Life Among the Scorpions

by Jaya Jaitly

  He had collectively spent more than five years in jail for launching struggles against injustice of various sorts and once wrote to me contemplatively about women in jail. This was in the late eighties when he was in Bhagalpur jail in the course of the fight against the unfair election practices carried out by his opponents.

  This morning I thought of you going through prison life of your own. Prison—never mind what we say—is no fun. Of course, when you have 263 persons with you, it is easy to pass time. Books, papers and so on also keep company. But it’s no fun. You are away from your loved ones. You are away from the many things you think you ought to do and which are your priority. I have often felt the urge to send you to jail for a while. I hope it never, ever becomes necessary. What I would want you to do is to get associated with a prison visiting group and see the insides of a prison, particularly a women’s prison. I think a woman in a men’s prison would be the object of so much curiosity and subjected to such obscene remarks that I would never want you to step in anywhere near to a men’s prison. I remember [that a well connected] girl was once visiting Tihar when I was there.… I was told she would be visiting the maximum security yard in which I was lodged. She did not. Later I was told she was subjected to the most vulgar abuse possible, and there is nothing one can do about it—not even the jail official. First, you are among criminals; second, they don’t get women in prison and are therefore sex-starved. Third, the good looking and well dressed women in any case bring out the worst in such people.

  I was able to send a note back reporting about the Banka campaign, and added,

  It was very amusing to see you wishing to send me to jail and then deciding—no—it’s very bad for women! I’m quite indifferent—if I go I won’t bother about men’s remarks, it will only confirm how detestable they can be in certain situations, and I’ll ignore it. And I will not be bothered about the physical discomfort—I’ll only feel impatient to get out and carry on doing whatever work I was doing. I will enjoy the opportunity to have time to read and write! I’m sure I won’t like it but I won’t care.

  Almost thirty years after this exchange, as the Tehelka case foisted on me in 2006 drags on till date, I have often thought that if they had found a way of sending me to jail they could have done it long ago. It is more tedious to make over 150 trips to five different court rooms facing nine different judges for eleven years with nothing moving towards a conclusion. Of course being incarcerated after a pertinent struggle lends one a badge of honour, but in this case, the attempt was to dishonour me and George Fernandes by showing us as corrupt politicians engaging with defence dealers. However, that story is for later.

  ~

  I was never pampered either by my parents, my husband or my political mentors. Even if I had occasionally wished for it, it never happened. If I grumbled about having to do something I did not like doing, George Fernandes would sharply say, ‘Well, being in a political party is always only a voluntary exercise. And no one makes a bed of roses for anyone else.’ He was indirectly telling me I could take it or leave it. I went into political activity with my eyes wide open, fired by idealism, expectations of teamwork and collective activity for a greater good. The example of George Fernandes’s single-minded pursuit of justice and his thrill in being part of a political battle, which he thought was justified, was example enough. I admired his fearlessness, integrity, and astute mind. The cherry on the cake was his deep humanity and love for books and animals. He could not have removed my rose-coloured glasses more sharply than when he once wrote,

  Public life has been defined as the most demanding mistress. Forget the chauvinism or sexism involved in the statement; the fact is it is the most demanding work. You have now some personal experiences of it—the latest being Farash Bazar. And at the end of it all, when you sit down to write the balance sheet, you have generally nothing in hand, because public memory is fickle and short.

  The balance sheet was too far off in the horizon for me to bother about. But I do know that while I did not expect a bed of roses, I did not anticipate that active party politics for me would eventually become a bed of thorns—rather, a glass cage full of scorpions.

  From 1985, I became more visible on trade union platforms with the idea of linking the organized factory workers with the unorganized rural producers in the areas of farm produce, crafts and textiles. I became the voice for the craftspersons among hardnosed bargainers for higher wages and bonuses which the poor rural producer could not ask for. The idea was to persuade workers like railway men, taxi drivers, auto-rickshaw drivers, and municipal school and hospital workers to adopt handlooms for uniforms, albeit in polyester-cotton mix for solidarity of the working classes. This also ensured that displaced rural workers did not migrate to cities for better earnings while willing to take up their jobs for less pay.

  It was a fascinating experiment and I found myself addressing thousands of workers. They were all part of the unions George Fernandes had founded and headed. A company was to be set up to facilitate the production and supply of such textiles to city workers. We registered the company and collected a lakh of rupees from various unions. A distressed groundnut farmer came from Karimnagar begging for a loan just for two months till his crop was ready. The money went to him from the company. We never saw it or him again. So that was the end of that.

  ~

  George Fernandes’s ability to make a speech was an impossible act to follow. I did not get over the fear of speaking publicly in his presence for at least a decade. Much later I learned for myself that if you really know what you are talking about and have a passionate belief in what you are saying, any pitch, tone, voice and manner is good enough to get across to people in the right way. Some bombastic speakers are all noise and no content. Timid only happens if you aren’t sure of what you are saying. Reading out speeches was an absolute no-no, and sounding soft and sweet without confidence and assurance would have bored the audience. Despite my age (then 43 and a mother of two), my pleasure when someone liked my speech, was quite childlike. I feel silly now, but I am sure everyone of any vintage and experience likes to be appreciated. My note during this time to George Sahib goes like this:

  I’d been invited by Madhu Kishwar (Manushi) for a function to honour the family of a Hindu who had died protecting Sikhs in Nov’. Longowal* came. I was asked to speak as well. I wasn’t at all nervous of speaking and afterwards people came up and said how well and sensibly (!) I spoke, and would I address the women’s wing of the Sikh Forum. One chap Siddu, said, ‘I have heard a lot about you and all the good work you did for relief, and I have been writing about you too, but I thought you were a boy.’ That was hilarious! Longowal also specially thanked me. Gosh!

  The snide whispers of course began soon enough. While I blissfully never noticed the fact that I was a woman among a phalanx of male leaders and workers, being unselfconscious about such things all my life, for them I was a mere ‘woman’ and nothing else. George Fernandes once reported that a close colleague in the Hind Mazdoor Kisan Panchayat Federation told him that the stalwarts were resentful; first, because I was seen as his protégée but more importantly because I was a woman. He tried to reassure me saying he didn’t really believe the report but even if it were true, I was doing pioneering work in the crafts and handloom sector and ‘these fellows are clueless about this area of work’. He never believed in wasting time on such petty-mindedness and just loaded me with more work, saying ‘work never killed anyone’.

  So there I was, juggling my time between Sikh relief work, Janata Party activities with socialist women stalwarts like Pramila Dandavate and Mrinal Gore, seeing that George Sahib’s office ran smoothly at Hauz Khas, and handling the paperwork while he was away. I also continued with the Gujarat handicrafts development work at the Emporium and in Gujarat, and simultaneously managed the usual household shopping, and the children’s homework, while attending to someone with flu or dengue, taking Sannu’s dog with a loose tummy to the vet if both George Sahib and Leil
a were away, entertaining visitors at home, caring for my mother and her establishment, and a host of other small things that crop up as unnoticed ‘errands’ a woman has to do. But of course, if I chose to be a part of politics in the midst of all the quotidian errands, it was entirely my choice.

  ~

  The Janata Party had a major camp at Yercaud in Tamil Nadu, where ideologies, policies, and organizational issues were discussed threadbare for two days. Sadly, it was the only one of its kind in my thirty years of political activity to follow. Senior politicians and political thinkers sat on the floor in groups of ten to twelve, discussing various subjects till late in the evening. Chandra Shekhar, Ramakrishna Hegde, Biju Patnaik, George Fernandes, Eza Sezhiyan, Syed Shahabuddin, Madhu Dandavate, Surendra Mohan, Rabi Ray, Pramila Dandavate, were just a few names in the democratic socialist pantheon of that time. Many of us were a decade or so younger and fairly inexperienced in the hard-nosed practicalities of politics or even tough struggles and jail time. Despite that, the easy informal air of the seniors, coupled with serious, intense discussions on issues and programmes relating to industrial policies, handlooms, the Shah Bano judgement* and Muslim attitudes, alliances, coalitions, women’s reservations, and caste injustice, were energizing because we were encouraged to share views which were taken seriously. We even discussed Party workers needing to abjure alcohol, and basic commitments and rules to be observed by active members of the Party. I found it healthy, democratic and non-hierarchical with no pompous speeches or condescension towards women like me. Luckily, I found I had already earned respect among the individuals present for my handicraft development, fight for handlooms and Sikh relief work.

  Despite George Fernandes’s warning that it would not be a bed of roses, it seemed like a reasonable start to me.

  ~

  It was particularly satisfying that senior leaders in the Party camp at Yercaud had spoken firmly of the ills of alcohol, an issue that I have always supported. My intense dislike towards the consumption of alcohol started with seeing an alcoholic uncle in my childhood; he was lovable when sober but left family members in dread every time he went out as it was usually rickshaw-pullers who brought him back passed out cold from the roadside. As kids, we would not understand what was wrong but it was ominous in the evenings when he was around. Though later, while as a doting grandfather he spent all his time with his grandchildren, and had given up the addiction, he had by then ruined his life and several relationships. In fact, I have seen what happens at close quarters when alcohol takes over. I could never understand why people needed the fortification of a glass in their hands to be ‘sociable’, relaxed or uninhibited when a self-confident, innately pleasant and open-hearted person could be all of these things without this harmful crutch. I would be irritated at social evenings where the men drank till they became repetitive and boring while thinking no one was wiser than them. As I became more involved in political life, I gave up accompanying Ashok to such parties and found myself in a few anti-liquor movements.

  Nowadays, with rape being such a front-page issue, I cannot understand why people miss those little printed words ‘4-year-old raped by uncle under the influence of alcohol’. At TV studio discussions, whenever I mention this aspect among the many that cause rape, it is glossed over quickly. When I asked off camera why this happens, a frank young anchor said, ‘Ma’am, have a look at all the cars parked outside this building after 9 pm. All media men are drinking in their cars’. I was particularly irritated when a group of friends who happened to be strong feminists called me over for a social evening and offered me a whisky as I entered. I jokingly replied, ‘No thanks, I am a Gandhian’. The slightly derisive response to this was, ‘We hope not in other matters’—implying celibacy. I never thought feminism meant drinking and smoking like men who do this at the peril of ill-health, just as I never believed that successful women politicians must imitate the corrupt, muscle power and other dominating ways that men adopt to get ahead. Entire villages in far-flung rural areas in many states have sunk into a quagmire of poverty and even prostitution because of alcohol, and every other woman working as domestic helps in cities has an abusive, drunken husband. No one wants to address these issues and count the numbers because states also survive on the revenue from excise on alcohol. Mahatma Gandhi once called to shame any ruling establishment that wanted its people inebriated in order to provide them development. Other than some momentary, false and illusionary pleasure, I have never understood what people get out of clinging to the glass in their hand so tenaciously.

  I realized the disconnect between India’s rural women and menfolk of all kinds on the issue of alcohol when I went to Dharampur (Himachal Pradesh) and then by the Kalka Mail to Jagjit Nagar (Kasauli, Himachal Pradesh) on the narrow gauge toy train in the late eighties. The world turned pleasant and quaint with sunshine, and the flowers hanging from pots overhead at the station were delightful. The mountain air was fresh. I was reminded of Kashmir and being among the hills for so many years. Still, I hated the cold and much preferred the sea the love for which was ingrained in me as a Malayali. On the train, I read Dr Lohia’s talks on morality, women and true equality to get my thoughts stirred for the event to which I was heading. It made me feel I had read him long before I actually did—all those seemingly radical thoughts and ‘progressive’ attitudes had always simmered below my seemingly well-adjusted conservative surface but I had never had the courage or confidence to voice them.

  A young man had been asked to fetch me, ‘the great Chief Guest’, at Kalka. Hence instead of continuing on this lovable little train, I sat on the back of his motorbike travelling up the hills for 40 kilometres till we reached a huge gathering of women from all the Mahila Mandals in the area. They had secretly organized an anti-liquor event under the garb of a mela (fair). They were to prepare a memorandum for the chief minister demanding that liquor shops should no longer be given licenses in the area. They were fed up of men coming from Chandigarh to get drunk in the local bars, creating a bad impression among their children as they tottered out vomiting and lying passed out in their fields, or harassing school-going girls in buses. Even the village men came home drunk every day. They were desperate to speak out but were suppressed by the men in their homes and village. Wrinkled old women, young women dressed in the best finery for the pretend mela, many standing before an audience for the first time, nearly all illiterate—spoke passionately to an audience of two thousand women who applauded as they made each point. I spoke last, when I warmed to the mood and felt touched by their pleasure at the fact that a woman from Kerala had come so far to listen to and share their problems. I spoke about how women’s seemingly domestic problems were actually related to society and development—larger issues that faced the country. We had to be equal participants in all public activity and make our voice heard. We had to take men along and make them understand our views so that there is peace at home. The petition finally said ‘no decision by the panchayat on use of land for licenced bars, liquor shops and such like should take place without 50% of the participants being women’. I spent the crisp, cold, very bright and sunny day chatting to all the pahari women (women from the mountains), feeling sorry to get back to a dusty, chaotic life in Delhi so soon.

  On the way back in the train, while discussing Dr Lohia in a note to George Sahib, I wrote:

  This whole matter of women finding their voices and strength only works when they are economically independent, right? Which means the next step for any woman is to say to the man, ‘I don’t like such and such’, or ‘Don’t drink’ or, ‘If you dominate and harass me I shall leave’ and to be able to carry out the threat. Men won’t suddenly change their ways and will not appreciate women asserting their independent view, which means many homes will have to break before the next batch of men are trained through personal needs or social pressures to act fairly and equally. In the meantime can there be in one lifetime both partners genuinely transforming? I think not.

  I may have
been subconsciously voicing a situation closer to home.

  Khushwant Singh and I once had an interesting conversation about alcohol. I lived in the same compound in Sujan Singh Park as he did. One evening, I thought I would enquire about him since he had known me from the time I was a teenager. Once, reviewing my book on the crafts of Jammu, Kashmir and Ladakh, he had written I was a tomboy in my teens when his son and other school friends used to chase me but I never gave them any encouragement. Hardly relevant to the book, but anyway, typical of Khushwant. We chatted about the People’s Relief Camp Committee’s work for the rehabilitation of the displaced Sikhs, apart from books and drinking. I confessed I didn’t like drinking nor thought it did any good to others. He revealed his tendency to get amorous though not offensive when drunk. He felt it was necessary to be uninhibited at times. I said it was undignified to be uninhibited under the influence of alcohol; moreover, one didn’t necessarily need alcohol to be uninhibited. He said he did not believe I allowed myself such liberties!

  ~

  After a deeply troubling time since Indira Gandhi ordered military action in the Golden Temple, her sad assassination and the torture inflicted on the Sikhs in 1984, Giani Zail Singh was almost abandoned. In the late eighties, George Fernandes would visit him and occasionally take me along. Sometimes, the former President of India would send word for me to visit. Perhaps he knew of my relief work in 1984. I wrote a note to George Fernandes after one such visit in the extreme heat of August:

  Poor Giani—his air-conditioner is very noisy, his phone is dead and his cook doesn’t know how to make lassi. He said it was difficult to manage on an allowance of Rs 11,000 for his office work. I am told by credible people that the Congress is spreading the story he sent you abroad to poke about on Bofors!