Gratitude to the Dehati Aurat

I have wanted to tell this story for a long time. I woke up at 4 am and typed it out a few days ago. I pulled out my diary from those days to check the details. I was 20 years old then. I got quite high after I wrote and sent it for publishing. The high of telling a story I had held close to my heart for a long time. My days in the home of Sonti, a tribal woman in Jhabua.

The Hindi translation of this was published here: ‘अपने भीतर की देहाती औरत को जगाएं नेता’ – BBC Hindi – भारत

I stayed in Sonti and Inder Singh’s home for two months that summer. My backpack hung from a nail on a wooden pillar in their home, my two books and diary were kept on a ledge. The toddler in their house would prop himself up by my knees and keep me company. He was always hungry and so was I.

1992 had been declared a drought year in Jhabua district. The rains had failed and the small farmers had not managed to harvest enough jowar and bajra to feed their families. Coarse grains requires less groundwater and rain than wheat and rice and are the staple cereals in the diet of the Bhil and Bhilala tribals of south Madhya Pradesh. They had little money to buy food, even from the ration shops in the tehsil.

The village was called Khodamba. It was a 4-hour walk across brown, bare hills from the nearest bus-stop. That bus stop was a 6-hour dusty road journey away from Alirajpur, the Tehsil headquarter. I was teaching the children and teenagers of Khodamba to read and write Hindi and do basic Maths. They were mostly laughing at me. Sometimes they felt sorry and tried to show me a good time. 
I received no letters from home while I was there. I collected dried leaves and stuck the first lice retrieved from my hair in my diary. I made notes about cows that ate human faeces, waiting patiently for us to finish our business and leave, hoping to get some grain in their diet.

Sonti wondered about the place that I had come from. She could see that I read and wrote a lot, but I couldn’t bring back a pot of water from the well for my own bath. I was a grown woman, but I seemed helpless like a child. Hungry, dirty, useless and miserable. Always hanging around her kitchen, like her toddler who was way behind on his critical milestones.

Sonti asked me if I had land to grow food where I came from. No, I didn’t. She asked me if I had cows and hen. No, I didn’t. She tried to make sense of the situation. Had I come to their village because there was nothing for me back home?

Sonti cooked one large, thick roti for each family member and me two times a day. There was some salt, a very watery lentil soup and that was all there was. She went to the forest to get firewood, she went to her fields to prepare them for sowing corn when the rains would come and walked far to bring back drinking water. The mango trees yielded no fruit that season, the jamun tree dropped wrinkled fruit on the dry earth below. Sonti sang and danced all night when there was a marriage in the village.  She went away to mourn and support a couple for 3 days when their child died on the way to the hospital. 

One day, she served me a bowl of meat with my makki ki roti. A group collected around me to watch me eat.
“What is this,” I asked.
Someone described a small animal like a rabbit, another stretched his arms wide to show a larger creature.
“Is it a cow,” I asked. 
“No, no!” they protested.
“Is it hairy? Does it have horns? Is it a fox? A goat?”
They giggled and said confusing things but made sure I ate my share of nourishment that day.

In that remote village, under the stars, I would dream of tomatoes and cucumbers in vivid colours. I made notes on how well I would take care of my hosts and students when they came to Delhi. I imagined trying to cross a road near India Gate with the teenagers, just like they led me through their forests and waited for me to catch my breath in the hills. When my stomach was full, I appreciated the undulating browns around me, the sun glowing every evening as smoke rose from the kitchens in the distance. 

I imagined my host family in my city home. No village woman like Sonti, no dehati aurat had ever sat on the sofa in our living room. I shuddered at the thought that once uprooted, Sonti might find herself tapping on closed car doors at traffic lights in Delhi, trying to sell roses, or plastic Santa Claus masks. Her hungry child would be balanced on his her hip. Someone like me would turn her face away from the beggar woman and try to regain my mood by changing the music in the car.

Earlier this week, we heard the phrase, ‘dehati aurat’ being used freely as an abusive epithet. A senior journalist from Pakistan reported (and later retracted) that Prime Minister Nawaz Sharif had accused Prime Minister Manmohan Singh of behaving like a ‘dehati aurat.’ A petty village woman who had run to tattle to President Obama instead of solving regional problems at their own level. The Chief Minister of Gujarat and BJP leader Narendra Modi used this account to proclaim that the Indian PM had been humiliated and his authority demeaned.

People reveal themselves and their deep-rooted biases all the time. Keen to damage the public image of their rivals, here are men trying to shame the other by calling him a woman. A rustic woman.

Both my grandmothers were dehati aurats. They were migrants, who crossed borders and rebuilt their homes many times over in their life. They knew how to milk cows and spin the wheel to make thread. They woke up before dawn to start their day, they were creative and resourceful. They were planners and troubleshooters. They enabled their husbands, their sons and daughters to seek their destinies. They were generous, like Sonti, the tribal woman from Jhabua.

Sonti’s humanity kept me alive even when there was not enough food for her own children. Her 18 month old son would crawl up to me and hold my breast in the hope of nourishment. His mother still managed to make a place for me in her world. 

When I learn to acknowledge the village woman, I learn to connect to the history that has created me. The blood and sweat that has shaped me, the human spirit that has fought to keep the children alive. I learn to express gratitude to the dehati aurat who shares every resource she has to give everyone else a life better than she has lived. 

Our leaders would do well to awaken their inner ‘village woman’ and summon some of her power and wisdom in themselves.

About Natasha Badhwar

"Because I'm a Tinker. That's who I am. Tinkers fix things. But I can't do it alone." (Pause for lots of action. Group Action......) "You did it, Tinker, you saved Spring!" I also have three children, one marriage, a million friends and one life.
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1 Response to Gratitude to the Dehati Aurat

  1. Smita Luthra says:

    Beautiful! Thanks for writing this story.

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