Bhopa, Chatgaon, Kaari, and Tandalwadi are villages in the Beed
district of Maharashtra. Five of us visited and stayed in these villages for
two weeks last month. We had gone there to experience ‘rurality’. But what we
experienced was beyond anything that we could have expected or hoped for. I had
only been to a village once before- to Daudpur, one of the ‘richest villages’ in
Punjab, in 2008. Even though I had seen poverty with the naked eye, I didn't quite
understand its complexity and its many forms until my visit to Beed.
Beed lies in the Marathwada region and is notorious for its despicable sex ratio- 921 women for every 1000 men. Sex selective abortions are commonplace- Munde Hospital being the 'shining' example (two Labradors were apparently stationed in the hospital's compound to feed on the discarded girl foeti). Violence against women is an accepted reality. So is Caste System. Instances of atrocities against Dalits abound. And if you are a Dalit AND a woman...well, then you find yourself right at the bottom of the pyramid.
The moment I set foot in Beed, I felt like an alien. Not only because I was one of the 'city people' but because I was a girl. 24 and unmarried. 'Upper' caste. Living in Mumbai. Away from home and family. And pursuing Masters. Some looked with shock. Some with awe. And some with disdain. We were tied up with an NGO that was meant to be our gateway to these villages. Each village had a person appointed as the karyakarta. S/he was not only a paid employee of the NGO, but one who had to be a living example of a responsible, sensitive and sensible citizen.
In each of the villages, we stayed in the village karyakarta’s home, which brought me the biggest revelation of the journey. It is said that India lives in her villages. It is also said that Indian culture and tradition is known for 'Atithi Devo Bhavah'. Well, both are facts albeit a slight but glaring modification—WE (the busy-with-our-lives, self- obsessed urban people) who usually get annoyed with our own relatives overstaying their visit at our homes, will simply not tolerate strangers intruding on our private space. But THEY, the karyakartas and their families, opened their hearts and homes for us, the bumbling and lost city slickers. Mind you, their monthly earnings are less than my weekly expenditure. And with everyone- from the the in- laws and the children to the family- owned cows and goats- sharing the one/ two- room, semi- pucca house, ‘private space’ now seems like a farce. And yet, they welcomed us, loved us and cared for us like their family. And within no time, I started adapting to their way of life and living.
I would get up in the morning and stand outside the house, brushing my teeth whilst the neighbours stared; then head to the fields with my girl friends, with mugs of water and soap to relieve ourselves; come back and have chai; help the family fill and carry water; have a bath in an open, waist- length, cubicle- like bathroom, which we tried our best to cover with our bedsheets and dupattas; eat poha everyday for breakfast; and then head out to meet the sarpanch, the gram sevak, the anganwadi worker, the police patil, the tanta- mukti committee and the villagers in general. We listened to their stories and shared ours, cracked jokes and shed tears. Each time, we were left surprised and inspired by their resilience and courage. Each time, we were angered by their views on women’s status, their education, and domestic violence. And each time, we felt encouraged by instances of changing attitudes and women empowerment. In the evening we would return, exhausted and burnt from the day’s work and the scorching sun, and treat ourselves to some kairi (raw mango) and dinner. And finally I would retire for the night, amongst ten others in the same room…
The experience made me give my
life a long, hard look. I am a student of social work. I am passionate about
human rights, feminism, current affairs, and the law. I get good grades. I have
a healthy social life- great friends and a loving family. And yet, I crib.
About the weather. About assignments. About my tiny hostel room. About my
going- nowhere love life. About people. About my waist- line. In short, I take
myself too seriously.
But the fact is that for every 24
year- old, educated, single, independent, and healthy woman like me, there is also
a 24 year- old, class VII pass, mother of two, who eats only after her husband
and father-in-law have eaten, who starves herself so her kids won’t, who bears
her husband’s fists so her kids wouldn’t have to, and who works day and night
without getting a penny or thank you in return.
I am not implying that one should
feel better at the expense of other people’s miseries. But the least one can do
is maintain a ‘broad outlook’. More so if that ‘one’ is a potential social
worker like me, who must work under pressure and difficult circumstances all
the time. To work with ‘vulnerable’ people, one has to live like them,
experience their experiences, and understand their understanding of things, because
no matter what anyone might say, WE are different from THEM. There are two
Indias. There are two types of Indians. And so WE have to put in that much
effort and show that much sensitivity to even begin to understand THEIR life. The
sooner we accept this, the better it is for all. Because this is the first step
in helping people to help themselves.
