A hearty stomach and a nourished heart

What did you last have for a meal? Did you savour every morsel of it or was it a rushed affair of gobbling down whatever was on the plate, while surfing through TV channels or reading something really interesting on the mobile phone, maybe just dashing off to work/school/college? I have not done that in a long while, and I count myself lucky. Sitting in a village far away from home, I do not have the luxury of entertainment and I do not have any company while having my dinner and breakfast. It does work on my mind, to be sitting in the middle of nowhere and eating all alone. I cannot help but think of the times when at home all my meals were consumed to the background imagery of a TV running and having my whole attention, or of the times when in college invariably every meal was consumed with so many other friends, happily chatting away the day's incidents or something of common interest. In stark contrast, these days I look, feel and taste only my food during breakfast, lunch and dinner. Every morsel is enjoyed to its fullest and with every piece consumed the taste is savoured to its last bit. Sometimes though I carelessly eat my food while scrolling through the messages on my phone or revisiting pages on the internet. The immensely farm-fresh and nutritious meal is left languishing cold.

At the same time, instead of fully grasping how fortunate I am to be eating food from my own backyard- cutting out all those carbon footprint and inorganic demons- I think and dream about all the foods that I have not consumed in a long while. It could be the highly fattening honey-chilli potatoes served in the choc-a-bloc Chinese restaurants in Delhi or the full Tamil spread on a banana leaf. Constantly bereaved of my grandmother's rasam and my mother's variety of vegetables, I woke up one Sunday morning deciding to cook for myself and not make any of those ready-to-eat items like oats or upma. Khichdi it shall be, a dish for the soul, so homely and prepared by me! When I was at home in Chennai, I always kept putting off learning how to cook. Kitchen was the last place I wanted to be, and the first place I derived maximum from. About 2300 kms away from the kitchen at home, I chose to experiment and learn. After a careful half an hour at the local market, I was laden with few tomatoes, a couple of potatoes, onions, a little pouch of turmeric and half a kilo of rice and moong dal. I had to sheepishly ask the shopkeeper for "khichdi wala daal" because I did not even have an idea of what pulse went into it. Feeling enormously satisfied already at making my first grocery purchase with my own money, I happily called home and quickly got my mother's instructions and later, blessings, to make khichdi. A quick process of boiling all my purchases together and finally adding some turmeric and salt, I ended up preparing my own dinner. So pleased I was with myself, that I clicked a few photos of the really amateur dish, glistening with a dollop of ghee on the top, and sent it across to my near and dear ones. It was my first meal, of my own stipend, prepared by me. Enthusiastically, I went and shared a good portion of it with the watchman on the campus. Joking about his digestive capacity, I waited longingly for just one comment of approval. He was shocked already to know that I had turned the stove on for doing a little more than boiling water or making tea. He readily tasted and gave it a "thumbs up". I went back to my room and ate the dish with so much elation, I could have been the Masterchef at any five star hotel. But I wasn't. All that mattered to me that Sunday was my involvement in every stage of preparing and consuming my food. It was nothing grand, but it had my whole attention. It was a hearty meal.

Khichdi soon became a fortnightly affair and I had experimented with different vegetables, techniques- turmeric first, dal next, etc. Visiting Delhi in a weekend between, I satiated my desire to have Chinese food (and South-Indian at a definitely over-priced Hotel Saravana Bhavan). Nonetheless, the deep craving to have these food items, made me relish every bite of the food. Despite the noisy of environment of the extremely busy restaurants and the enjoyable company of my friends, I could shower my meal with enough love and attention to feel gratified by the end of the process. This meal was hearty simply for it being an overwhelming consequence of an "absence-from-urban" experience. But the khichdis and the noodles of the world did not fill my stomach to the extent that Uday Singh's lunch did.

Uday Singh is the cook at SCRIA and over the past months, we have developed a nice bond of friendship. He and the other housekeeping staff at SCRIA live in a village called Gumina, about 6-7 kms off Khori. It had been over two months that he kept calling me to his home for lunch on any Sunday. Seeing that my tenure in Haryana was coming to an end, I accepted his invite and told him to prepare nothing special. His kids and niece and nephew were stationed by the side of the road to receive me. Their shy grins and hesistant, "namaste Madam" were so becoming. I was slightly late and the family had already eaten brunch, so it was going to be just me eating. Jeetendar, Tanuj, Sonia and Himanshu were circling around their granny at the stove, urging her to bake nice, hot, round, rotis. A simple but delicious side-dish of cauliflower and potatoe was served with the just-from-the-stove rotis. I was just about to tear into the piece of wheat, when Uday Singh asked me to wait. As I looked up startled, he cut a block of homemade butter and lathered it on my rotis. Despite my vehement protest, I was served roti after roti lathered with enough butter to make half a dozen club sandwiches! Just not this, a spicy tomato-onion chutney and a big glass of buttermilk to the brim added to it too. I had to knock it down without any complaint, the kids were all watching me eagerly. They were already pleased with the box of sweets I had bought for them. In their very own way of reciprocating, they offered me a big chunk of jaggery after my really heavy lunch. 

Jeetendar, Himanshu, Sonia and Tanuj with their grandmother; all of them happy to host me and ready to give company for the whole day! Their grins did not once fall.

This was just the start of their expression of love. They took me by my hand across the fields of the village, to the houses of the other staff, chatted like senior citizens at a tea-stall and forcibly took me back to their home before I parted for the evening. Himanshu all of 6 years, fascinated by my camera, posed happily and also learnt to operate it! All the other children, just turning 12, kept joking and giving me enjoyable company throughout the day. After the small tour of Gumina and meeting of elders, I was ready to leave. With a choked voice, Uday Singh said, "hum gareeb hain, agar humse koi galti hui toh maaf kar dena." we are poor people, if we have offended you in any manner, kindly forgive us. I was left humbled. I was at the receiving end of all the good food and the affection, yet he was the one who expressed privilege in having me as a guest. I did not have enough words to tell him, how filled my stomach was, how warm my heart was! In a long long time, I had had the august company of loved ones and really simple home-made food to nourish me.

Himanshu and Tanuj leading my way across the fields into the village.
Have you noticed how a kid walks in his territory? Absolutely carefree, like he owns the place. The gait, the demeanour and the happy mannerisms show a deep connectivity between the individual and the environment.

Soon, I was making my way back to Khori, when the kids who came to drop me till the end of the road shouted, "agle Sunday bhi aana, buaji".  Come next Sunday, too, Buaji, they had called me- their father's sister. From Madam in the morning to Bua in the evening, this meal was surely the best one with this memorable a dessert. Within a week, I had to go home. And as circumstance would have it, all my relatives were around and I was being served traditional south-Indian fare three times a day. Everytime, on a plantain leaf. The variety and delicacies that I had so craved for the previous month were all in-form, on-platter. Even with the many conversations, TV running and mobile phone by the side, my eyes, hands and mouth had space only for the food in front of me. After my days away from a city, I have now understood how to savour every meal and be grateful for it. The stomach and heart may be two different things at two different levels, but I have learnt that a little caring and understanding can make anything a harmonious affair. A picture of a malnourished kid and a preying vulture need not remind me to be grateful for my meal, I just have to BE IN THE MOMENT to savour it. Next time you eat, watch your food, touch it, feel it, taste it and be grateful for it! 

PS: For all my meals to come and for all my meals enjoyed, anna data sukhi bhava!

 May the provider of my food be bestowed with happiness.   

Uday Singh (2nd from left) with his father and few other family members and villagers, sharing a light moment before I left for Khori. The smiles on their faces completely satiated my hunger.

Hazaaron Rekha Jaisi

It was not a new dress, but a good one that I had reserved especially for this day. With a little more care than every other day, I got dressed, packed my bag and rechecked myself in the mirror one extra time before dashing out into the sunny and pleasant morning. Beermati ji, a housekeeping staff had arrived sharp at 8.30am as was usual and was fetching a pail of water to wash the porch in the campus. "Ram! Ram!" she greeted with a smile, one quick look at her and I knew what was coming ahead. She was dressed in fine clothes, and even before I complimented her, she blushed. Bina ji, 56 years old, was already raking up the fallen leaves in the front yard. Constantly pushing back her new pink dupatta even as she continued with her work. She looked up and smiled, a different smile, the smile a lady usually reserves to accompany any good news. Uday Singh and Ram Karan ji, the cook and the caretaker had a grin plastered on their faces looking at how the women on the team were "different" that day. The air was indeed jubilant even before the "Day" had started.  Revati ji, the 70 year old sweeper, was adding "thumkas" to her step and with a brand new attitude she nearly shouted, "Yash ji Mahila Diwas ki Mubarak!"

Revatiji, chirpy, young and dynamic, dropping a "thumka" right in the morning!

  It was on March 8, 1909 that the Socialist Party of America decided to celebrate that day as "Women's Day". Soon Germany followed in 1910 and then by 1911 over a million people from Austria, Denmark, Switzerland had joined Germany's chorus in declaring March 8th as International Women's Day. In the following years many countries followed suit and the day was marked by mainly political demonstrations. The people demanded that women be given the right to vote and hold office, some others protested against sex-based discrimination in employment. Soon the trend became popular and gained socio-cultural and commercial significance. And as most of us know it now, it is but a weird mash-up of Valentine's Day and Mother's Day, an all-out attempt to celebrate, respect and love women. Till last year, confined to the urban environment only, I saw it simply as a commercial gimmick for greeting card companies and another day for all activists to cry shrill about how women need to be empowered. March 8, 2013- 104 years after the first event- I saw a celebration, an uprising of sorts.

Like eager and well dressed invitees at a wedding, the crowd trickled in one after the other. All the flouroscents and jewelry reminded me of the Aam Sabha six months ago! It seemed like 2000 women were celebrating their birthdays. Their faces bore a glee and their chatter bore such enthusiasm, I expected sweet boxes to manifest anytime. This time however, I was not an alien Madrasi who had to be judged and whose presence had to be speculated upon. From October to March, I had made friends and now I was a part of their sisterhood, however weird or different from the native women. So right from their entrance to settling down to going on stage to perform, so many women stretched out their hand in greeting, tagging me along and introducing me to some of their other friends whom I had not met before. Others gave me updates about how the recent Gram Sabha went in their village, expectantly following it up with when next I would visit their sangathan, their homes, their villages. And when 10 women became a hundred and a hundred to two thousand, I knew that International Women's Day had truly dawned. It had arrived in a folksy, vibrant style at SCRIA's Khori Campus. The autumn morning of Aam Sabha had a parallel in the spring morning of Mahila Diwas. It was to be a festival, a congregation of women who truly deserved the break, the entertainment and as an old woman flashed her wrinkly fingers, the nail polish!

Dressed in the best attire and armed with a smile, women trooped in from tractors, tempos, trucks and buses for the Mahila Diwas celebrations.

Typically, most of these women wake up by 4 or 5 in the morning long before the sun rises and go about with their household chores. Soon the kids and the male members wake up and their needs for hot bath water, filling breakfast and timely assistance with getting ready become these women's only concerns. Once the men head to work and the children are off to school, they take care of the cattle, wash the shed, bathe the animals, feed them and milk them later. Other chores like doing the dishes, maintaining the house and laundry also fall on their heads. Before they stretch their legs, it is dinner time already and the day has already ended. Hardly these women get a break to go to the market or spend some leisure time with friends/family/neighbours. If she is working, has her own shop or does farming, it is a bigger ordeal. Any break from the routine means that an arrangement has to be made to take care of the men-folk, the children, the cattle and the fields and shops as the case maybe. The patriarchy is so suffocating and oppressive that they hardly demand a role-reversal and ask to be substituted at work. But that was not the case for these 2000 women. Not on 8th March. It was their day. They would celebrate. And how!

The Shakti Parishad members were the dignitaries on the dais. The post holders had the privilege of lighting the lamp and rendering the first chetna geet for the day. Shakti Parishad is SCRIA's autonomous and legally recognized wing that tackles cases of domestic violence in SCRIA's areas of outreach. These women take on the role of counsellors, advocate and a friend-in-need to the numerous village women of Rewari and Mohindergarh, who come crying and depressed. Some have their thumbs broken, some have their legs burnt, some get kicked out of their homes in the dead of the night and some others are married off before 18 years. Shakti Parishad is that council of SCRIA's sangathan representatives who have taken it upon themselves to fight for the rights of their sisters, of their sahelis. They sat on a dais and saw over the dances, dramas, and rendering of several inspirational songs one after the other. Nirmala from Chimnawas sang a true song about how "8 March" is their day and how the women of the world would come colourfully dressed to change the world. Santosh Devi sang against the evil culture of dowry and Bubli from Guravada put to tune a poem on how to treat a son and daughter as equals. The surprise package for the day were however, Manju, Bala Devi and Neelam, who all gave up their beautiful sarees to don the garb of drunken men and went on the stage to enact some alcohol-induced-antics. The crowd was in splits, laughing and cheering their small dance-song-drama message asking their men "daaru na peeve, sajjan mera maara hojayega". Men returning home in a drunken state and hitting their wives and daughters was a story that every woman had seen play out in her lane, if not in her very home. It was important that she stopped tolerating it and who better to put across that message than Rekha.

Shakti Parishad, Rewari District- women's group fighting against violence against women in Haryana

Rekha, from the village of Rasooli, is the treasurer of the Shakti Kosh. It is the fund of Shakti Parishad that is used to register and fight cases for the victims of domestic violence. All the sangathans contribute to the Shakti Kosh to whatever extent they can once every year and it is managed by the Treasurer of the Parishad. Rekha battles  every week for these women who have gone through injury and abuse. She camps outside the District Magistrate's office to ensure that these women are vindicated. The District Protection Officer expects Rekha to turn up almost every third day and register a case and see it through. Rekha is a dynamite in the traditional Haryanvi setting and she has stormed the offices of the high and mighty pleading and advocating women's rights. She has no special qualification, she has no legal background. A strong will to support her "sisters" and a basic knowledge of the Protection against Domestic Abuse Act gained from a 2 day workshop are her weapons. When, in between all the songs, dance and drama, she took the mike to address the gathering, her steely eyes commanded the respect and attention of 2000 other watching pairs. "We don't get respect anywhere", she started, "like our rights, we have to demand respect. That is the state of our homes and society." The crowd sat up perked. "What can a woman do if she is not safe within the walls of her home? How can we expect our daughters and sisters to bear any kind of abuse?" she demanded to know. With the same fire she added, "If it is not happening in your homes don't sit back indifferent, watch out for the women in your village." Rekha egged them on, "Fight and fight continuously. Raise a voice against violence, and fight with the rights that the constitution provides us." The crowd was grasping every word in complete silence looking awestruck at another woman, one like them, who was bellowing from the stage about freedom from violence. When Rekha thundered, "There is nothing to stop us!", the hands came together and applause poured like heavy rain on a tin roof. It took over 2 minutes to peter out. This was by far the most evocative and powerful speech that I had heard in ages. I saw and understood NARI SHAKTI.    

Rasooli's Wonder-woman & the Shakti of Shakti Parishad: Rekha making a point.

Some more song and drama followed, before unexpectedly I heard over the mike, my name being announced to address the gathering. Thoroughly caught unaware and watching 2000 faces look in my direction and some recognizable ones waving from their spots, it took a moment to register that I was ACTUALLY called to speak to my friends. Sundar Lal ji, Director SCRIA, all my co-workers of the last 6 months and the dynamic women of Shakti Parishad were giving me encouraging nods to take the mike in my hands. I don't know what transpired in the next two minutes. It was a very short speech. I remember the crowd gasped when I told them that I was from Chennai, a place over 2000 km away. I remember in the end, I gave up the mike and simply yelled, "phool nahi chingari hain" to which all the women replied, "hum bharat ke naari hain". And they clapped. The program wound down and many women started crowding around me. The elderly ones were patting my head and blessing me, some close to my age were simply holding my hand  and smiling at me, few others just came, squeezed my palm for a short moment and just stepped back. I have had the opportunity of addressing gatherings before, small, medium or large, but nothing was even half as fulfilling as the 120 seconds on March 8th 2013. I was humbled by the love and affection that these village women showered upon me, an acquaintance of few meetings. The incredible feeling of having raised aspirations and an inspiration to take challenges head on, bonded me and the women that evening. Right from Beermati ji to Revati ji to Santosh, Nirmala to Rekha to me, it was all our day of reckoning.

A section of the audience cheering and applauding the funny antics of Neelam (above) as a drunk husband first abusing his wife, then pleading for her to give him some dinner and later promising not to drink again!

Maybe like everything else grassroots, there is a sincerity and necessity for feminist activism. Shedding the ugly hypocrite image of feminists that I carried from the cities, I saw why Women's Day was a big deal. In 180 days, a lot of things had flipped a 180 degrees for me. From Aam Sabha to Mahila Diwas, I have realised that these women who desperately crave and fight for a different freedom, are perhaps the only ones who truly value and respect it. Rekha's words echoed in my head for a whole week, "I am not the only one. You all can be one. Thousands like Rekha. Hazaaron Rekha jaisi."