Fontanella-Khan - Pink sari revolution: a tale of women and power in india

PINK SARI REVOLUTION

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A TALE OF WOMEN AND

POWER IN INDIA

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AMANA FONTANELLA-KHAN

W. W. NORTON & COMPANY

NEW YORK LONDON

For my parents and James, naturally

CONTENTS

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SHE ESCAPED TO SAVE HER LIFE.

Achchhe Lal Nishad

A T DAWN ON AN OTHERWISE QUIET MORNING IN THE TOWN of Atarra, in the backyard of feared liquor don and state legislator Purushottam Naresh Dwivedi, Achchhe Lal Nishad was writhing over the licking tongues of a fire. Two beefy men were dangling the wiry farmer over the flames, one holding him by the arms, the other by the legs. A third man was slapping him around the head and punching him sharply in the ribs.

Achchhe, an illiterate farmer, had not been there longhalf an hour at most, though time was hard to measure when you feared being burned alive. He had received the phone call summoning him around four oclock in the morning on December 13, 2010. The ringing wrenched him out of his fitful, uneasy sleep and caused him to bolt upright in his rope-bed. He knew that bad news awaited him at the other end of the line.

Wake up, bastard! Your daughter has stolen from the legislator and run away! You come here right now or well drag you out of bed ourselves, the voice on the other end of the line growled. It was one of the politicians men.

The line went dead.

It had been only five days since his daughter, Sheelu, had gone to live at Dwivedis houseofficially the arrangement was that she would be his maidbut Achchhe had felt uneasy about it since the beginning.

After receiving the phone call, Achchhe hastily borrowed a motorcycle from a neighbor, and then with his eldest son, Santoo, the widowed father of four traveled from his mud-hut village of Shahbajpur to the town of Atarra. They bounded down the pot-holed roads for two hours as fast as the motorbike could go; by the time they arrived, dawn was breaking.

Achchhe parked the motorbike on the main road, near the front entrance of the politicians house. A timid man in even the best of times, Achchhe instructed Santoo to wait for him there, and then he proceeded down the dim alleyway that led to the politicians backyard. After what seemed like a long time, Santoo decided to creep around to the back of the house to see what was going on.

When he reached the end of the lane, along the edge of which flowed a stream of sewage, Santoo saw his father. He was being tortured in the center of the politicians yard, which sat well shielded from prying eyes.

Your daughter is a thief . Is that why you left her at the legislators house? one of the musclemen bellowed, as Achchhe squirmed over the flames.

Santoo silently watched his father snivel and plead before the men.

It wasnt my ideathe vidhayak said she should stay here, Achchhe whimpered, referring to the legislator.

And it was the vidhayak s idea for her to rob him also? one of the henchmen shouted back.

You have a hand in this. You told her to steal! another one barked, slapping Achchhe around the head.

No I didnt! Come see my house! Achchhe cried out desperately.

At this they dropped Achchhe next to the fire with a thud. Kicking him, they said, Get up! Go to the car! Now well see what you have in your house or not. Dont you tell us lies!

They dragged Achchhe and Santoo, who had been spotted by the men, into a black Scorpio jeep and retraced the same route father and son had taken in the predawn darkness.

When they arrived at Achchhes home, the politicians men crashed cooking pots, banged doors, but found nothing. Cursing loudly, they turned Achchhes house upside down. Some of the other villagers stayed in their houses, while those who were already outside slipped away and out of sight.

This bastard thinks he can hide his loot from us, but well show him! one of the men shouted. Achchhe and Santoo were bundled into the car once again and delivered to the Atarra police station.

Lock up these dogs, the men told the police officers. They have dared to steal from us!

Though they hadnt been charged, Santoo and Achchhe would later claim that they were locked in a cell by obliging police officers. Well slice off your asses, one of the policemen allegedly hissed through the bars.

Finally, after several long, anguishing hours, the politicians men came to pick them up. Okay, you can let them out now, they ordered the police, who opened the cell door. No documents exist recording their confinement.

The henchmen took father and son back to the politicians house, and there Dwivedi informed them that his men had found Sheelu and were going to take her to the police station. When Achchhe and Santoo asked to see her, the men threatened them with another beating and ordered them to go home.

Achchhe ignored their warnings and went to the police station anyway, but the police turned him away too, as he had feared they would. I was not able to talk to the girl. They didnt allow me to meet her.... They said that my daughter is as good as dead and that I should just leave now. The inspector said, I will break your legs if you dont leave right away, Achchhe would later say.

Achchhe and Santoo rode back home for the second time that day, sick with fear and at a loss of who could help them. The villagers in their community had not stood up for Achchhe and Santoo when the politicians men were threatening them, but Santoo did not blame the villagers. In Shahbajpur, all are poor people, who can help? All of them are farmers who only eat what they get from the earth, he later said.

As the fragile structures of support and justice that he had relied on crumbled around him, Achchhe considered joining the bandits. Outlaws have historically hidden in the ravines and forests surrounding Achchhes village, attracting men who have not received justice through the state and have taken up arms instead.

He might well have done so had not, quite unexpectedly, another solution presented itself.

EVEN GOD CANT CONTROL CRIME IN UTTAR PRADESH

TIMES OF INDIA headline

W INTER MORNINGS IN BUNDELKHAND ARE TEETH-CHATTERING, body-stiffening affairs. In homes that are designed to stay cool in the blistering summer months, even the faintest warmthsuch as the kind that resides in a blanket heated by your body overnightflees in an instant. Getting out of bed is the hardest part. In uninsulated brick houses, an insidious dew-damp chill lingers on the polished concrete floors, clinging to the soles of your bare feet.

Sampat Pal was unflinching in the harsh cold. On the morning of December 14, 2010, like all other mornings, the commander in chief of the Pink Gang rose at dawn and trod from her two-room office to the courtyard in the center of her landlords house, to bathe.

She grabbed the cold steel lever of the hand pump and thrust it up and down, causing the metallic, hair-raising sound to echo against the chilled walls. A few seconds later, water gushed forth into an old paint bucket. When it was full to the brim, she dunked a small plastic beaker into the water and poured it over her brown, goose-fleshed body.

Sampat Pal barely noticed the biting cold. Her thoughts, like a tenacious hound, were digging over the details of a suspicious story that had been brought to her attention the day before. One of her district commanders, Geeta Singh, had told Sampat that her brother-in-law, Suraj Singh, had come to ask Geeta for help.