Svashaasan Jan Chetna Abhiyan (self-governance public awareness campaign) has got me criss crossing Haryana's country sides in the last two months. Bhiwani and Hisar districts, the last month. Sirsa and Fatehabad districts, as I type this. The landscapes gradually change, the slang and flavour of Haryanvi changes, culture changes and of course, people too change.
Interestingly, the changes in the people I meet are only by degree and not of quality. The objective of the campaign is to enhance people's participation in Gram Sabha meetings, especially women's. The Panchayati Raj Act was introduced as the 73rd amendment in our constitution in 1994. Eighteen years past the momentous change in our system of governance, I am finding that as much as it is a process of providing information, it is also a case of questioning attitudes and challenging mindsets. By reproducing a couple of the conversations that have had an impact on me, I intend not to pass a judgement but simply share my experience.
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It is a dusty afternoon, the sun does not show any respite. It is just our second day, out of four, in Bhiwani-Hisar. Agroha Mod is a bustling junction, tempos and buses vying with each other to pick up the village-bound traveller, with family and baggage. Shops aplenty, line the busy intersection- fruits, tea, hardware, car accessories, veterinary medicines, everything. A motley team of us six volunteers sets out to obtain the fleeting attention of the travellers and shop keepers. In the course, I stop at a hair saloon for men. Sitting and relaxing on a swivel chair, at supreme ease, seeming miles away from the very hustle and bustle of the junction, is Omprakash.
I pass the hand-bill on the Act and move on. This middle aged man calls me back to obtain more information. After all, he was in Hisar, a place now famous as RTI activist-turned-politico Arvind Kejriwal's home town. Information on Gram Sabha, I provide. And I continue,
"Nice to see you take so much interest. Could you please take these two posters and put them up in your village?"
"oh ok." He takes them most willingly and starts to examine the contents.
"Wait! One seems to be on equal women's participation. I can't put that up. What work do they have in a Gram Sabha meeting?!"
"They are stakeholders in the village's developme.."
"They need to sit and make rotis. They've got nothing to discuss", he cuts me indignantly.
"They have their own problems and issues. They need to also know what the government is doing for them", I venture.
"They have no separate problems. We can speak for them."
"No, sir. First tell me, who gets the water?"
"my wife", pat comes his reply.
"Have you asked her once if she's had any troubles getting it from the well."
Omprakash opens his mouth, nothing comes out.
"You do not even acknowledge that she might have her own problems. You will discuss her problems?! Thank you for your time, I'd like to take the posters back."
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Inside the villages here the mohallas (communities) are characterised by the population that resides in it. Some reflect poverty- mud houses, kutcha lanes, et al. The wealthier ones showcase the might of money through mansions, SUVs and fancy clothes drying on the line. In one such mansion resides Shruti Beniwal. It is a fort, actually, complete with a basketball court and a terrace garden. Extravagance, a trait similar to Sirsa's (in)famous son- Gopal Kanda. Shruti could easily be Anushka Sharma's doppelganger. Pretty, young and charming, she is the Sarpanch of Dadhba. She's an exception by age and gender in all the villages on the campaigns. Treading unfamiliar territory, I probe,
"Do you convene and attend Gram Sabha meetings?"
"no, no! I stay in the house. My husband does that. I just sign on the register", she gushes dutifully.
Excitement quickly replaced by severity, I ask "so what work do you have? Do other women approach you with their troubles?"
"Nothing. Women come to me, here, and discuss their domestic issues. My husband sorts it out for the men."
She was referring to the darbar-like set up that was in motion for the men in the front yard.
I pose my final query, "You've studied till...?"
"I'm 12th pass", the new bride replies with pride.
I leave the premise wondering if a veil exists in forms beyond just a cloth.
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The conversations keep flowing. Sometimes it happens where elderly men play cards, sometimes it happens by the hand pump where the ladies fetch water from, sometimes it happens at the tea stall, sometimes it happens through windows. Everyone of them sparks a debate in me, few of them engage me in a debate with the team. In hindsight, I realise that these short interviews have revealed to me more about these people than they might have wished to expose....
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