The predicament of a wash

This blog post came to my mind while going through many writings in the recent past on how a whole generation of us have been taught to establish man woman equality. And on a lighter vein, how seriously we took that role! 

When I joined the development sector, I was out to prove anything that a man of my age could do, I could do too. And working in SRUTI, a NGO that supported activists in far flung areas of the country, I was subjected to the toughest of the tests in this regard. To begin with SRUTI was highly skeptical about adding a woman to their team (of men, largely). I had to jump into proving that I was no less than a "man in the team" the moment I joined. I joined on 5th of May and I was sent to Jhabua area of Madhya Pradesh for a month starting 11th of May. This post is specifically about the struggles of washing one self in the areas where there was no concept of a bathroom and men, with whom you were travelling did not think they should try to make any extra effort to make it any easier for you. It felt as if some of them almost said under their breath, "You are the one who wanted to prove you can do what men can do!  Chalo...bhugto ab! Come...face it!" 

I was having my periods when I was sent on a motor bike from Sendhwa to Badwani which was close to 90 km where a rally was being organised to protest the death of an anti-liquor activist. By the way, no body liked my huge backpack which had medicines to mugs, but this kept me going through those weeks. On the way, I tied my half dry long top on my head. It served dual purpose. I was partially protected from the summer sun and the long top got as dry as paper by the time I reached Badwani. Upon reaching Badwani no one thought of asking whether I need a washroom and I could not ask for one too. It was the area through which a lot of urban women came and went and everyone adjusted. I was suppose to do that too. It was only at night that I got to stay at a Narmada Bachao Andolan's activist's house and could visit a washroom. There were so many big black ants on the floor that I was almost thankful that only one bit me.

The next day early morning, I was sent to the Pati area villages, to learn. Almost all of us were sent to these "learning" trips which we later renamed the "ragging" period in SRUTI. When I left for Pati in the morning, that was the last time I saw an urban soul for the next 15 days. I was first in custody of Sumli bai who took me from one place to another by foot. Sumli bai was a strong Barela (a tribe group of MP) woman who used to laugh loud at my efforts to carry my back pack around. She walked around with just another change. We slept in rope beds under open sky within the larger boundary of mud-houses where the cattle was tied for the night. We often woke up as a goat or cow breathed hard on our faces middle of the night but washing was the most difficult task of the day. 

Mid day, the women folk found some time to take me to the nearest nalla or a small stream that hardly had any water in the middle of the summer season. As the woman who walked with me would keep hurrying me up to finish my wash as soon as possible, I would keep looking here and there spotting the shepherds nearby or people walking on the road. Whenever I said, "There are so many people here", I was quickly rebuffed "No one looks this side!" Well! I did not believe her then but I did not have much choice. After that wash with scanty water, it was terrible to walk back a kilometer to their house. Whatever respite that little water provided from the heat, would all be gone. 

A few days later we started walking through many villages towards Khargaon again. This time on the way near Badwani a senior colleague joined in. I walked with a big group of mostly men and they, along with this senior colleague would often take a wash at the tube-well situated at the middle of the village, pretty oblivious to my existence. One day I also tried. Fully clothed. It was nice to be wet in water and not sweat. However, when I stood up to change my clothes I then realized, the many houses that were lined nearby none had a door to close. They only had the door frame. I entered one to change and tried hard to keep my faith in physics and kept on repeating to myself, "No one can see me as they are in the sun and I am inside where it is dark." If anyone could time me, I think I could have made a record in "who can change their clothes the fastest"! 

It all seem funny in retrospect. Sharing the room with 35 others in Dahanu, with 50 others in Seva Gram and 70 in Mudumalai sanctuary. All the men in half pants, all the women fully clothed. All the men taking shower below the mountainous falls. All the women trying to avoid the mud created by the bath water in the small areas surrounded by clothes to take a wash.  Could I prove I was as good as the men to the non-believers? I don't think so. By hiding our periods, by hiding our difficulties, by bearing the heat while being fully clothed, by sacrificing that one wash during the day in the peak of summer, is that what I achieved? I think what I achieved was a completely different thing. I have become more respectful to people's basic needs as well as mine. I can surely say, I would not repeat those early mistakes that I carried on making for quite a few years. 

I was relieved when a junior colleague joined and proclaimed in a high pitched voice in Seva Gram, "You men might go with one towel to the wash room and come out in the same. Provide us a room to change or it will be too much for you too". It was a relief she could say that. I have never failed this junior colleague from then on. From Vizag's tribal organisation to the women's SHG promoting organisation in Uttar Pradesh, I have raised the issue of a proper toilet, a proper wash-room for women or at least a wash room with hooks to hang one's clothes, every where. I have never let anyone make me feel slighted for my need of getting a room to change my sanitary pads or a basic minimum wash. Ever again.