1984: Rebuilding Lives with Love

Nirupama Dutt brings stories from a survivors' colony

A large oil painting of a tall and handsome Sikh dominates Lakhbir Kaur's modest sitting room in Kumbra village in Mohali, near Chandigarh, Punjab.
"I found a small black-and-white one of my father in a relative's album and my husband got a friend of his to make this painting."
Recalls Lakhbir: "It's the day after Indira Gandhi's assassination. We were sitting in our home in Delhi's Sultanpuri watching television when the mobs started the rampage. Our Muslim neighbours immediately gave us shelter and advised my father to cut his hair and beard. My father, Deedar Singh, after retiring from the army, was working as a security guard in a private company. Since he was also the Congress President of Sultanpuri, he believed he was safe. Both my brothers were out and he went to look for them. He asked us to stay with the neighbours and said he would return shortly. We never saw him again, not even his remains."
Lakhbir herself never went back home because there was no home left - everything was burnt down.
"My mother was one of seven sisters ... and six of them, living in different parts of Delhi, were widowed. Several of my cousins were killed. From our neighbours' home we moved to the camp and from there to a gurdwara in Mohali," she reminisces.
She was only 16 then. "It was difficult for a young fatherless girl to survive without protection, so I was married off that very month. My first daughter was born the next year."
Today, this mother of three (two daughters and a son) still breaks down recalling that period. "The scars will always remain but with the support of my husband, we have nurtured a sense of love rather than hate in our children," she says.
Sharing similar stories of terror and loss are Kashmir Kaur and Ravindar Kaur, who fled the Indian capital during the riots and sought security in Punjab. They, too, have rebuilt their broken lives in a spirit of camaraderie and affection and are making significant contributions to society in different ways.
To make ends meet, these riot-affected women did whatever they could, from tailoring clothes to making pickles, from setting up small shops to doing voluntary work in gurdwaras. Although critical of the politicisation of the carnage, they express gratitude to those who helped save their lives.
Kasmir Kaur's is a rare story of courage. She is president of the "Riot Victims Welfare Society" in Mohali and a member of the general council of Akali Dal Badal. This strong woman of 55, who is at the forefront of political rallies and protests, breaks down while recounting the massacre she witnessed in her trans-Yamuna colony of Bhajanpura. She, like Lakhbir, is indebted to her neighbours.
"We will be ever grateful to our Hindu neighbours who helped save our lives. My husband, Pritam Singh, along with others, was hidden in a locked room and women sat on the terrace with stones and red chilli powder. My 12-year-old son's hair was tied into two plaits and a neighbour lent her daughter's frock for him to wear," she says.
When the mobs threatened to burn down the neighbour's house, Pritam came out of hiding. It was decided to gather as many Sikhs from the neigbourhood as possible, pile them into trucks and move them to a safer place.
"We managed to reach the Nanaksar Gurdwara by the Yamuna Bridge even though three attempts to attack us were made en route. We survived, but those who could not get into the trucks were killed," she says.
Later, following instructions from the gurdwara, Pritam went back to Bhajanpura to round up the orphaned children. He had to make his way through the burnt bodies of the neighbours to do this. He also saw that their house had been completely ransacked.
"The shock was so great that when he returned, he suffered a stroke. Since then he has remained in poor health," says Kashmir.
All that Kashmir and Pritam found in their home was a bed and they loaded it in a truck and headed for Ludhiana, to be with relatives. But that arrangement didn't work out. So, they moved to a gurdwara in Chandigarh's Sector 15 and then social workers in Mohali helped them secure a Punjab Urban Development Authority (PUDA) one-bedroom low-income group flat.
"I sold the bed for Rs 150 (US $3), bought a stove and few provisions and moved here," she says.
"Settling them here was not easy. PUDA and the government would regularly send eviction orders. But my uncle, Arjun Singh Shergill, and other social workers saw to it that we rehabilitate these people and as many as 704 homes were allotted to riot victims," says Tejinder Singh Shergill, Chairman, Riot Victims Welfare Society.
Visit this colony, which now has the nomenclature of Riot Victims Colony in Mohali's Phase XI, and one finds a ghetto of sorts where many are still struggling to survive.
It was here that I met Ravindar Kaur. Daughter of a sevadar (employee) in Bala Sahib gurdwara near Ashram in Delhi, she had been married for six months when the pogroms happened.
"My husband and I had come to my parents' home. I had stayed home but my parents and husband had gone to attend a party and they were killed," says Ravindar.
Her husband's family, holding her responsible for the death of their son, turned her out. Later, she got married to Amarjit Singh, who had lost his wife and son to the violence. Today, Amarjit is close to 70 and jobless. The couple has a married daughter and son, who is a special child. Although poor, Ravindar is respected in the colony, as she is an active volunteer in the local gurdwara.
"People have always come to our aid, but the old-age pension of the government has yet to reach our home," she sighs.
Says Kashmir, "Some political elements try to inflame sentiments of the people but we try and pacify them. The Society follows up the cases of genuine victims and helps those living below the poverty line."
But she says that doing this is not always easy and there have been instances where actual victims never got compensation, while the fake ones managed to get flats.
After being bed-ridden for the past 25 years, Gurcharan Singh, 42, passed away last month in Balongi village near Chandigarh. He had been thrown into a burning vehicle outside his house in Delhi's Nawada colony during the riots. He never got any compensation and was being looked after by his elder brother's wife.
On March 11 last year, he had deposed before the Central Bureau of Investigation (CBI) revealing that a prominent Congress leader was with the crowds, inciting people to wipe out the Sikhs. Incidentally, this leader has once again been given a ticket for the elections.
"Such things hurt our sentiments. We got no justice and little or no compensation from the government. However, we continue to have faith in humanity because of the kindness people from different communities, whether Muslims or Hindus or Sikhs, have shown us," says Kashmir.

[Courtesy: Women's Feature Service]

March, 2009

Prisoners of war who never returned home

Maj S.P.S. Warraich with wife and daughters Simmi and Neetu just before going for the 1971 war

On the border of hope

Kashmir Singhs release from Pakistan prison after 35 years has rekindled hopes of other prisoners relatives in India, reports Nirupama Dutt.

The mood in Nangal Choran, a far-flung village of Hoshiarpur district in Punjab, is upbeat. Kashmir Singh, 70, an inhabitant of the village, who was on death row in Pakistan, returned home recently, courtesy the efforts of Pakistan’s Federal Minister for Human Rights, Ansar Burney. If Singh languished in various Pakistani jails for over three decades, it was imprisonment of another kind for his wife, Paramjit Kaur, 62, who struggled to bring up three children, while waiting for their father to return.“It was a sad winter day in December 1973 when my husband made his own tea and crossed the border while the children and I were asleep. I thought he would come back in a few days but the days multiplied into a lifetime. I did menial work to bring up my children and I never lost hope. My prayers have been answered and at last, he is back,” says Paramjit Kaur.
The near miraculous escape of alleged spy Singh has rekindled anticipation among other prisoners of hope: relatives of the 54 persons who have been missing since they were taken prisoners of war in 1971. Chandigarh-based Simmi Waraich, 40, was not yet four and her younger sister Neetu, barely two when her father Major S P S Waraich was captured by the enemy in the 1971 war. “I do not remember much of my father but from what I heard of him. My entire childhood was spent waiting for him and I still have hope. Hope is the ultimate casualty in any war but we are not willing to give up. My mother remarried in 1985 (with the support of her daughters and her husband’s family) after having made every possible effort for 14 years because it was confirmed that he was held prisoner in the Darghai jail in the North West Frontier Province.” There are others who never reconciled with their lot and refused to remarry. Among them is Reshma Advani, 60, who had been married for six months and was expecting when her husband Flt Lt Ram Advani’s plane was shot down and he was taken prisoner of war (PoW). Reshma heard the news on Radio Pakistan. Some months later their daughter Dolly was born. Dolly Advani, 36, who is now married and lives in Delhi, says, “When I was younger, I would tell my mother to remarry but my mother was hopeful and still hopes that my father will return.” Dolly adds that more than the Pakistan government, she is unhappy with the Indian government for not effectively taking the case of the prisoners soon after the war.Damayanti Tambay, 59, a former badminton singles champion and physical education director at Jawaharlal Nehru University, Delhi, too heard the news of her husband being taken a PoW in 1971 and a Pakistani newspaper also published the news. She had been married only 18 months to Flt Lt Vijay Vasant Tambay. Damayanti says, “Miracles do happen but someone has to make them happen.”Simmi, Reshma and Damayanti were part of a group of 14 wives and five other kin who went looking for their dear ones in Pakistan prisons in the summer of 2007, only to return home disappointed. Cynics said that the search was carried out 36 years – too late and litterateurs described it as a Kafkaesque journey, but for Damayanti it was the final effort and she says, “What happened to them? Did Pakistan eventually shoot them or were they killed trying to escape or did they die of disease? We should know at least that.”The kin of the missing soldiers have formed the Missing Defence Personnel Relatives Association. Bharat Suri, the elder brother of Maj Ashok Suri, still keeps hope alive with the 1975 letter of his PoW brother, Maj Ashok Suri, written to his father Dr R S Suri. Dr Suri died after spending long years making rounds of Ministry of External Affairs (MEA) in a bid to trace his son. In 1983, six family members went to Pakistan on a visit, invited by General Zia-ul-Haq, the then president of Pakistan. It was a hush-hush affair as it was felt that too much media attention would mar chances of release. But things went wrong and relations soured when Indira Gandhi made some comments about Abdul Gaffar Khan’s house arrest. Bharat has decided to take his fathers campaign further. He says, “Members of the Association will call on Kashmir to gather more information on other Indian prisoners. After all, he has spent 35 years in different jails and may have also seen our relatives.”It is a controversial issue and the Indian Army, too, has not been able to resolve it. The government had tabled a list saying they believe there are 54 Missing Defence Personnel believed to be in Pakistan. But the army listed most of these men as killed, along with them Maj Suri also, until his letter came. The letter was apparently authenticated by the MEA in the 1970s. However, when the delegation went to Pakistan, the government did not heed their request for issuing a certificate of authenticity of the letter.There was another curious case. A copy of ‘Time’ magazine dated December 27, 1971 carried a picture of an Indian soldier behind bars. The wife of Maj A K Ghosh identified the picture as her husband’s. What happened to him? A disturbing account in ‘Bhutto, Trial and Execution', on Zulfikar Ali Bhutto’s trial and execution, by BBC correspondent Victoria Schofield, mentions that the Pakistani leader was jailed at Kot Lakhpat jail in Lahore before his 1979 hanging close to the barracks of Indian PoWs ‘who had been rendered delinquent and mental during the course of the 1971 war’. During the prisoner exchange, “the Indian government would not accept these lunatics,” the book says. Both the Indian army and government should have at least refuted this.Simmi says, “We have been asking for a Missing in Action cell on the lines of the cell in the US. The Government promised this but nothing has happened so far."

Women's Feature Service, March 30, 2008

They can't be taught to hate

The story of a mother and a wife in the days of terror in Punjab by Nirupama Dutt

When the young editor of a Punjabi Magazine was gunned down by Sikh Fundamentalists for daring to criticize the movement for a separate Sikh State, his passing was mourned by two women – his mother, a Sikh, and his wife, a Hindu.
The fact that Sumeet Singh, 30, was the son of devout Sikh parents was not enough to save his name from appearing on the dreaded ‘Hit List’ issued periodically by the fundamentalists.
One strategy used to by the fundamentalists to advance their cause was random killings of Hindu families in the hope that will flee the state. Similar tactics are adopted to bring moderate Sikhs “Into Line.”
“How can the two communities ever be divided?” Asked Mahinder Kaur, Sumeer’s mother. “A devouted Sikh, I am weeping for my son. And so is my son’s Hindu wife.”
Marriage between a Sikh and Hindu is not an uncommon occurrence in Punjab. Many Hindu have relatives who are Sikhs, and vice versa.
Indeed, until the turn of the century the common practice was for the eldest son of a Hindu Family to enter into the fold of Sikhism.
The latter in fact developed as a reformist movement in Hinduism to create a marital force to resist the Mughals in India.
When the country was partitioned into two nations in 1947, Sikhs chose to stay with India rather than Pakistan.
Mahinder Kaur’s family was one of the hundreds of refugee Sikh families that migrated from Pakistan at that time midst riots in which nearly a million people were killed.
“We lost everything we had and slowly we built our lives afresh”, said Mahinder.
Then 19 years old, she gave up her aspirations of becoming a lecturer in a college and instead took up a poorly-paid job as school teacher to support her family.
She later married Navtej Singh, an established writer in Punjab , who until he died of cancer four years ago, also ran a successful literary magazine in Punjabi called “Preetlari” (chain of love).
“Sumeet took up the editorship from my husband and supported us all”. Said Mahinder who has three more sons.
She refused to hold any of the customary religious rites for her dead sons. “If religion means violvence and killing of innocent people, we do not want any of it,” said the matriarch. Men indulge in violence and we women have to stop this madness.”
Poonam, her young daughter-in-law, after Sumeet’s death, took over the running of his magazine. “It was our bread-and-butter.” She explained self-disparagingly.
But No mere bread-and butter considerations were at work when she wrote here very first editorial.
“We will not hesitate to oppose fundamentalism of any kind.” It said, “Sumeet’s blood was been shed but our blood is still there. And are willing to shed it in the cause of humanity and secularism” Poonam, a talented actress who when Sumeet was alive used to shuttle between their home in Preetnagar village near Amritsar to the State Capital Chandigarh to act in plays, has no time now for the stage.
“I learned to edit and write”. She said. “I felt so strongly about communalism that the words came to me quite naturally without having to try.”
Working in an atmosphere where speaking out can result in death, Poonam did not mince words in condemning the fundamentalists’ politics of terror.
“But we will fight against this hatred to the end,” Poonam asserted.

Punjabi beauty

Rani Jindan (above and Gul Panag (right)

Losing To Gain

With beauty becoming the new sunrise industry, the entrepreneurial Punjabis are shedding their conventional lassi look to cash in on a new obsession, says Nirupama Dutt, as she contemplates life after Gul Panag

For years, the magic mirror refused with step-motherly determination to reflect the face of the Punjabi lass as the most beautiful. Even while the Punjabi woman reveled in the conceit of being `the fairest of them all’, her sultry counterparts from the east and the south continued to pass the ultimate glamour test and walk way with beauty contest titles. The belles from the north didn’t seem to have what it takes to walk the catwalk and win the crown.
But no longer. It was the gorichitti Gul Kirat panag who walked past contestants from other states, proud as a pea-hen in the blue and green frills of an outrageous evening gown highlighting fair `n’ shapely things, to be judged Miss India-Universe 1999.
Gul is not the first, though. The past few years have seen the rise of the Punjabi beauty. The reasons for this are not hard to find. Beauty has become big business, more so with a thriving international market for sultry sirens from exotic India. With things being so, how can the entrepreneurial Punjabi not be in the fray? Business is in the Punjabi blood and enterprise comes easily to them. So does mobility, more so in the international arena. A apocryphal tale that did the rounds when Neil Armstrong set his foot on the moon, was that no sooner had the astronaut landed, he bumped into a sardarji who ran a dhaba there. Taken aback, Armstrong asked the Lunar entrepreneur: ``When did you come here?’’ Pat came the sardarji’s reply: ``Right after partition.’’
Given such a reputation, the cat-walk, no doubt, is a cakewalk for the average lassi lass. Many of the Punjabi glamour gals – including Gul and Manpreet Brar, Miss Universe First Runner-Up, 1995 – are from defence families, but fashion and beauty have had a great following among civilians for more than half a decade. After a long spell of terrorism, Punjab’s return to normality in the early ‘90s ushered in many changes. The consumer culture reared its head after lying dormant for years. Live-in-Style exhibitions moved from town to town, designers stores opened by the dozen, mega music concerts attracted thousands, and every city –from Ludhiana to Amritsar – boasted of beauty contests and fashion shows.
So much so that fashion and beauty contests appear to be the only mass movement in the state these days. Beauty contests are organized by groups as improbable as the friendly-neighbourhood property Dealers Association or the various market committees. The Chandigarh Press Club is a regular venue for ramp shows, a beauty parlour can be found in the dusty tracks of Chheratta, a basti on the outskirts of Amritsar, and a slimming centre at Manimajra a town close to Chandigarh.
It is serious business, so serious that even humorist jaspal Bhatti does not make light of it. ``Beauty was always there, but it was hidden, mouths the popular idiot-box comic. ``Earlier, we would say that anyone who would look at our women would be blinded. But now, with fashion shows and beauty contests becoming a part of life, we let our beauties be ogled at. The change is in the attitude.’’ Agrees pawan Malhotra of the World Punjabi TV Channel: ``The shedding of inhibitions has brought our girls to the forefront. Beautiful they always were.’’
In spite of the Khalas beauties having made a mark, the mention of the Punjabi beauty queen still causes titters. All because the archetypal Punjabi beauty does not quite fit in with the feminine mystique of a Persis Khambatta or an Aishwarya Rai. The adjectives that accompany praise for the Punjabi beauty are handsome, well-made, strapping and defiant. Remember the famous Assa Singh Mastana song of yesteryear, Balle ni Punjab diye sher bachiye (Bravo, the lioness lass of Punjab)?
Feminine, elegant, delicate and graceful are adjectives that have eluded them, mainly because the daughters of the soil are part of an agrarian ethos. Along with agriculture, the border state of Punjab has nurtured a martial culture over centuries. It would be unfair to expect the fair sex to remain unaffected by the vigours of the Jai Jawan Jai Kisan ethos. No wonder then that the achievers of Punjab bring to mid the cane-wielding Kiran Bedi or an Abida Parveen beauting the male qawwals at singing Sufi poetry, and not pretty little things sashaying down the ramp.
Pretty they always were, but there was nothing little about these young things. Jagjit Singh described the Punjabi belle with the popular song, one of the few of his limited repertoire in Punjabi: Dhai din na jawani naal chaldi, kurti mulmul di. A free translation of this lie would be that the blossoming youth of the lovely lass won’t let the muslin blouse last more than two days and a half. A classic case of bursting at the seams. This bounteous image finds echo in the persona of the Punjabi film heroine, who seems to have a bust size at least five points more than her IQ.
But now the well-fed Miss comes chiseled just right. Ask Manpreet Brar and she says that genetically, nothing has changed for the Punjabi kudhi. ``It’s wrong to assume anything, just because you are seeing more and more Punjabi girls who are thin these days,’’ she says. ``But this too, is limited to big cities like Mumbai and Delhi. Girls from smaller towns in Punjab are still the same – tall and voluptuous. That’s because they aren’t bothered about their looks.’’
Brar, who herself has shed some pounds over the last couple of years, thanks to an hour of free-hand exercises daily at a South Delhi gym, says if you are to survive in the glamour world, you’ve got to be with the times. ``It’s as simple as that if short hair is in, don’t expect to make an impression with a well-kept mane,’’ she says. ``What sells today is a tall and slim look. If you are buxom, forget fashion and check elsewhere.’’
Punjabi puttar, and Delhi-based fashion designer, Ashish Soi agrees, though he quivers at the idea of famine looks. ``Thin is in, but it doesn’t mean anorexic,’’ says Soni, like a true-blue son of the soil, adding that North Indian girls are generally tall, fair and well-built, and famous for their good looks. ``But what we need today is someone who’s tall, thin and well-toned… someone who’s comfortable with her body,’’ he says.
And now with the utterly butterly sohnis I the fray, with the right vital statistics to boot, the Punjabi beauty has finally arrived. But Rohit Chawla, who has shot more beauties with his roving lens than any man alive in India, does not approve of the wholesome perfect woman. ``Normal is not beautiful,’’ he says. ``You need some quirk in your personality to make it big these days. A crooked smile, maybe!
Chawla says that except for Anupama Verma, who’s really thin, and Pooja batra ---``she’s so tall, but still doesn’t look horsy’’—he’s quite allergic to Punjabi girls. ``Who wants a gora-chitta face? A dusky and sultry Bengali girl is what Idian beauty is all about,’’ he says. It’s a view, ironically, even Gul seems to share. At her maiden press conference in New Delhi, the new Miss India waxed philosophical o the subject. She defined beauty as ``a reflection of the inner self,’’ and cited Dimple Kapadia and Arundhari Roy – both non-Pujabis—as examples.
Chawla believes that today, more than beauty, it is the packaging that counts. ``Look at Gul. I have never met her, but what I could make out from TV, she’s doe her homework pretty well. Where does beauty come into the picture?’’ he asks. Chawla makes sense when you hear the routine set for Gul by her maasi and mentor, Komal G B Singh, popular television anchor and Republic Day voice. Singh felt Gul had ``perfect physical attributes’’ but zero exposure to showbiz, so she packed everything into her niece’s preparatory routine – from discussing Pokharan to practicing reiki, from perfecting her gait to working on her smile that appeared ``vacuous’’ at times. ``I called up everybody I knew to ask for help for Gul, so much so that `Komal has a novice niece…’ became a standing joke in town.’’ the found aunt recalls.
Of course, there are other who will say there can be o one as pretty as a Punjaban. Art historian Pran Nevile goes back to the 18th and 19th centuries to show how the European travelers considered Punjabi women to be the most beautiful among their peers in the sub-continent.
``A woman appreciated for great beauty was Kani Jind Kaur, popularly called Jindan, who was the youngest wife of Maharaja Ranjit Singh. Her portraiture in the wall paitings is breathtaking,’’ says Nevile. Delve a little deeper into history and there’s Anarkali for you, who with her famed looks led Prince Saleem to stage a revolt against his father, the mighty Akbar! Lahore still has a monument to this beauty who was bricked alive ad there’s a whole bazaar named after her.
With times chagig and beauty not being regarded as the proverbial curse, the Punjabis are only too ready to change their concepts of modesty and vital stats to capture the market as best as they can. Making the most of opportunities is a way of life for the progressive Punjabi, whose life must come accompanied with power, position and pelf.
If the macho Punjabi farmers can turn from wheat to farming gherkins and strawberries, the determined women of the land can certainly set a few things right with the body and mind. Says Ruchi Malhotra, Miss India Asia-Pacific 1995: ``Thin is in, and the rule doesn’t change for anyone, whether you are a Punjabi or a Maharashtrian.’’ Fashion designer Ritu Beri, quite a looker herself, agrees that the concept of a Punjabi beauty has changed over the years. 11In the past,’’ says Beri, ``she wan good-looking in the traditional way with perfect features --- big eyes, straight nose and a well-shaped mouth. She could be speechless for all one cared. But today, it’s more than what meets the eye. She has to have some personality, be interesting, and have oodles of self-confidence.’’
Well, all that can be achieved. And quite easily too. Gul’s maasi, Komal G B Singh, succeeded so well that in a swift follow-up, she has decided to teach television, political and showbiz wannabes the fine art of being stage-savvy. Don’t think other enterprising Punjabis back home are not emulating this example on a larger scale. With raw material available aplenty from Bhatinda to Tarn Taran, from Sangrur to Hoshiarpur, polishing, packaging and patting into shape should yield a bountiful harvest. Beauty could very well be the industry Punjab is looking for. So dance and rejoice to the refrain of that popular song: Passe hat ja zalima ve, main Punjaban jatti aayi (make way O Cruel One, I, the Punjabi lass, have come).

Keeping Kuhl(s)

Known as kuhls in Kangra, these canals, which bring water from melted snow and rain to theplains from the Dhauladhar ranges, have become polluted due to rapid urbanisation. AnAustrian doctor, backed by local women, has launched an initiative to keep the kuhlsclean for providing safe drinking water, writes Nirupama Dutt

MOVE into the countryside in the hills and it is common to see women washing clothes by narrow streams gushing alongside roads. The song of trickling water is the continuous magical music of the Kangra valley in Himachal Pradesh, which is crisscrossed by thousands of irrigation canals. Locally known as the kuhls, these canals bring water from melted snow and rain to the fields and hamlets in the alluvial plains that slope down from the snow-capped Dhauladhar ranges of the western Himalayas. These community-managed kuhls date back to the pre-colonial Katoch dynasty (1690 to 1805).
Hill women outside a wheat mill run by kuhl waterPhoto: WFSThe kuhls bring water to the fields and hamlets in the alluvial plains that slope down from the snow-capped Dhauladhar ranges Courtesy: J. Mark Baker
Today, however, the kuhls are in danger. Rapid urbanisation, changing lifestyles and socio-economic factors have led to an increase in the levels of pollution in these waters. At many places garbage, plastic bags and bottles are seen floating in the open kuhl water, and even the drinking water, sourced from here, is not safe anymore.
"A few years ago when the number of patients with water-borne diseases and various allergies started rising, I was alarmed that all was not well with the water," says Barbara Weiser Nath, an Austrian doctor, who has been living and working in the area since the last 25 years. Nath, who married a local sadhu, runs the Nishta Rural Health, Education and Environment Centre at Rakkar village. The centre has a clinic that provides free medical help to 20 villages in the area. Besides, it has helped build six toilets at the local government school.
With the population increasing manifold and the rural areas turning into suburbs of Dharamsala, the major town in the region, the water of the kuhls has become contaminated. Over the last few years, the area has seen a lot of construction activity. Stores selling consumer durables, beauty salons, restaurants and large shopping areas have mushroomed. As tourists from home and abroad frequent the valley, there is so much vehicular traffic that one can be held up in a traffic jam for an hour or more. All these factors have contributed to the increase in pollution levels here.
So Nath, through the centre, decided to launch an initiative to clean and save this largest traditional network of community-managed irrigation systems. The first thing that she did was to engage a private firm to collect water samples and get them tested. As expected, the samples were found to be polluted.
Mohinder Sharma, director of the project, elaborates: "The water from melted snow and rain is stored in tanks and then sent through pipes and narrow streams to villages and fields. This, besides an odd spring or two, is the only source of water. When we presented the report of polluted water to the Irrigation and Public Health (IPH) Department, they said they would conduct tests themselves." Sure enough, even the IPH samples indicated increased levels of pollution. This prompted the department to clean the storage tanks and ensure that water was chlorinated from time to time.
The reason for the pollution of water is that only 12 per cent people have toilets in this area, and people defecate in the open. The rainfall is the second highest in the country, next only to Mawsynram and Cherrapunji in Meghalaya. "The rainfall makes the natural filtration ineffective, and all the waste and dirt is washed up into the kuhls. The water showed pathogens, the bacteria found in human waste.
Besides, animals also litter the kuhls. If this continues, the ground water will be so contaminated that it could cause damage to the crops," adds Sharma. It is interesting to recall that with the massive earthquake in the Kangra valley in 1905, which had a high human toll and which had led to roads and bridges being destroyed, the original gravity-flow irrigation system was damaged extensively. At that time the British colonial government had got soldiers in the military engineering services to repair it so that irrigation would not be interrupted.
However, J. Mark Baker, a research associate with the Sierra Institute of Community and Environment in the US, who has done extensive research on the community-managed irrigation, points out in his book, The Kuhls of Kangra, that the recent rapid changes pose a threat to these kuhls. Through the centuries, the villagers have participated in the cleaning and maintenance of the kuhls, with the kohli, the caretaker, having the supreme authority. The pipes, tanks and open kuhls need regular mending of leakages to ensure the flow and distribution of water.
Interestingly, while one man always occupied the position of the kohli and others did the maintenance work, most of the kuhls have a female deity, called kuhl mataji (mother goddess of the kuhl). Before the onset of the monsoon, a puja is performed to receive her blessings. The kohli begins the puja, which is an integral part of the annual cycle of kuhl management. Now, women are strengthening their participation in the kuhls' maintenance. Thanks to Nath's initiative, they have joined hands to create awareness about keeping the kuhls clean, and educate villagers about the importance of proper sanitation and clean drinking water.
This is being done at the village-level through mahila mandals (women's groups) and youth clubs. Youth clubs are autonomous village-level groups to encourage welfare activity. There is government provision at the block level for mahila mandals. NGOs in the state have rejuvenated these groups so that they provide not only a political platform to women but also become a pressure group for implementation of schemes, and participate in gender sensitisation activity. All women above 18 can be part of these groups.
Mishro Devi (48), president of the Rakkar Mahila Mandal, says: "Most of the women wash clothes in open kuhls, and rashes and allergies had become common. Things had become so bad that baby snakes and insects would emerge from the piped drinking water. Our members did a house-to-house campaign, cautioning the villagers to boil the water and also take care not to litter the kuhls.
Kiran Bala (17), a youth club member from Rakkar, adds: "The boys and girls of our club have been demonstrating how taps and filters have to be cleaned, and the message has spread in at least a dozen villages covered by the Rakkar water tank." The tank is above Rakkar and it serves 12 villages, including Rakkar Sidhbari, Mauli and Sidhpur.
Shekhar Attri (28), a resident of Sidhbarhi village, explains: "We always boil the water and then filter it through the candle filter at home. But all the households do not follow this practice. Many simply can't afford to do this."
Informs Sharma of the Nishta project: "Cleanliness is especially important during the summers and the monsoons when the water gets more polluted. So chlorination of the water and cautioning the villagers during this period is a continuing process. We also test the water during this period with equipment brought from a company in Delhi." — WFS

Women writers for peace

Pictures of Zaheda Hina and Attyia

Write to peace

Nirupama Dutt meets three women writing in three different languages to build bridges of peace in the subcontinent

"Being a woman, writing stories and having dissenting opinions are three afflictions in our society and I am the sum total of the three." This is how Zaheda Hina, a celebrated Karachi-based fiction writer and columnist, places herself in life and literature. A remarkable writer who has a significant fan following in India too as her writings are being widely transcribed into the Devanagri script. Having penned many memorable short stories, her novella on the Partition, Na Junoon Raha Na Pari Rahi, was acclaimed by critics and published in Hindi by a Delhi publisher.
A peace activist over long years and winner of the SAARC literary award, Zaheda Hina’s writings prove that she has always dared to write in what she believes. She was among those who boldly opposed the martial law regime of Zia-ul-Haq in Pakistan. Hers is an ornate style of writing but never at the cost of the content. She migrated with her family from Bihar at the time of the Partition to Karachi. "I know well what it is to be an outsider. I struggled to make my identity in the new land as circumstances had greatly changed for our family with the migration. An announcer for BBC in London for long years, Zaheda was one of the first to espouse the cause of peace between India and Pakistan.
Recently, she chose to link the entire South Asia be using literary tradition as the means. Her sequel to Rabindranath Tagore’s famous short story Kabuliwala is counted a masterpiece in fiction emerging from the sub-continent. Talking of the story called Kumkum Theek-thak Hai, Zaheda says: "In this story, time has moved forward and Minni of Kabuliwala fame is a granny. Her granddaughter Kumkum, a doctor, volunteers to go to Afghanistan after the US attack on the country. There she forms a fond bond with an injured Afghan militant." Written in the form of a letter to her granny in Kolkata, it is one of those rare short stories that has made waves. It indeed belongs to the tradition of Chandradhar Guleri’s Usne Kaha Thha and in a way, Krishna Sobti’s Ai Ladki. For it is not every day that a piece of long-short fiction can rise to epical scales.
Attiya Dawood, a Sindhi writer, opposes anti-women laws
Attiya Dawood, a Sindhi poet and prose writer, made her place in Karachi also with great struggle. The daughter of a middle-class family, she struggled hard but grew from strength to strength as she transformed her experiences into rich poetry and prose. Content rather than style is her forte. Pakistani critic Sikandar Sarwar says of her: "She is more than a poet, an aesthetic and sensitive voice, a woman responsive to the cries of anguish and anxiety of women abused around the world."
Attiya has often dared to raise her voice against establishment including the laws forbidding women to love. In her famous poem, To my Daughter, written especially in English, Attiya the poet says: Even if they brand you a Kari/ And condemn you to death/ Choose death but live to love. Addressing conflict and at times encouraging it is often the route to peace and Attiya has never been afraid to take it. Living in and writing in violent Karachi, Attiya says: "I was once caught in an area where a bomb burst and that experience found way in a poem that questioned the validity of bequeathing gunpowder to our children. I have often written against violence in South Asia. Peace is a must if our children are to survive." Attiya’s autobiography, Aine ke Saamne, was recently published in Hindi.
Naseem Shafai, a Kashmiri poet, voices the fear in the Valley
Naseem Shafai comes from the land that gave us women poets like Hebba Khatoon, Lal Ded and Arnimal. Yes Kashmir, of course. Lal Ded was the Sufi poet of the 14th century, Hebba belonged to the 16th and Arnimal to the 18th. For nearly two centuries after that there was no poet of prominence in the Kashmiri language. It was late 20th century that saw Naseem breaking the male citadel. Naseem, who has just stepped into her 50s, was for many years the lone woman at mushairas. "It now makes me happy to see that there are a number of girls writing in Kashmiri."
How has she reacted to the violence over long decades in the Kashmir Valley? To this question Naseem’s reply is: "As a poet and as a Kashmiri we have seen much sorrow. My journalist husband too was shot at by militants and was bed-ridden for a long time. We have witnessed death and sorrow as Kashmir became a pawn in the power game between India and Pakistan. In spite of it all, I can say with pride that my son completed his school living with our Kashmiri Pandit friends in Delhi." This poet of the lost paradise wants to see pain and fear wiped off the faces of young Kashmiris. She puts it thus in poetry: My prayer goes to them/ I’ll sing them psalms/ May the new moon/ Ever shine in their sky.

A writer called Bama

Breaking caste bonds

Nirupama Dutt

"Our village is very beautiful." This was the opening line of 'Kurukku', the childhood memoirs written in Tamil by Dalit writer Bama. 'Kurukku', (which in Tamil means the sharp-edged stem of the palmera tree) voiced the joys and sorrows of her people, oppressed by higher castes in India. "We were very poor. I was witness to many instances of violence against Dalits. I also saw the humiliation my grandmother and mother faced in the fields and homes of the landlords. Despite the misery, we had a carefree childhood."In 2001, Lakshmi Holmstorm's English translation of 'Kurukku' won the Crossword Award in India and established Bama as a distinct voice in Indian literature. (Dalits are members of India's most marginalized and oppressed castes.)Bama didn't really plan to be a writer. Born in 1958 as Faustina Mary Fatima Rani (her grandfather had converted to Christianity) in a village called Puthupatti in Tamil Nadu (southern India), her landless ancestors and parents worked as laborers for the landlords. She and her four siblings spent a lot of time playing in the fields. "Sometimes we were cops and robbers, sometimes husband and wife. But my favorite game was kabaddi (a team wrestling game played in many Indian villages). I liked the whole business of challenging, crossing over and vanquishing the opponent," says Bama, recently in New Delhi to attend a writer's meet.Perhaps it was this game which trained Bama to face many challenges in life and come out victorious. Bama's father, who was in the Indian army, was very particular about the children's education. "If he had not joined the army, we would never have had the regular income for education. Education also gave us freedom to get away from the clutches of the landlords and lead our own lives," says Bama.Her brother Raj Gautaman, also a writer, introduced her to the world of books. "I read Tamil writers like Jayakantan, Akhilan, Mani and Parthasarthy. In college I read my favorites - Kahlil Gibran and Rabindranath Tagore. I didn't have many books to read so I read the same ones again and again," she recalls. In college she also wrote poetry. But after college Bama became a schoolteacher and chose to educate very poor girls.Her life took a big turn when at the age of 26 she took the vows to become a nun. This was an attempt to break away from caste bonds and further pursue her goals to help poor Dalit girls. "I felt that at the seminary I would be able to carry forward my work with the poor," she says. But seven years later, in 1992, Bama walked out of the seminary. Her family insisted she get married and settle down. "I had lost everything. I was a stranger to society. I kept lamenting about life and harked back to my happy childhood days in the village," narrates Bama.Struggling to find herself again, Bama followed a friend's advice and started to write her childhood memoirs. She also created her pen name - Bama - a blend of different sounds from her Christian name. She completed the book in six months. This slim volume, a semi-fictional account of the growing awareness of a Dalit, created a stir in literary circles for its uninhibited language and bold vocabulary. "Some critics cried out that a woman should not have used such coarse words. But I wrote the way people speak. I didn't force a literary language on myself," says Bama. Today, at 45, Bama teaches in a primary school in Uthiramerur, near Chennai, capital of Tamil Nadu. Her works, which include two collections of short stories, 'Kissubukkaran' and 'Sangathi', have also been translated into French. Though Bama began by writing about the condition of Dalits in rural India, she now plans to focus on communal clashes.After school, Bama spends most of her time talking to young Dalit women about religion, oppression and social change. She shares her experiences as a student, nun and a writer to encourage them to build something anew.Why did she choose to remain single? "The existing family system would not give me the space I needed to do my kind of work. So I chose to stay single," she explains. "My ambition is to communicate the dreams and aspirations of my people, who have remained on the fringes for centuries in Indian history."

March 16, 2003, Women's Feature Service