Women's Grassroots Activism and Social Spaces in Chitrakoot, India.

PART III

In Part II, I discussed the evolution the Mahila Samakhya/Vanagana campaign in Chitrakoot District of Uttar Pradesh. An active deployment and reconstruction of social space was at the heart of the women's campaign. This was not simply because the activists chose the genre of street theater to engage with the communities, but also because women's experiences of domestic violence could not be separated from the highly spatialized ways in which kinship and marriage are practiced and experienced in much of rural North India. In a social context where an unmarried woman is perceived as a daughter of her entire natal village (Mayaka), marriage implies an inevitable departure from the intimacy of the Mayaka to the distant and alien Sasural (conjugal village), where the young woman is regarded as a daughter-in-law of the village. Thus, while the term, Mayaka, is interchangeably used for both the parental home and the natal village, Sasural refers to the parents-in-laws' home as well as the marital or conjugal village. In the case of marital domestic violence, then, it is the Sasural where violent acts on a woman's body and being are perpetrated. And although this violence is often inflicted within the spaces of the household, the nature of a woman's relationship with her entire conjugal village is one that structurally denies her easy access to alternative spaces where she can claim or expect refuge.

In this social scenario, the Phad about Phoola and Phoolkali and the play Mujhe Jawab Do were likely to arouse qualitatively different responses in the Mayaka of a recently murdered woman than in her Sasural. It was not surprising, then, that the tactics employed by the Vanangana campaigners hinged upon this critical difference between the Mayaka and the Sasural, even though the gendered meanings of these two “spaces” were constantly complicated by the class and caste realities of each village.

Performing in the Sasural (Marital/Conjugal Home)

Village Malwara, April 26, 1999. 5:30 PM. The heat of the sun hadn't fully subsided but everyone seemed relieved that one more unbearable summer day was almost over. Two jeeps loaded mostly with women (and a few men) arrived in the village, where Neetu Singh, a daughter-in-law from the Kurmi caste, was hanged to death in her Sasural on October 13, 1998. Before we reached the village, Urmila made sure that everyone knew the background of the case: Neetu, a beautiful and educated young woman, whose father was a high school teacher, had received her BA degree and worked for the village preschool (aanganwadi). Three years ago, she was married in a renowned Kurmi home, where her father-in-law, Ramkumar, was also a high school teacher. Immediately after her death, 20 prominent Kurmi men from her Sasural collectively paid Rs. 50,000 to Neetu's father and settled the case. When Urmila went to investigate the case on Oct 14th, Neetu's aunts confided that Neetu was endlessly harassed and finally killed by her in-laws. "But these men [her father and uncles] will not do anything," an aunt said, "they instantly accepted Rs. 50,000 and hushed up the matter." The case was not reported to the police. In Malwara where the Kurmis constituted a wealthy, landowning and united group with considerable political clout, the official position was that Neetu had committed suicide. When the campaigners arrived there in April, Neetu's husband was already engaged to another woman and wedding preparations had begun in the village.

Urmila instructed the drivers to park their jeeps right in the middle of the Kurmi neighborhood where Neetu was killed, and proceeded to inquire the villagers about a suitable site to stage the play. A young man rushed out of the jeep with posters, banners, and paints to proclaim the mission of the group's trip. The rest of the campaigners, women and men, got out of the jeep with a drum, tambourine, and megaphone, announcing, "Listen all, we are going to perform a street play in your village right outside the primary school! Hurry to a play that requires no tickets! A play that only takes 20 minutes!" Within a few minutes, curious children from all over attached themselves to this cluster, and together they moved through every lane, every door, and every field accosting and extending a personalized invitation to each villager they encountered--to Bhaiyya (brother) and Bhabhi (sister-in-law), to Bahani (sister) and Dada (grandfather), to Amma (mother) and her Bahus (daughters-in law), filling everyone's hearts with a sense of excitement and anticipation.

Within half an hour, 127 people (out of a total village population of 400) gathered outside the school to see the play. The dari (rug) symbolizing the stage was spread in the center of the public space with the performers seated in a circle, and the audience spread all around this inner circle. Every prominent tree and wall around this street theater was inscribed with popular feminist slogans written in bright blue ink: "We will fight for justice, we won't allow deals to be struck over dead bodies", "Listen to your daughters now, give them all their rights and share [of property]," for "We women of this land, are sparks, not flowers." The singers and drummers reinforced this tenor with songs that protested the discrimination suffered by girls (Beta pyaara, beti nahin; Mein poochhoon ji kyon?--"The son is loved and the daughter isn't; I ask you why this is so?"), and celebrated the sisters who broke the chains of bondage to change the unjust world (Tod tod ke bandhanon ko dekho bahane aati hain!--"Look, how all these sisters are coming out, breaking the chains that bind them!"). By now, the actresses (and one male actor), who had been busy assembling the audience earlier, were ready for the show to begin. It was going to get dark within an hour, so the group decided to plunge into the play without doing the Phad. Archana, the lead singer, announced to the audience that the group represented Vanangana, a woman's organization located in Karvi town, and she requested everyone to pay close attention to the play they were about to perform because they wanted to discuss it afterwards.

When the play ended, there was a palpable tension in the air of Malwara. Vanangana members were acutely aware that holding an open discussion about the play was going to be difficult in this Kurmi dominated village, especially with Neetu's husband and father present there. Yet, it was worth trying because in some places they had had an astounding success in generating passionate collective discussion precisely in such a tension charged atmosphere. Madhavi began by asking people why they thought such atrocities took place. Ramkumar, the high school teacher (father-in-law of Neetu), seemed insulted at the question and confronted her: "If I provide all the facilities and support to my daughter-in-law, and she still chooses to commit suicide, who is at fault?" Madhavi tried to push the conversation, "Why is it that lawsuits continue for years when a son dies mysteriously, but it hardly takes a few days to forge an agreement on a daughter's death? . . . Why is it that when a son becomes an adult, family members think ten times before hitting him, but a woman is beaten everyday?"

The campaigners urged women to talk loudly but people in the crowd had begun talking to each other in earnest. Realizing that it was best to hold discussions in small groups at this point, the campaigners scattered throughout the crowd to explore people's responses. An old Kurmi woman said, "No one will criticize anything openly because we have to live in this village." Another woman whispered, "They will marry him off again, and he will roam around proudly without a sliver of guilt." The women thought that it was outrageous how some parents married another daughter in the same family where one has just been killed. Another group discussion was taking place among Kurmi men. Ramkumar proclaimed that Neetu was a bad daughter-in-law who refused to stay within the boundaries of decency. His son, Sanjay, chimed in by quoting "the famous lines that even gods can't vouch for a woman's character".

The public response of the villagers was predictable and clearly shaped by their caste and class affiliations. All the Kurmis in Malwara were of approximately the same class status and the majority of them were related to each other as close or distant kin, and no one wanted to criticize his or her aunts, uncles, cousins, or grand aunts in public. In the experience of the campaigners, the villages where people openly stated their views tended to be those where divisions of caste and class were more clearly marked. Commented Urmila, "If there were Brahmans or Thakurs around, they would have criticized Ramkumar's family openly in Malwara. Otherwise, people from the same caste are always trying to protect each other from public disgrace, especially if they are from a similar or lower class background." Sunita and Urmila recounted their performance in Bhasona village, where an upper-caste Thakur woman had been burned. She gave a dying testimony that she had got burned while cooking because her in-laws threatened to kill her seven month old daughter if she blamed them. In Bhasona village, where the Brahmans, Thakurs, Kurmis, Koris and Chamars were financially of equal footing, they openly humiliated the husband and described how he had killed his wife, and how he beat her and slandered her character everyday.

This kind of open public dialogue was not to be seen in Malwara village, and villagers were clearly hesitant to openly sympathize with the play. But even here some Kori men, who were poorer than the Kurmis, secretly extended their support to the campaigners. Rambalak, a thirty-five year old, promised that "after watching this play, I feel like I will die before I lay a finger on my wife again.". A man in his twenties expressed anger that Sanjay was going to marry again; one said--"Men who kill their wives should be publicly humiliated and ostracized." Another man, Manojkumar, took Urmila aside and said: "I am from a poor and minority caste here, so I can't oppose this murderer's remarriage openly. But secretly, I will do anything I can to help you stop this wedding." Manojkumar and two other Kori men volunteered to establish a village-level watchdog committee in Malwara to ensure that every known case of violence against women was reported to Vanangana.

Performing in the Mayaka (Natal Village)

Village Kaluram Ka Purva. April 27, 1999. 5:30 AM. It was the morning after Malwara and time to stage another show. We wanted to reach Kaluram Ka Purva by 7:30 am so that the play could be performed before the sun got too hot and before people became too immersed in their daily chores. Although Kaluram Ka Purva was also a large Kurmi-dominated village, the campaigners anticipated a significantly different response here as compared to Malwara because it was the Mayaka of Girija Devi, who had died just three weeks ago after being harassed for three years for not bringing a television and a motor scooter in her dowry. Before they actually burned her on March 30th, 1999, Girija's mother-in-law, mother-in-law's sister, and brother-in-law had been planning her murder in her presence, so that after her death they could bring home a new bride with a big dowry. Whenever Girija's husband opposed his relatives, they scolded him and hushed him up. When Girija last visited her parents in January, she told them that she did not want to return to Devkali; if she did, she was sure that her in-laws would kill her and her 4 month old daughter. The father talked to Girija's in-laws and their neighbors and made them promise that they would take good care of Girija. At 8 pm on March 30th, Girija was discovered with serious burns all over her body in her Sasural in Devkali, where she finally succumbed to the burns on April 5th. The episode was particularly tragic for the family and villagers because Girija's older sister was also poisoned to death in her marital home a year earlier. Both Girija and her sister left behind 5 and 6 month old daughters when they died. Girija's in-laws claimed that it was a suicide but Girija's father rejected the claim. The campaigners had been trying to persuade the father to report the case to the police, but he was procrastinating, and based on numerous conversation with him, Urmila was convinced that he was about to make a deal with Girija's in-laws.

But the play couldn't begin as early as intended. Given the caste politics of Kaluram Ka Purva, finding a suitable site for the play proved to be an infinitely difficult task. The team wanted an open space that was relatively undisputed so that people from all castes and classes could assemble there. They also wanted to stage it in roughly in the same neighborhood where the woman's family lived, so that her relatives could be present during the play and discussion. And given the intensity of heat, it was also critical that there be some shade so that people could watch the play comfortably. In terms of caste politics, Kaluram Ka Purva was split four ways among Brahmans, Yadavs, and two opposing factions of Kurmis, one party of Kurmis having won the village headship election, and the other party having lost it. This meant that every location that seemed physically suitable for the play turned out to be socially inappropriate. If the Yadavs lived in one area, Brahmans and Kurmis refused to come there, and if it was affiliated with one of the Kurmi groups, then the other Kurmi faction refused to come. Finally, after two hours of desperate searching, Urmila and Kamlesh found a shady, spacious place outside the home of Lallu Lohar, which seemed relatively tension free. But women of the Brahman caste still refused to come.

By 11:00 AM a massive crowd of approximately 350 people (out of a total population of about 600), gathered outside Lallu Lohar's home. The singers were singing one song after another to hold the crowd, but they were still waiting for Girija's parents to arrive. Finally, Pushpa and Lekha began enacting the Phad about Phoola and Phoolkali while two others hurried to fetch Girija's parents. Girija's father, sister and grandmother arrived in a few minutes but even after fifteen minutes of pleading on Kamlesh's part, the mother refused to come. For the last three weeks, she had not been eating or talking to anyone; the grief of losing two grown up daughters within a year was too overwhelming for her.

While we waited for Kamlesh to return, an emotionally stirred audience had begun responding to the story of Phoola and Phoolkali. A man in his 40s rose as soon as the Phad was over, "This recent incident here is the most awful one we have ever seen. We want to do something about it, and we are touched that you have taken so much trouble for us." A twenty-five year old man, Pradeep, openly criticized the way marriages were arranged--"In 95% of the cases, it's not a marriage, it's a horrendous transaction. It's our duty to change this situation."

Kamlesh returned after these brief remarks and the play started. I heard a village woman whisper to another, "These girls [actresses] are not from the city. They talk Bundeli just like us." A young woman standing next to me said, "This story they are telling is not fabricated. This is what happens in our homes everyday." Throughout the play, there were audible sounds of sobbing and crying from the audience, and as Mantoria's daughter covered her mother's dead body, a teenaged woman in the audience fainted. When the torches were lit, Madhavi's voice shook with unshed tears, "We have lit these torches for our bitiya [daughter], Girija. We haven't been able to retrieve her dying testimony yet, but we hope that she wasn't pressured to declare that she had committed suicide, because that would weaken our case." A middle aged woman responded, "Don't they understand that even a suicide is actually a murder? That women are pushed to commit suicide?" An old woman from the opposite end remarked, "A woman's death become an event to celebrate because then the man can get another bride." Pradeep (quoted earlier) asserted that the primary driving force behind these atrocities was the greed for dowry, even though the society kept inventing new ways to lay the blame of the death on the women themselves. Another young man said, "The men who do this must be excommunicated--they don't deserve to live in society." "By showing how the man, his family and village, the police, the doctor, the headmen collaborate in this game," commented an old Brahman man, "you have reopened our wound again. We will wholeheartedly support you in this battle."

Even though it was the middle of the afternoon by now, and at least an hour past most people's lunch time, informal discussions about the play continued, and the villagers insisted on treating the campaign team to chai and sherbet. Young men who had spoken out against violence collectively put down their names to constitute a village level watch dog committee to prevent future incidents of violence. They also introduced Urmila to a middle-aged man in the village whose two married daughters had come to live with him after being subjected to torture and mistreatment in their Sasurals; the daughters had to face considerable social stigma from the villagers for living way from their Sasural. Provoked by the play, two of Girija's uncles publicly swore to take revenge by burning down her in-laws' house, but the campaigners were able to steer the discussion toward critical reflection on the cultural practices that marginalized women, while indirectly putting pressure on Girija' father to not strike a deal with her in-laws.

Conclusion

In Vanangana's ongoing crusade against domestic violence, the campaigners are inseparable from the people whose oppression is crying out to be enacted on the stage. By centrally involving its rural based workers in the campaign and in the creation of the play Mujhe Jawab Do and the Phad, Vanangana has given birth to a politically active feminist theater in Chitrakoot--a theater that has enabled women to participate not simply as spectators, but also as performers who narrate, evaluate, and enact their stories, and critique the structures that marginalize them. In connecting the brutalities against women with pervasive masculinist constructions of family and community, pride and honor, fate and justice, the campaigners have created a "stringently political theater" that lifts the shroud of silence from domestic violence and attacks previously unquestioned socioeconomic and cultural practices responsible for that violence. Through a creative use of their local language, folklore and songs, the campaigners impart political meanings to "traditional" cultural forms and play at once on the guilt and humanity of their spectators. In so doing, they do not advocate a complete overthrow of the patriarchal system. Rather, they create a heightened awareness of the gendered injustices in their world and demand from their audience--the men and the women, the police and the village elders, the family members and the neighbors--"a partial responsibility for these injustices".

Acknowledgments: I owe a debt of gratitude to Madhavi Kuckreja and Huma Khan without whose help and support I could not have undertaken this project. Many thanks to Aarti Srivastava and to Urmila, Sunita, Kamla, Archana and Sampat for generously sharing their time, experiences and insights with me, and to the entire Mahila Samakhya and Vanangana families for making my research trip to Karvi one of the most inspirational events of my life. Last but not least, I am extremely grateful to Lynn Staeheli for her close reading and constructive comments, and to David Faust for providing critical feedback at every juncture.

Richa Nagar
Department of Women's Studies
University of Minnesota

[This article appeared first in Gender, Place and Culture (a Taylor and Francis Group publication) in 2000.]