incident, shocking it was how in reality women of my age were living in a different world altogether. It was horrid to even believe that such a world existed outside the film screen.

It was during my field work that statistical data, numbers in the pages started breathing. Child mortality till then was a term in the books, never coming alive till I met this young mother who had just lost her child. She mentioned that her six month old daughter passed away two months back due to some illness. She tried seeking help from various doctors both in the village and in the nearby city, but it did not help. She was extremely depressed and her mind seemed pre-occupied with related thoughts. She also told us that she was planning to get the ‘operation’ (sterilization) done after three children but now…… (She seemed to fumble with words). Her face looked sullen and her eyes full of grief and helplessness. This was my first encounter with the ‘meaning’ of the numbers that filled up the columns with the heading of child mortality. It was devastating! Further more, it taught me, showed me right on face how poverty and child mortality were big business today. It pointed out how poverty sold through glossy newsletters and pamphlets.

This incident was when I wondered whether I would be capable enough to continue in the field of doing social research through fieldwork. The classroom lectures had taught me by then the concept of involved detachment that a social researcher should be abiding by on field. I found it not only difficult but impossible after a certain level. Where does one draw the line? The question still haunts!

After a theoretical training in the classrooms I had gone away to the field to find answers; it was strange; I came back asking myself more and more questions- some answered, most unanswered!

A woman in her late twenties shared that she was a very successful sportswoman all through her school years. Participation at the district level events of Kabaddi, Kho-kho, basket ball, high jump and long jump had won her lot of ‘pramanpatra” (certificates), and “steel ke jug” (cups). She shared she would win sports events and dance competitions where she once danced on a glass tumbler with a number of small earthen pots on her head. She discontinued studies and sports because she got married when she was in class 8. So, that put an end to her participation in sports activities and her school learning and slowly she became busy with the household chores. Similarly another lady shared how her skill came to an end with her marriage. She used to earn quite a lot by stitching clothes and blouses at the village level for women. However her marriage put an end to this. The tough part for me as a researcher was that we were women of the same age group but with such different privileges.

FINALLY THE FREEDOM TO WRITE, TO SHARE SUCH EXPERIENCES! – THAT I HAVE. AND THEY CRAVE FOR!