Gender, Space and Agency in India: Exploring Regional Genderscapes [1 ed.] 0367820803, 9780367820800

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GENDER, SPACE AND AGENCY IN INDIA

This volume explores the links between gender, space and agency in India. It offers fresh perspectives and frameworks within which these links can be analyzed across diverse geographical contexts in India. The chapters in this volume are based on field studies which showcase how agency is gendered. The volume examines how gender and agency are fashioned within a multitude of everyday contexts, socio-economic processes, policy interventions and geographic phenomenon and manifest in diffusion of education, decentralization of politics, rising social inequalities, poverty, green revolution, mechanization of agriculture and even drought. This book will be of interest to researchers, teachers and practitioners of human geography, social and cultural geography and those interested in geographies of gender. It will also be helpful for policy makers interested in the issues of gender and development in India. Anindita Datta is Associate Professor at the Department of Geography, Delhi School of Economics, University of Delhi, India. With over 20 years of teaching experience, she has published consistently in international peerreviewed journals with interdisciplinary perspectives; served as a member of the international editorial boards for Gender, Place and Culture and Social and Cultural Geography; and is also a member of the Steering Committee, International Geographical Union (IGU) Commission on Gender and Geography. Her research interests are in the areas of feminist geography, conceptual traditions in geography and the social geography of India. She is particularly interested in indigenous feminisms, everyday geographies, geographies of care, spaces of resistance and in issues of gendered and epistemic violence.

GENDER, SPACE AND AGENCY IN INDIA Exploring Regional Genderscapes

Edited by Anindita Datta

First published 2021 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2021 selection and editorial matter, Anindita Datta; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Anindita Datta to be identified as the author of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record for this book has been requested ISBN: 978-0-367-82080-0 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-01347-1 (ebk) Typeset in Sabon by Apex CoVantage, LLC

For my grandmothers Shanti Lata Datta and Mihir Kona Dam, my mother Nanda Datta, and all those women whose stories I grew up with, women who were so ahead of their times . . . You redefine and embody for me grace, grit and the many meanings of everyday feminism.

CONTENTS

Notes on contributorsix Acknowledgementsxi   1 Gender, space and agency in India: exploring regional genderscapes1 ANINDITA DATTA

  2 Pierre Bourdieu’s symbolic violence: scripting gender among Assamese middle-class women in higher education

15

RITUPARNA BHATTACHARYYA

  3 The power of social spaces in enabling girls’ education in India: perspectives from Indian origin students in the US

34

PATRICIA M. KEWER AND MARTHA E. GEORES

  4 Interrogating gender, property rights and witch-hunting in Jharkhand, India

48

BASHABI GUPTA

  5 Gender and agency in decentralized political spaces in rural West Bengal

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BARNALI BISWAS

  6 Mahila Panchayats of Delhi: scripting agency within low-income urban neighbourhoods SWAGATA BASU

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77

C ontents

  7 “It is better to die than to live like this”: widowhood, economic denial and violence in rural Punjab

92

KANCHAN GANDHI

  8 “This is our area and that is theirs”: scripting the spatiality of migrant masculinity in Goa, India

106

AJAY BAILEY

  9 Watercentric roles and women’s spaces: narratives from drought-prone villages of Gujarat

120

NAIRWITA BANDYOPADHYAY AND ASHIS KUMAR SAHA

10 Numbers, bodies, love and babies: gender and territory in Ladakh

133

SARA SMITH

11 Reinterpreting resistance and agency: excavating feminist counterspaces within indigenous feminisms

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ANINDITA DATTA

Index

160

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CONTRIBUTORS

Ajay Bailey is Professor of Social Urban Transitions at the Department of Human Geography and Spatial Planning, Faculty of Geosciences, Utrecht University in the Netherlands, and Dr. T.M.A. Pai Endowed Chair in Qualitative Methods, Manipal University, Manipal, India. Nairwita Bandyopadhyay is Assistant Professor and Head, Department of Geography, Haringhata Mahavidyalaya, University of Kalyani, West Bengal, India. Swagata Basu is Associate Professor and Head of the Department of Geography, SSV (PG) College, Hapur, affiliated with CCS University, Meerut, India. Rituparna Bhattacharyya is Editor-in-Chief (joint), Space and Culture, India, and in charge of Training and Development, Alliance for Community Capacity Building in North East India, North Shields, UK. Barnali Biswas is Assistant Professor, Miranda House, University of Delhi, India, and formerly Associate Fellow in Council for Social Development and Senior Research Fellow in Indicus Analytics. Anindita Datta is Associate Professor, Department of Geography, Delhi School of Economics, University of Delhi, India. Kanchan Gandhi is Postdoctoral Research Fellow, Indian Institute of Science Education and Research (IISER), Mohali, Punjab, India. Martha E. Geores is Associate Professor Emerita of Geography in the Department of Geographical Sciences, University of Maryland, College Park, Maryland, USA. Bashabi Gupta is Assistant Professor, Department of Geography, Miranda House, University of Delhi, India. Patricia M. Kewer received her PhD. in Geographical Sciences from the University of Maryland, College Park, Maryland, USA. Her research interests include human geography and international development. ix

C ontributors

Ashis Kumar Saha is Assistant Professor, Department of Geography, Delhi School of Economics, University of Delhi, India. Sara Smith is Associate Professor of Geography, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, North Carolina, USA.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Putting this book together has been an incredibly long and learning journey. First and foremost, I  would like to thank all the contributors for their immense patience and unwavering support over the long, tedious course of writing, rewriting and revising this book. Thanks also to the subjects of the case studies, the women and men who have shared their stories from different locations, giving voice and shape to the central thesis in this volume. I would like to thank the Indian Council of Social Science Research (ICSSR); University of Delhi, Indian National Science Academy (INSA); Swedish South Asian Studies Network (SASNET); and other agencies for the grants and support received to organize the two international conferences ‘Contextualizing Geographical Approaches to the Study of Gender in Asia’ in 2010 (in collaboration with the Australian National University) and ‘Reorienting Gender: Geographies of Resistance, Agency, Power and Desire in Asia’ in 2014, from which most of the chapters in the volume are drawn. Thanks to RK Books for publishing the proceedings of the 2014 conference and permission to include Chapters 3, 6, 7 and 9 in this volume. The support of the IGU Commission on Gender and Geography in endorsing both these international conferences is acknowledged with thanks. I would also like to thank (in the order that we met while working on the book) Ragnhild Lund, Jan Monk, Holly Hapke, Ann Oberhauser, Shirlena Huang, Marrianne Blindon, Tovi Fenster and Linda Lane. Thank you for your solidarity and the conversations and collaborations we shared, some of which have shaped the trajectory of this book. Many thanks to Dr Sharmila Sengupta (Babi Pishi) and Dr Geeta Maheshwari for their insights, warmth, energy and encouragement so generously provided over the course of writing. Thanks to all my students at the Delhi School of Economics, who sat through my classes enthusiastically, engaged in animated discussions and humbled me with their affection. Thanks to “Team Gender,” our research group, for your energy, affection and zeal. A very special thank you to Maria Fitzgerald for her careful proofreading in the final stages of the book. xi

A cknowledgements

I would like to thank my mother, Mrs Nanda Datta, for her lessons in faith and tenacity and my infantryman father, Brig AP Datta VrC, for bringing me up with his regimental motto Kayar Hunu Bhanda Marnu Ramro and teaching me early to read maps, find my way and stand strong. You have shaped my feminism in startling ways. Thanks to Jyoti and Anirban for your love and support – you inspire me constantly. To Abbu and Ammi for your prayers, even though you are not here to see the book. No words can express my thanks to my partner, Mohammed Aslam, for his love and support and to our three children, Zanskar Danish, Mushkoh Ramish and Samara Kunzum for cheerfully ceding space for “mamma’s book” and doing whatever possible in big and small ways so that I had a few hours more to write, edit and revise each day. Anindita Datta

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1 GENDER, SPACE AND AGENCY IN INDIA Exploring regional genderscapes Anindita Datta

Space is not innocent of gender, and gender is not unaware of space. This volume explores the mutually co-constitutive links between gender, space and agency in India through a selection of field-based case studies. Existing literature in feminist geography has already established the close association of gender and space, in which each implicates the other (see, for example, Seager and Olson 1986; Townsend 1991; Spain 1992; Hanson and Pratt 1995; Massey 1994; McDowell 1993, 1999, among others). Similarly, the need to speak of gender from locations other than the hegemony of the Anglo-Saxon world has also been raised earlier (for example, Mohanty 1984, 2003; Moraga and Anzaldua 1981). Following these calls, this volume addresses the themes of gender, space and agency specifically in Indian contexts with a view to explore these intricate and complex interrelationships through field-based and ground-level studies. The central argument forwarded here is that the extremely diverse geographical contexts in India are instrumental in shaping gender roles and gender relations through a host of socio-geographic factors. The idea of a regional genderscape is advanced to describe the regional differences of gendered lives within the overarching system of patriarchy. The concept of a regional genderscape provides a useful framework within which the links between gender, space and agency in Indian contexts can be better understood. The sections that follow detail the concept of a regional genderscape and the idea of agency within it. To arrive at this, the argument that gender is socially constructed through a repertoire of performances is discussed at the onset. This is followed by a more detailed description of theories of gender with respect to the larger cultural and regional contexts in India. The spatial variations of gender roles and relations are then summarized within the framework of a regional genderscape. Finally, the strength of 1

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this volume is underlined, positioning the importance of the case studies included here, along with an overview of the chapters.

Gender and space in feminist theories – contextual understandings Scott defines gender as being based on “perceived differences between the sexes and a primary way of signifying relationships of power” (Scott 1988, p. 42). According to Judith Butler, there is no “interior truth” to ­gender. Rather, gender or the gendered body is only “styles of the flesh” that get congealed through repetitive performances (Butler 1990, 1993). This means that the social construction of gender is not biological but driven by  repeated ‘“doing” or “performing” gender or an “incessant activity performed . . . with or for another” (Butler 2004, p. 1), through socially accepted and socially determined ways of feminine or masculine behaviour. Butler argues further that “These styles all never fully selfstyled, for styles have a history, and those histories condition and limit the possibilities” (Butler 1990, p. 96). Building on both Scott and Butler’s reasoning, I would like to argue here that these “styles” or performances of gender have a specific geography or spatiality as well, and these geographies also “condition and limit the possibilities” of gender much in the same way as histories do. Thus, while a repeated repertoire of social actions or performances create gender, space or location has an equal role in scripting or shaping these performances. In other words, the nature of space or location by itself determines to a large extent the manner in which “the styles of the flesh” or gender are performed. Conversely, these performances of gender may then, in turn, go on to constitute ­specific kinds of gendered spaces. In other words, the geographical or spatial context or, to put it more simply, the place in which gender is performed cannot be overlooked and is imperative to its construction. Essentially, therefore, both gender and space eventually cocreate each other. In the sections that follow, the geographical and cultural contexts within which gender is shaped, performed and experienced in India are detailed. This first demands an understanding of the manner in which patriarchy operates in the region. Sylvia Walby’s theorization of patriarchy indicts six partially interdependent structures that operate in tandem to preserve men’s domination over women. These structures are that of a patriarchal mode of production, patriarchal relations of paid work, male violence, state, culture and sexuality (Walby 1989, p.  220). While providing a discursive frame to theorize patriarchy, Walby’s thesis falls short of explaining the peculiarly pervasive patriarchy operating in South Asia. In this specific context, women are often seen as active colluders in their own oppression and quite often also misrecognized as submissive and devoid of agency. The latter is particularly 2

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true of Western constructs of the passive third-world woman  – almost in opposition to the self-construction of first-world women as empowered and liberated (see Mohanty 1984). In order to understand the cultural nuances of patriarchy as it operates in the South Asian region, I invoke the work of Denize Kandiyoti. Kandiyoti, in her chapter “Bargaining with Patriarchy,” has described the patriarchy prevalent in South Asia as “classic patriarchy” (Kandiyoti 1988). She distinguishes this form of patriarchy from that prevalent in sub-Saharan Africa and argues that within classic patriarchy, women enter the patrilocal households as new brides who are accorded very little power and are consequently subservient to not just the men but also to elder women. According to Kandiyoti, “The patrilineage totally appropriates both women’s labour and progeny and renders their work and contribution to production invisible.” Women initially submit to these appropriations to eventually gain control and power within the husband’s household. Hence, this peculiar cultural script of classic patriarchy rewards women for submission and conformity to their socially accepted gender roles of good wives and mothers. V. Geetha has termed this system of rewarding conformity through a glorification of ideal wifehood and motherhood as the productive aspects of patriarchy (Geetha 2007). These productive aspects of patriarchy incessantly portrayed in mythology and popular culture become almost a norm. This results in creating a kind of false consciousness which makes it difficult for women to challenge the power-based inequalities within the household. For women in classic patriarchy, internalization of this script results in “their active collusion in the reproduction of their own subordination” (Kandiyoti 1988, p. 280). Hence, women “often adhere as far and as long as they possibly can to rules that result in the unfailing devaluation of their labor” (Kandiyoti 1988, p. 280). Very often, they then enforce the same controls on younger women within the patrilocal household. This form of classic patriarchy may be seen to be near universal in India, save for a few pockets of matriliny in India’s Northeast and Southern states. Notable examples include the Khasi and Garo communities of Meghalaya, the Nairs and Ezhava communities in Kerala and the Bunt community in Karnataka. Even within these matrilinies, despite women being relatively more empowered than in other regions, male kin hold social power, and matrilineage does not translate into matriarchy. In other parts of the country, while classic patriarchy is pervasive, its constitutions are not uniform. The regional and local contexts together with levels of economic development are crucial in shaping gendered divisions of labour and locally accepted feminine and masculine roles. These local ideals then animate the practice of everyday life, through doxic performances in everyday lived spaces. “Doxa” refers to Pierre Bourdieu’s notion of ideas in society that are taken for granted and habitualized and seem natural and obvious. These are things that “[go] without saying because [they come] without saying” (Bourdieu 3

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1972, trans 1977, p. 167). Within a situation of classic patriarchy, a doxic acceptance of submission to family norms constantly perpetuates male privilege and patriarchal power. Women rarely question the seeming naturalness of the cultural script of classic patriarchy which is framed through doxa. As Risseuw eloquently puts it, “The fish do not talk about the water – it is so self-evident that they cannot exist without it” (Riseeuw 1988, p. 5). Doxa, hence, very evidently both shapes and is also shaped within the context over which it occurs. In this argument, Bourdieu’s concept of “field” may also be invoked. Bourdieu used the term “field” to refer to specific social contexts (Bourdieu 1984). Fields are hierarchical and contain webs of power-based social relationships. Spatial contexts comprising different cultural regions at different scales can be seen in this manner too. Within each of these spatialsocial fields, doxa frames gender relations and norms of gendered behaviour. These gender relations and norms thus appear immutable and unquestionable and, through doxa, become deeply embedded in the cultural traditions and everyday practices within the region. The term “scripting gender” used in this volume refers to a situation in which such a doxa-driven regional ethos might be instrumental in shaping gender roles and relations. This regional ethos could find repeated expression in myriad ways, shaping the spaces of everyday life. Massey has argued that a certain “throwntogetherness” of space produces a difference in relational spaces. This affects the capacity to act in different spaces (Massey 2005). Space is seen here as both an enabling and a constraining agent in “scripting” gender. This could happen in ways that may enable or constrain agency within different regional contexts. The term “regional genderscape” is used in this volume to refer to these particularities of space and geographical location within which gendered roles and gender relations are enacted and experienced. Finally, it is argued that individual or collective agency can be negotiated within the regional genderscapes – yet these genderscapes themselves are not static and fixed but shifting, fluid and open to change. A  host of social processes and targeted interventions continue to reshape them in ways that allow gender roles, gender relations and agency to be renegotiated. The term “agency” used repeatedly in this volume refers to the degree of power women and men have over their own lives. Following Emirbayer and Mische’s argument that human agency is a temporally embedded process of social engagement (Emirbayer and Mische 1998, p. 963, emphasis added), I contend that such agency could also well be seen as being spatially embedded. It can be argued that it is only within very specific geographical contexts, or “fields” in the Bourdieuan sense, that particular forms of agency are overtly and explicitly negotiated. Often, individual and collective agency, whether overt or covert, is negotiated by referencing “feminist counterspaces.” I  would like to argue here that such “feminist counterspaces” are created within hegemonic spaces of patriarchal control within 4

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classic patriarchy. (For a fuller discussion, see Chapter 11 of this volume.) These counterspaces also have a larger implication as spaces of resistance and may also be operationalized through policy interventions and political or local activism. Such feminist counterspaces need to be read contextually, and it is these spaces of power and agency rooted within diverse regional and socio-cultural contexts that the case studies in this volume touch upon, often tangentially and sometimes directly. In the following section, the concept of a regional genderscape is fleshed out in more detail.

Framing regional genderscapes Sumi Krishna uses the term “genderscape” in relation to natural resource management (NRM) and in her 2001 essay writes: a genderscape of community rights in NRM would start with richlytextured narratives of gender-egalitarian systems, how these are being changed, maintained or eroded. It would explore traditional knowledge systems, how they circumscribe women, how these are changing to enable women to claim their stakes. It would focus on traditional community resource management practices and how these include/exclude women, and also on the linkages between changing patterns of resource use and control, ecological sustainability and women’s well-being, health, mobility and decision-making power within the family and in the public sphere. (Krishna 2001, p. 170, emphasis added) Building from this early work, I reiterate the link between the gross geographical contexts and the social construction of gender roles in India in order to describe the idea of regional genderscapes (Datta 2005, 2011). In essence, I would like to argue that in India, the constructs of gender, especially the feminine gender role, can vary by geographical region (Datta 2011). Chiefly, the differences in geographical contexts have had implications for the degree of son preference and the extent to which women are able to access public spaces, acquire knowledge and participate in productive work. These crucial differences might underlie the success or failure of intervention strategies aimed at women’s empowerment and correcting gendered imbalances. Despite these arguments, discussions of the role of space in scripting gender within the Indian contexts are poorly researched and limited mostly to comparative mapping of tangibles in terms of development goals (see Datta 2019). The paragraphs that follow deepen the discussion on the relationship between geographical contexts and gender in India by proposing the conceptual framework of regional genderscapes. 5

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The diversity of spatial and social contexts in India is vast. Terrain-based diversity includes the northern arc of mountains, river valleys, coastal plains, central uplands desert and islands (see link at the end of this chapter). These diverse topographical features also underlie immense socio-cultural diversity. This is not simply a horizontal diversity in which spatial and social contexts change with geomorphological changes or variations in terrain, but also includes a vertical diversity based on the levels of socio-economic development. Existing literature has highlighted the regional differences in the degree of son preference, child survival, neglect of girl children, women’s participation in agricultural work, gendered autonomy and social value in India (Miller 1981; Dyson and Moore 1983; Dasgupta 1987; Basu 1992; Murthi et al. 1995; Jeejebhoy 2001). Similarly, regional differences in land ownership, family structure, culture, kinship and marriage as well as diversity in other aspects of material life have also been noted (Karve 1968; Sopher 1980; Dumont 1983; Kolenda 1987; Singh 1993; Agarwal 1994). Building on these studies a theoretical frame of genderscapes was proposed earlier (see Datta 2011 for a detailed discussion). In this conceptualization, space is foregrounded not as a passive container but as an active agent in the production and performance of gendered lives and agency. To explain further, I  contend that regional genderscapes are anchored strongly to the organically evolved socio-cultural regions of India. These socio-cultural regions themselves are products of an interplay of geographical factors as well as regional, political and social histories. They reflect regional differences in language, kinship and other social and cultural factors. (See Pannikar 1959; Spate and Learmonth 1967; Chatterjee 1982; Singh 1992; Ahmad 1999, for a discussion on socio-cultural regions). I argue that within these regions, it is the differences in terrain, agro-climatic conditions and mode of economy that have historically determined the initial need for women’s labour in the rural agricultural economy. These early interregional differences may underlie subsequent regional disparities in women’s participation in productive work and access to public spaces for employment, education or leisure. Again, within these locations, differences would arise along the obvious intersections with caste, class and religion, to name only a few. The location of the individual in terms of the spatial or geographical context, therefore, is as important as other intersectionalities such as gender, caste, class and religion in determining the nature and extent of the agency they are able to exercise over their lives. Briefly put, the regional genderscapes are differentiated from each other based on differences in the realms of geomorphology and climate and prevailing social relations of kinship, class and caste, as well as the realm of customs, traditions, beliefs, rites and rituals within the praxis of daily life. In previous expositions, these have been termed the realms of “nature,” “social relations” and “meaning,” respectively (see Datta 2011). Together, these layers overlap to produce a realm of agency as well as to outline 6

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specific constraints. In a nutshell, therefore, a regional genderscape refers to an amalgamation of real and imagined spaces within which gendered lives are lived. Rooted in real or physical space, the genderscape builds up to an abstract space that encompasses the lived as well as the imagined space. This notion of space, the regional genderscape, includes all the perceptions, portrayals and performances of gender. However, regions as distinct geographical and social spaces are dynamic, constantly evolving and liable to be affected by a host of factors operating locally, such as technological innovations, disasters, social movements or policy-based intervention strategies, among others. All such factors could eventually transform the very nature of these spaces and also impact gender norms, women’s work and gender relations. This only underlines the need to understand gendered lives against a backdrop of their spatial contexts. In a country like India, marked by immense diversity and in the throes of fastpaced change, this becomes all the more imperative.

Overview of chapters Using the idea of regional genderscapes, the chapters in this volume present case studies from different regional contexts of India to show that gendered lives and agency is negotiated through education, policy intervention, local activism or other smaller, more immediate personal strategies to enable recourse to enabling spaces. Each of the studies attempts to present, to the extent possible, the narratives of the subjects in their own voices. The themes of the chapters are wide ranging and encompass the issues of symbolic violence and education in the Northeastern state of Assam, as well as educational success stories of women from four dissimilar cultural and social contexts of India; property rights in the tribal-dominated state of Jharkhand, where the practice of witch-hunting is invoked to restrain women from exercising their rights; local feminist activism against domestic violence in poor neighbourhoods of Delhi; participation in local-level politics in rural areas of West Bengal; and living gendered lives as widows in the seemingly prosperous green revolution state of Punjab and in droughtprone areas of Gujarat, where women’s social roles and social spaces are moulded around the availability and storage of water. Other chapters explore the enacting of migrant male masculinities in Goa, questions of intimacy and reproduction as sites of geopolitical practice among women in the Ladakh and, finally, an attempt to theorize spaces of resistance within classic patriarchy as counterspaces of indigenous feminisms. Following this, the epistemological tool of periscoping is deployed to revisit each of the case studies in an attempt to visibilize these counterpaces of power, agency and resistance. In each of the case studies included here, the specific geographical context has been instrumental in delineating a regional genderscape within which 7

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individual or collective agencies have been negotiated. A  more detailed description follows. Rituparna Bhattacharyya’s chapter, “Pierre Bourdieu’s symbolic violence: scripting gender among Assamese middle-class women in higher education,” holds that postcolonial India is a complex and paradoxical mix of sociocultural practices and modernity. This tension is especially apparent, and holds particular significance, with respect to women’s changing roles. Her study focuses on the specific case of Assam, located in the Northeastern region of India and, within it, a sub-population of young, middle-class Assamese women. It considers the notions of Pierre Bourdieu’s symbolic violence and misrecognition to examine how unequal gender relations in Assamese society are reproduced and sustained within the regional genderscape. Driving her research is a concern to probe the position of women pursuing higher education as daughters/daughters-in-law and wives within the family. Also exploring the agential role of education, Patricia M. Kewer and Martha E. Geores, in their chapter, “The power of social spaces in enabling girls’ education in India: perspectives from Indian origin students in the US,” set out to examine success stories of Indian women studying in the US who have negotiated unequal spaces of knowing and knowledge production to create an alternative and enabling space for themselves. The chapter demonstrates how the same set of spaces and spatial practices can be enabling and constraining at the same time but at different scales. Kewer and Geores’s participants are rooted in four dissimilar geographical contexts or regional genderscapes. Their home locales were a small Himalayan hill town in the Indian state of West Bengal, a village in the interior of the Southern state of Tamil Nadu, a city in the newly formed tribal state of Jharkhand and a neighbourhood on the outskirts of the megacity of Delhi in the National Capital region. The authors demonstrate how their subjects were able to script individual agency within these specific social spaces, overriding constraints imposed by gender as daughters in patriarchal households. The principal argument made in Bashabi Gupta’s chapter, “Interrogating gender: property rights and witch-hunting in Jharkhand, India,” is that gendered inequality is scripted through unequal property laws and exacerbated by development. This marginalization affects women’s livelihoods and is eventually sanctioned and enacted through culturally prevalent practices such as witch-hunting. This is especially true in the cases in which women seek to challenge and claim their land or property rights. Sited in Jharkhand, a state with a high proportion of tribal population, Gupta argues how transformations in natural resource production systems have proven disadvantageous and disempowering for women in general and tribal women in particular and that women have moved from central roles as decision makers to peripheral roles as labourers in this region. In “Gender and agency in decentralized political spaces in rural West Bengal,” Barnali Biswas examines how gender gets scripted in different political 8

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and decentralized spaces. Drawing on empirical research conducted in rural districts of West Bengal, the author examines the spatial variation of the decentralization process and argues that spaces are intricately intertwined with the ways women relate to power and how decentralization comes to complicate gendered spaces. In her chapter, she highlights how micro space plays an important role in the ways gender is scripted, perceived, constructed and negotiated. Her argument is that women’s restricted access to political and public space is largely a manifestation of historical and socially produced gender practices within the region. Swagata Basu explores how women in poor localities restore their claims over their household spaces by resorting to legal entitlements and also by forging bonds and networking with other women in the neighbourhood, to build on their existing capabilities and freedoms and work towards the creation of violence free homes. Her chapter, “Mahila Panchayats of Delhi: scripting agency within low-income urban neighbourhoods,” explores the transformative power of nonformal spaces of feminist jurisprudence for women facing domestic violence or other forms of injustice in their matrimonial homes. Her study shows that resistance to power exists in the same spaces where power dominates, but it requires the collective effort of multiple subjects to raise consciousness and alter the dynamics of domination and control that women experience within their homes in poor neighbourhoods located within the regional genderscape of Delhi. Kanchan Gandhi’s chapter, “ ‘It is better to die than to live like this’: widowhood, economic denial and violence in rural Punjab,” examines the lives of widows as a category of single women in the Northwestern state of Punjab. Home of the green revolution, Punjab was identified as part of the patriarchal heartland in an earlier study (Datta 2005) and is characterized by lower sex ratios and highly mechanized agriculture along with practices such as “chadar chadhaana” (literally meaning “offering the cloth or veil”), in which widows are remarried to their brothers-in-law to prevent fragmentation of the household and competing claims to agricultural land. Gandhi’s study brings out how women have been marginalized from their traditional roles in agriculture in the aftermath of the green revolution. Widows are reduced to lives of misery and poverty, mainly due to a combination of a lack of sensitive policy and the punitive aspects of the patriarchy within the regional genderscape of Northwestern India, along with inadequate state policies. Ajay Bailey’s chapter, “ ‘This is our area, and that is theirs’: scripting the spatiality of migrant masculinity in Goa, India,” shows how migrant masculinity is spatialized through the performances of migrants in the spaces that allow or restrict these performances. By emphasizing the spatiality of masculinity in this chapter, Bailey situates performances of masculinities within the intersecting discourses of migration and poverty. The various performances of migrant masculinities are situated within inclusionary, exclusionary and 9

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liminal spaces and are part of the everyday lives and everyday geographies of migrant men in Goa. The role of space in shaping these migrant masculinities is thus crucial in forging both belonging and exclusion. In “Watercentric roles and women’s spaces: narratives from droughtprone villages of Gujarat,” Nairwita Bandyopadhyay and Ashis Kumar Saha emphasize the influence of the drought-prone terrain of northern Gujarat on the construction of the gender roles of women. Their study emphasizes the roles women are expected to play as these are moulded by their relationship and responsibilities related to water within the household, against the backdrop of the parched arid landscape of the state. As water is scarce, women are mainly engaged in its collection, its conservation and its management. While engaged in this, they develop a particular relation with the resource and exercise a certain kind of control over its use. Women’s role as water managers appears almost doxic. The authors highlight the fact that water scarcity has created or given new meanings to certain spaces within the homestead and outside at the water points which are inherently gendered. Taking this discussion of spaces and gender further, in “Numbers, bodies, love and babies: gender and territory in Ladakh,” Sara Smith questions how we might explore intimacy and reproduction as spaces and sites of geopolitical practice by engaging with the body and body space as instruments of territory making. In erstwhile Jammu and Kashmir’s Leh District (now a district in the Union Territory of Ladakh), the tenuous geopolitical context frames a particular genderscape where the gradual politicization of religious identity over the course of the 20th century has rendered intimate decisions about love and babies political. Smith draws on survey data, interviews and a participatory oral history project in order to unravel how women tell the stories of their lives and bodies when their life choices become a political battleground. Her intention is to open up questions about how we might explore intimacy and reproduction as sites of geopolitical practice, to trouble masculinist and patriarchal views of territory and the body and to come to terms with the ways that territorial conflict and gender identity are co-constitutive. The concluding chapter, “Reinterpreting resistance and agency: excavating feminist counterspaces within indigenous feminisms,” moves on to a closer examination of what is termed a “feminist counterspace.” In this chapter, I attempt to show how women have traditionally created for themselves exclusionary spaces which allow them “breathing spaces” within the rigid norms of classic patriarchy. It is argued that the creation of these feminist counterspaces is rooted in indigenous and everyday feminisms. Such spaces allow for exaggerated and subversive gender performances in order to extract personal agency within the household or within genderscapes framed by classic patriarchy. However, the tactics of these everyday and indigenous feminisms are often invisible, even though they have the

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potential of being co-opted into larger resistances and are now increasingly being deployed in public spaces too. Having made these arguments, I invoke the epistemological tool of periscoping to visibilize the spaces of resistance and agency implicit in each of the case studies discussed in this volume. Acker (1989) has argued that it is more imperative to deliberate the range of effects of patriarchy on women and men in diverse contexts and the strategies to negotiate or resist these. Similarly, the need to challenge the continuous production of Southern women in Western theory as a homogenous category in opposition to the self-construction of Western women as empowered, educated and in charge of their lives in research has been raised earlier (see, for example, Mohanty 1984; Chattopadhyay 2013). Chattopadhyay also questions “why academic politics use places in the South as empirical sites, and as sites for applying theory (which has been developed in the West) and not as sites that can generate their own abstractions” (Chattopadhyay 2013, p. 144). Following this, the strength of this volume is that it presents field studies grounded in empiricism from the perspectives of those located in, trained in and speaking from their particular cartographies in the global South in order to showcase some dimensions of the mutuality between gender, space, power or powerlessness, resilience and possible resistances and agency. This involves seeing space and subjects as fluid and, in the process, rejecting victimhood to invest the subjects with agency, however fragile, even if this means simply being able to give voice to their narratives. Taken together, the chapters in this volume complement each other to showcase effectively not just the power of space in scripting gender, but also gendered spaces of power in a society rooted in classic patriarchy marked by deep seated social divisions and immense regional diversities. In this, the case studies presented do not seek to build normative theories but instead bring forward narratives from different regional contexts that have shaped the gendered lives of their subjects. These contexts themselves have been fashioned by different socio-economic processes, policy interventions (or lack thereof) and geographic phenomena such as the diffusion of education, the decentralization of politics, the green revolution, the mechanization of agriculture, rising social inequalities, poverty and drought, together with traditional understandings of gender rooted in the local contexts. This volume reiterates Massey’s key ideas that space itself is constituted of interrelations, is the sphere of possibility and heterogeneity and is always in the process of being made (Massey 2005).

Note For a detailed map of India, see https://goo.gl/maps/tDRS5sNTgxPPA3C7A. Place names that appear in this book are searchable on this link.

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References Acker, Joan. “The Problem with Patriarchy.” Sociology 23, no. 2 (1989): 235–40. Agarwal, Bina. A Field of One’s Own: Gender and Land Rights in South Asia. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994. Ahmad, Aijazuddin. Social Geography. Jaipur: Rawat Publications, 1999. Basu, Alaka Malwade. Culture, the Status of Women, and Demographic Behaviour: Illustrated with the Case of India. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992. Bourdieu, Pierre. Esquisse d’une théorie de la pratique, précédé de trois études d’ethnologie kabyle, (1972), Eng. Outline of a Theory of Practice. Translated by Richard Nice, Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1977. Bourdieu, Pierre. Distinction: A  Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1984. Butler, Judith. Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. New York and London: Routledge, 1990. Butler, Judith. Bodies That Matter: On the Discursive Limits of “Sex.” London and New York: Routledge, 1993. Butler, Judith. Undoing Gender. New York and London: Routledge, 2004. Chatterjee, Shiba Prasad. “Evolution of Political History of India as Influenced by Geographical Factors.”  Geographical Review of India XXXXIV, no. 1 (1982): 1–18. Chattopadhyay, Sutapa. “Getting Personal While Narrating the ‘Field’: A Researcher’s Journey to the Villages of the Narmada Valley.” Gender, Place & Culture 20, no. 2 (2013): 137–59. DasGupta, Monica. “Selective Discrimination Against Female Children in Rural Punjab, India.” Population and Development Review 13, no. 1 (1987): 77–100. Datta, Anindita. “MacDonaldization of Gender in India: An Exploration.” Gender Technology and Development 9, no. 1 (2005): 125–35. Datta, Anindita. “Natural Landscapes and Regional Constructs of Gender Theorizing Linkages in the Indian Context.” Gender, Technology and Development 15, no. 3 (2011): 345–62. Datta, Anindita. “But This Is Not Geography . . . ! Of Ontological Circumcisions and Writing Feminist Geographies from India.” Gender, Place & Culture 26, no. 7–9 (2019): 1103–10. Dumont, Louis. “Hierarchy and Marriage Alliance in South Indian Kinship.” In Affinity as a Value, edited by Louis Dumont, 36–108. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1983. Dyson, Tim, and Mick Moore. “On Kinship Structure, Female Autonomy, and Demographic Behavior in India.” Population and Development Review 9, no. 1 (1983): 35–60. Emirbayer, Mustafa, and Ann Mische. “What Is Agency?” The American Journal of Sociology 103, no. 4 (1998): 962–1023. Geetha, V. Patriarchy. Calcutta: Stree, 2007. Hanson, Susan, and Geraldine Pratt. Gender, Work and Space. London and New York: Routledge, 1995. Jeejebhoy, Shireen. “Women’s Autonomy in Rural India: Its Dimensions, Determinants and Influence of Contexts.” In Women’s Empowerment and Demographic

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Processes: Moving Beyond Cairo, edited by Harriet B. Presser and Gita Sen, 205– 38. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001. Kandiyoti, Deniz. “Bargaining with Patriarchy.” Gender and Society 2, no. 3 (1988): 274–90. Karve, Iravati. Kinship Organization in India. Bombay: Asia Publishing House, 1968. Kolenda, Pauline. Regional Differences in Indian Family Structure. Jaipur: Rawat Publication, 1987. Krishna, Sumi. “Introduction: Towards a ‘Genderscape’ of Community Rights in Natural Resource Management.” Indian Journal of Gender Studies 8, no. 2 (2001): 151–74. Massey, Doreen. Space Place and Gender. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 1994. Massey, Doreen. For Space. London: Sage Publications, 2005. McDowell, Linda. “Space, Place and Gender Relations: I: Feminist Empiricism and the Geography of Social Relations and II: Identities, Difference, Feminist Geometries and Geographies.” Progress in Human Geography 17, no. 2 (1993): 157–79 and 17, no. 3 (1993): 305–18. McDowell, Linda. Gender Identity and Place: Understanding Feminist Geographies. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 1999. Miller, Barbara. The Endangered Sex: Neglect of Female Children in Rural North India. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1981. Mohanty, Chandra Talapada. “Under Western Eyes: Feminist Scholarship and Colonial Discourses.” Boundary 2, no 12 (1984): 333–58. Mohanty, Chandra Talapada. Feminism Without Borders: Decolonizing Theory, Practicing Solidarity. New Delhi: Zubaan, 2003. Moraga, Cherrie, and Gloria Anzaldua. This Bridge Called My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color. Watertown, MA: Persephone, 1981. Murthi, Mamta, Anne-Catherine Guio, and Jean Dreze. “Mortality, Fertility, and Gender Bias in India: A  District-Level Analysis.” Population and Development Review 21, no. 4 (1995): 745–82. Pannikar, Kovalam Madhava. Geographical Factors in Indian History. Mumbai: Bharatiya Vidya Bhawan, 1959. Riseeuw, Carla Irene. “The Fish Don’t Talk About the Water: Gender Transformation, Power and Resistance Among Women in Sri Lanka.” PhD diss., Leiden [etc.]: Brill, 1988. Scott, Joan Wallach. Gender and the Politics of History. New York: Columbia University Press, 1988. Seager, Joni, and Ann Olson. Women in the World: An International Atlas. London: Pluto, 1986. Singh, K.S. People of India, Vol I  to XI. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1992. Singh, R.L. India: A Regional Geography. New Delhi: UBS Publisher, 1993. Sopher, David E. “The Geographical Patterning of Culture in India.” In An Exploration of India edited by David E. Sopher, 289–326. New York: Cornell Press, 1980. Spain, Daphne. Gendered Spaces. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1992.

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Spate, O.H.K, and A.T.A. Learmonth. India and Pakistan: A  General Regional Geography. London: Methuen and Co., 1967. Townsend, Janet G. “Towards a Regional Geography of Gender.” The Geographical Journal 157, no. 1 (1991): 25–35. Walby, Sylvia. “Theorising Patriarchy.” Sociology 23, no. 2 (1989): 213–34.

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2 PIERRE BOURDIEU’S SYMBOLIC VIOLENCE Scripting gender among Assamese middle-class women in higher education Rituparna Bhattacharyya

Postcolonial India is a complex and paradoxical mix of traditional sociocultural practices and modernity (Bhattacharyya 2009, 2013a, 2013b). This tension is especially apparent, and holds particular significance, with respect to women’s changing roles (Bhattacharyya 2009, 2013a, 2013b, 2015, 2016; Chakrabarty 2006, 2012; Fernandes 2006; Padia 2000; Sharangpani 2010). This study considers Pierre Bourdieu’s notions of “symbolic violence” and “misrecognition” to examine how unequal gender relations in Assamese society are reproduced and sustained. According to Bourdieu, doxa is the taken for granted and unquestioned aspect of our social worlds: i.e. “the natural and social world appears as self-evident” (Bourdieu 1972, p. 164) or that which “goes without saying because it comes without saying” (Bourdieu 1972, p.  167). As discussed in Chapter  1 of this volume, the Bourdieuan idea of doxa actually perpetuates male privilege and power within the patriarchal family in India. Cultural norms appear natural and unquestionable; hence, they remain entrenched and unchanged, even within the apparently modernized and educated families. As is obvious, then, the doxic acceptance of such cultural norms results in a power asymmetry within families. This chapter uses Bourdieu’s idea of symbolic violence to explore how educated Assamese women from middle-class and so-called modern families view their education and career making. Bourdieu used the term “symbolic violence” to refer to the way in which the asymmetries of power were maintained by the dominant or hegemonic group: in this case, to preserve male domination (Bourdieu 1998). These practices were not physically violent and often not deliberate but deployed as a matter of norm through such nonviolent means as body language, speech tones, mannerisms, emotions and other forms of communication. Bourdieu’s idea of symbolic

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violence encompassed the realms of coercion and consent through misrecognition or a sort of false consciousness or mistaken belief. Together, these ideas of doxa, symbolic violence and misrecognition frame the research into young Assamese women’s ideas of career and education and prove useful in examining their subordination. Driving this research is a concern to probe the position of women who, while pursuing higher education, are also living their prescribed social roles as daughters or daughters-in-law and wives within their respective families. In particular, the chapter aims to explore the degree of constraints these women encounter due to or within their social roles while pursuing their careers or higher education. These constraints reproduce and sustain unequal gendered relations that are largely “misrecognized” by the women themselves. While this chapter focuses on the specific case of Assam, in the Northeastern region of India, with its distinct regional ethos and, within it, a sub-population of young middle-class Assamese women, the interpretations and observations may well be equally applicable to similar social categories of women in other regions of India as well. This is because, while the regional contexts might differ, making the Assamese genderscape unique, the framework of classic patriarchy is overarching. The narrative analysis reveals the conflicting and often-contradictory processes of women’s changing roles, particularly of those women who are married and play simultaneously the roles of daughters-in-law and wives. The manifestation of this process is locally specific and highly uneven and portrays the ways in which modern and socio-cultural values of Assamese society coexist to create spaces that script and buttress unequal gender relations among contemporary, educated, middle-class young Assamese women. To begin with, an understanding of the space and society of Assam within the idea of a regional genderscape is imperative. Unlike large swathes of the Ganga Valley, Assam, encompassing the valley of the Brahmaputra is historically a society free from dowry, Sati (Bhattacharyya 2009, 2013a) and rituals like Karva Chauth, Teez and RakshaBandhan.1 In addition, there appears to be a consensus that Assamese women have generally enjoyed greater freedom in their daily lives than women in other regions of India. This may be because Assam is geographically surrounded, and in some sense influenced, by a geographic region where matrilineal society2 and subculture3 are common, and these cultural influences may have seeped in (Bhattacharyya 2009, 2013a; Behal 2002; Debi 1994; GogoiNath 1992). In addition, it is a rice-growing region where women have an active role in agricultural practices. The position of these women thus has been different from that of women of the Ganga Valley. An account from an early historian who accompanied Mir Jumla to Assam mentions that “the wives of the Rajas and peasants alike never veil their faces before anybody, and they move about freely in the market places with bare heads” (Gait 1906, p. 138). The region has been the seat of the Sankara Dev movement and also 16

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witnessed the winds of change through social reform movements aimed at widow remarriage and women’s education. Early Assamese society boasted a galaxy of women authors such as Bishnupriya Devi, Swamalat Barua, Padmavati Devi and Tejaswi Barua. Other well-known and more contemporary names are Nalini Bala Devi, Pushpalata Das, Chandraprabha Saikiani, Nirmal Prabha Bordoloi and Indira Goswami (Mamoni Raisom Goswami). All in all, the regional genderscape of Assam is distinct and anchored on the valley of the Brahmaputra and surrounding hilly tracts. Distinct agricultural practices in paddy transplantation and picking of tea leaves require intensive amounts of women’s labour. In addition, social reform movements and identity politics have shaped the regional genderscape to render within it softer constructions of classic patriarchy. This means that the rigidity of control over women’s mobility, their access to public spaces and practices such as veiling, dowry etc. that typify the North Indian plain are not as inflexible, and in general, it appears that women have more mobility within a more equal gender relationship. There is, nevertheless, evidence of gender-related discrimination, which makes Assam an interesting case for this study. There are apparent incongruities between the so-called progressive modernity of Assamese society evidenced through the increasing importance of women’s education, employability, mobility and political empowerment and the ingrained socio-cultural values (Bhattacharyya 2009, 2013a). The findings of the study suggest that within the household, the daughter(s)-inlaw and wives follow subtle everyday gendered norms – cooking, caring for the family (and elderly), entertaining guests, teaching the children for their exams etc. – as part of their routine lives. So, while designing this research, an attempt has been made to place Indian modernity and the socio-cultural values of Assamese society as twin sisters – the collision of which marks the construction of unequal gender identity.

Mapping feminist perceptions on gender inequality Contemporary feminists continue to explore new ways to examine the socially formed traits of masculinity and femininity and, in this way, address gender inequality across space and time. These inequalities are shared by women and men in groups, collectivities and societies in intersection with class, religion, race, sexuality, culture and nationality, alongside other social and geographical differences (Bondi and Davidson 2005; Lorber 1994; McDowell and Sharp 1997; Rose 1993; Roof 2016; also, Bhattacharyya 2009, 2013a). In her 1949 treatise The Second Sex, Simone de Beauvoir detailed an analysis of feminist existentialism by outlining that a woman is made rather than born in her now well-known statement “One is not born but rather becomes a woman” (de Beauvoir 1972, p. 525). This existentialism concluded that gender is socially constructed, rather than biologically determined (Peet 17

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1998; Walby 1990) and is therefore an attribute (Butler 1990) that is “constantly created and re-created out of human interaction, out of social life, and is the texture and order of that social life” (Lorber 1994, p. 96). This approach recognized that gender characteristics are far from universal (Lorber 1994). In her book Theorizing Patriarchy, Sylvia Walby (1990) presented a nuanced theoretical framing of patriarchy focusing on waged work, housework, culture, sexuality, violence and state. She also meticulously illustrated how the contours of private patriarchy transform and maintain public patriarchy. Feminist scholarship (including postcolonial scholars) have challenged the gender system that maintains structured gender inequality to produce women as a subordinate class (Chatterjee 1993; Padia 2000; Rustagi 2004; Bhattacharyya 2009, 2013a, 2013b; Ghai and Johri 2008): in this case, daughters-in-law and wives. Padia (2000, p.  30) argues that gender is a value-laden term which acquires new dimensions and greater significance and could be referred to as the “social institutionalisation of sexual difference.” But in reality the value-ladenness of the concept of gender derives from the context in which it is used (Padia 2000). This is further explained by the following quote: When the female child becomes a wife, she acquires the functions of a mother; similarly a male child becomes a father. Now the functions of the mother are mostly confined to activities which quietly take place within the house. The father, on the other hand, earns a living by working in the outer world. What takes place in the open is noticed easily. What happens at home does not strike the public eye. So, by the average man, whose way of looking is confined to the externals  – that is, whose drishti is bahirmukhi – the male is taken to be superior to the females. Those who are careful enough to take a comprehensive view of human life, attach as much value to the mother’s activities of producing and nursing children and keeping a family together as to the breadwinners’ outdoor activity of earning a living. It is really a defect in our eyes of looking at things, and not the fact of gender as such, which is at the root of prevailing bias against women. (Padia 2000, pp. 29–30) This quotation simply reiterates that culturally, women are inscribed within the home spaces and in the realm of family and private spaces. Here, their work is often implicit, invisiblized and taken for granted without this being openly stated. Men, on the other hand, operate outside the house in the public domain of business and politics. In these domains, their work is more explicit, and the results of such work are far more visible and explicit. This difference perhaps directs us to view men and their work as superior. 18

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The value-ladenness of the gender notion was meticulously analyzed by Roof (2016, p. 6), who said, [g]enders are neither binary nor essential. Nor are they singular, unchanging, invariable, inherent, or flatly definitive. Genders are not names, labels, or identities; they are neither nouns nor adjectives. Gender is a verb, a process. Genderings constantly change. Individuals are always more than one gender. These multiple genderings are culturally intelligible. (See also Bhattacharyya 2017a). Nonetheless, historically perceived notions of gender roles and stereotypes place Indian men as primary breadwinners (paid work/career orientation) and women as upholding family-oriented roles such as marriage, motherhood, homemaker, nurturing children and maintaining the family (Bhattacharyya 2009; Chatterjee 1993; Padia 2000). The key aim of this chapter is to use the notions of symbolic violence and misrecognition to demonstrate how invisible gender inequalities are maintained amongst Assamese middle-class households, even within a more egalitarian regional genderscape. The process of gender system and the embedded socio-cultural values built on myriad behavioural traits of Assamese society are more complex than actually realized (see Deka 2008). With the increasing recognition of the plurality and diversity of socio-cultural practices, it is arguable that within the Assamese society, there remains a powerful ideology of a distinctive version of Assamese femininity for women and masculinity for men (Bhattacharyya 2009; Deka 2008). This research has shown that gender role orientation in Assamese culture remains so deeply ingrained that even women who are engaged in highly paid employment (as a function of their higher education) view themselves primarily as homemakers with the prime responsibility for housework and childcare (Bhattacharyya 2009, 2013a). In this way, they portray themselves as victims of “misrecognition” and “symbolic violence” (see Krais 1993). I now turn to a discussion of the notions of “symbolic violence” and “misrecognition,” as outlined mainly by Pierre Bourdieu, which underpins this research.

Symbolic violence and misrecognition Feminist critiques have illustrated that violence of any form is a social and political act, determined by and key to the continuation of the power relations of gender, sexuality, class, age, nationhood and so on (Kelly 1987; McRobbie 2004). As explained earlier, this research is built on the notions of symbolic violence and misrecognition, which entail socio-cultural domination that remains obscured/unnoticed (Bourdieu 1977, 1984; Bimbi 2014; McRobbie 2004). Krais (1993) argued that central to women’s repression is the symbolic manifestation of women’s subordination. Bourdieu 19

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argued that gender division of labour is the key to women’s subordination (Bourdieu 1977). Bourdieu’s theories of symbolic violence and misrecognition are thought provoking, and they provide an axis to theorize unequal gender relations alongside the intersectional issues of social stratification and gender differentiation (McRobbie 2004; Bimbi 2014; Kamoche et  al. 2014). Hence, Krais (1993) argued that “Symbolic violence is a subtle, euphemized, invisible mode of domination that prevents domination from being recognized as such and, therefore, as misrecognized domination, is socially recognized” (Krais 1993, p. 172). It can be argued that this misrecognition stems from the social construction of Woman as the quintessential Other – this is, thus, the key to women’s repression (de Beauvoir 1972). According to Krais (1993, p. 157), even the advanced capitalist societies place “female” as synonym for “inferior,” women’s jobs as bad jobs, “female” behaviour as “weak” behaviour and “female” activities as being of less value than “male” activities. In the case of middle-class Assamese women, they themselves play a key role in their own subordination (Bhattacharyya 2009, 2013a, 2013b), especially through the acceptance of the socio-cultural norms that tend to subdue them (Connolly and Healy 2004). Again, as argued in Chapter 1 of this volume, it is within the frame of classic patriarchy that one can recognize how women become complicit in their own subordination (see also Datta 2019). The findings that follow demonstrate how the nuanced process of socialization, endorsed by gendered patriarchal relations (Walby 1990), regulates the everyday practices of middle-class Assamese women (Chakrabarty 2006, 2012; also Bhattacharyya 2015; Vauquline 2015). Connolly and Healy (2004) argued that such subordination strategies not only represent an act of violence, but are also symbolic in the way that subordination is accomplished indirectly without any comprehensive coercion or force and mask the (re)production of structured social inequalities. It is arguable that Bourdieu’s form of symbolic violence bears similarity to the notion of “hegemony” as developed by Antonio Gramsci, which defines the capability of a dominant social group to manufacture consent through which people willingly accept a subordinated status (Gramsci 1971). Bourdieu (1977, 1984) also argues that gender relations can be best understood in terms of habitual practices. He defines habitus as a nexus of “shared social dispositions and cognitive structures which generates perceptions, appreciations and actions” (Bourdieu 1984, p.  279). Key to Bourdieu’s notion of habitus is an understanding of the component through which the social customs and conventions of a community are assimilated over time, mainly via the “formative experiences of earliest infancy, of the whole collective history of family and class” (Bourdieu 1990, p. 91). Krais (1993) therefore argues that it is the gendered habitus that remains arbitrary but inculcates through the subtle process of socialization, an identity

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of repression incorporated through the gendered division of labour (Roof 2016; also Bhattacharyya 2015, 2017a; Vauquline 2015). Typically, misrecognition remains a by-product of symbolic violence. Durey (2008, p. 75) argues that although some women remain conscious of the acts of symbolic violence against them; however, they fail to challenge or transform the social practices that largely reproduce the “order of things” “because of the enormous effort it would take to go against their social conditioning and contest male dominance and privilege” (Durey 2008, p.  75). Linked to this is Bourdieu’s notion of doxa through unconscious beliefs and values taken for granted that mostly remain undisputed in everyday life (Bourdieu 1984; Calhoun 1993). Doxic acceptance of women’s subordination materializes from unconditional affirmation of male dominance, even though these unfair practices may lower women’s expectations or opportunities of greater mobility, freedom and financial empowerment (Bourdieu 1984; Calhoun 1993; Durey 2008). Building on this, this study unpacks gendered power relations through the lived experiences of women as daughter(s)-in-law/wives within the middle-class Assamese family.

Modernity in Indian context It is well documented that the Indian process of modernization, based on the Nehruvian model of socialist modernity, promoted urbanization – rapidly increasing occupational specialization and rising bureaucratization and educational levels (Mohan 1985; Fernandes 2006; Bhattacharyya 2009, 2013a). However, critics argued that the Nehruvian model of socialist modernity failed to usher in the desired level of economic growth visà-vis development and therefore recommended new economic reforms (Bhattacharyya 2009, 2013a, 2013b, 2017b; Chakraborty and Nunnenkamp 2008; Eichengreen and Gupta 2011). In the wake of the new economic policies adopted in the early 1990s, the restructuring of the Indian economy bears connection to the emergence of new middle-class lifestyles and the transformation of urban culture (Beinhocker et al. 2007; Fernandes 2006; Lahiri-Dutt and Sil 2014; Mawdsley 2004; McGuire 2011; Scrase 2006; Sharangpani 2010; also Bhattacharyya 2017b). This new middle class aspires to cosmopolitan ideals and corporate modernity, together with family structures shifting from joint/extended to nuclear (Bhattacharyya 2009, 2013a). Further, the ideology of Assamese modernity has contributed to changed attitudes among young middle-class Indian women through which they aspire to construct their modern identities of “having it all” – a career (paid employment), marriage and motherhood (Sarma 2009; Bhattacharyya 2009, 2013a). Yet, as becomes apparent from this research, women’s work status and their income fail to transform marriage into a more egalitarian space.

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Methodological issues This research tackles the question of middle-class Assamese women’s changing status and role under two umbrella themes: higher education and career based on paid employment (Bhattacharyya 2009). For this study, in-depth interviews of 29 women pursuing higher education in five different educational institutions in Assam  – Cotton College, Gauhati Medical College, Assam Engineering College, Gauhati University and Bajali College – were conducted. These institutions have a special status in the region and are known for their quality and aspirational status. Cotton College, one of the oldest and most elite colleges of the region, is now a state university known as Cotton University. Similarly, Gauhati Medical College was set up in 1960 and is among the oldest in the region. Assam Engineering College and Bajali College (now Bhattadev University), both founded in 1955, are, respectively, a technical institute and a premier institute of higher education and learning. The interviewees were accessed through the gatekeepers of these institutions: mainly faculty and staff. Considering the level of sensitivity of the subject, the questions were formulated carefully. For instance, many of the young married women experienced unequal gender relations within the family; therefore, the research “required a tactful approach” (Hopkins 2007, p. 532) and so, the open-ended, semi-structured questions of the interview were formulated and addressed carefully to the participants. Interview questions focused on the extent to which women in higher education gave importance to their careers, the position of women as daughters/ daughters-in-law within the family and how women managed their work/ life balance, including caring for children and the elderly (if any). The findings highlight the way in which modernity and the socio-cultural values of Assamese society coexist to create spaces that script and sustain unequal gender relations. The interpretations of narratives clearly demonstrate that the participants have been (and continue to be) victims of symbolic violence and misrecognition. The research used pseudonyms for the interviewees, and the details that may reveal their identity are not presented here. Of the 29 women interviewed, eight are married. Seven of these have small children under the age of five. Twelve of the study participants are employed in relatively wellpaying jobs. Others have high job aspirations, including as teachers, civil servants, air hostesses, airline pilots and even politicians. All the participants have completed school, and several have had higher or professional education. The majority of the participants are Hindu and belong to the upper castes. This is significant due to the overlapping of caste with class in India. All but three women had access to English medium schools and were comfortable with being interviewed in English. For the participants, higher education and career (paid employment) functioned as significant expressions of class as well as gendered habitus. Fernandes (2006) argues that 22

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English remains a mobile social capital for the new middle-class Indians. Therefore, conducting interviews in English had no major negative implications in data collection and analysis. Rather, using English acted as a bridge to good data collection and analysis. These interviews were conducted by the author between January 2005 and December 2007 as part of her doctoral research. They were a part of her overall fieldwork, which started in January 2003.

Interpretations The narratives of the sample of women interviewed reveal a high degree of career orientation. The young Assamese women, through their access to higher education and performance of their class habitus institutionalized as cultural capital (Bourdieu 1984; LiPuma 1993), are participating in public as active agents of transformation rather than simply being recipients of improved education (Bhattacharyya 2009, 2013a). Cultural capital, although distributed unevenly among classes, can be defined as a structured system of social position which describes the extent of knowledge, taste, manners and patterns of consumption as key to social distinction (Bourdieu 1984). In his Forms of Capital, Bourdieu (1985) divided cultural capital into three sub-categories – embodied (the way an individual thinks, communicates, presents him- or herself), objectified (an individual’s cultural capital, such as art, music skills, vocal skills, writing and editing skills, which can either be mediated for economic profit or symbolically/voluntarily retained) and institutionalized (the professional/academic credentials of an individual) (Bourdieu 1985). The participants’ narratives suggest that the cultural capital of these women in higher education fails to translate into a position free from gendered habitus. This is especially true for those women who are married and in paid employment. For example, Bijoya, a college lecturer, stresses that it is she rather than her husband who undertakes the managing or “connecting” work involved with housework or childcare. She goes on to stress that while her husband is “supportive,” he does not share responsibility for cooking and cleaning. The normative understanding is that her husband’s masculinity exempts him from this role. I sometimes find it difficult to manage my household chores and give proper attention to my daughter. Although, my husband helps me a lot, he does not help me in cooking. The responsibility of the household depends on the wife. If the husband is tired, he might not help his wife in household chores and take rest. It is always easy for a male to sit and read his newspaper. But a woman has to cook even if she is tired. Besides, I am doing my research and I have to study. Hence, I feel that the workload is much more. (Bijoya) 23

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This finding corresponds with previous research (Lahiri-Dutt and Sil 2014; Rani and Khandelwal 1992; Ramu 1989; Shukla and Kapoor 1990; Sarma 2009). It is also evident from this research that the majority of married women bear the larger share of domestic work (Sarma 2009) over and above their employment and study responsibilities (Lahiri-Dutt and Sil 2014). Susantika, for instance, narrates the obligations of an Assamese working woman towards her housework, childcare and family, and in this process finds no time for herself. I realize that a working woman always has to shoulder the constraints of her family. Constraints in the sense that she has to think of the kitchen, children, guests, etc. of course, there are exceptions but in most instances, she can hardly give time to herself-to the “Self” as a person. (Susantika) Arguably, the process of the socialization of these women encapsulates unequal gender relations (Bhattacharyya 2015, 2017a; Chakrabarty 2006, 2012; Roof 2016; Vauquline 2015), which in turn exemplify the process of symbolic violence and misrecognition. In other words, due to their upbringing and socialization, neither Bijoya nor Susantika is able to challenge the unequal gender division of work, and they accept the appropriation of their time and labour in this as natural. Thus, a legacy of gender discrimination and symbolic violence continues in the enduring expectation that, upon marriage, a wife will show loyalty and obedience to her husband’s parents. Evidence of the role of a daughterin-law is explored with respect to the narratives of the eight married women in the sample. The socio-cultural practices of Assamese society expect a daughter-in-law to show a degree of respect and abide by the habits, rhythms and practices of her husband’s family, even when these practices significantly differ from those of her natal family. The weight of this expectation accompanies a young, newly married woman at every stage of her life in her husband’s family (Bhattacharyya 2009, 2013a, 2015; Medhi 2002). In the context of this research, loyalty and obedience to the institution and practices of marriage are more pivotal to the women’s still-restricted opportunities for an independent career than the simple function of being born female. This means that the cultural expectations of marriage – i.e. being loyal to the husband’s household and not questioning the authourity of husband and in-laws outweighs the gender disadvantage or adds an additional layer to it. Thus, being married and conforming to the idea of being a good daughter-in-law actually shape a woman’s career in a significant way over and above the constraints they face by being a woman.

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All the married women interviewed claimed that the role of daughter differed markedly from that of daughter-in-law. Surprisingly, it is increasingly the norm in affluent, educated households to find that daughters are freed from all household responsibilities so that they can focus instead on their studies and careers (Bhattacharyya 2009, 2013a). Yet, across the sample, it is clear that the career ‘choices’ these modern women make are not driven by personal preference alone but instead circumscribed by parental/spousal aspirations governing what is deemed to be the proper path for a daughter or wife to pursue. This is illustrated clearly in the case of Bonojyotshna, who is receiving private coaching to help her through competitive civil service exams explicitly to fulfill her father’s dream of a powerful and prestigious career for his only daughter. I’m career-minded but my career is decided by my father, and he wants me to take either ACS [Assam Civil Service] or IAS [Indian Administrative Service] examination and take up a job in civil services. I know how tough it is, but at the same time I also believe that it is not impossible. I am preparing for it and also taking commercial coaching for these exams. I want to get through it and fulfill my father’s dreams. (Bonojyotshna) Similarly, Manalisha demonstrates considerable commitment and enterprise in her ambition to set up her own private school once she has secured her B.Ed. She claims that her husband does not hinder her opportunities in this respect: My spouse has been very much supportive since my marriage. I got married when I was studying my Masters. And after that in the first year only I  had my child. Together with the child, I  did my MA previous and final exams, and now also I am doing my B.Ed. And he never expected anything which I should do at the expense of my studies. . . . And after some years, I think I will open a school of my own. (Manalisha) Yet a superficial or shallow understanding of these extracts suggests that despite the rhetorical guarantee of “equality between sexes” by the Indian constitution, women face subtle but hidden restrictions to make even their own career choices without the consent of their parents/spouse (see, for instance, Krais 1993; Walby 1990). Often, even if not explicitly stated, it is implied by the women in their responses and is immediately apparent to the researcher due to her insider status.

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At the same time, as argued earlier, the expectations of a daughterin-law, even at a distance, impose far greater restrictions. The women describe situations in which they have to demonstrate themselves to be good daughters-in-law, adjusting to the values held by their husband’s family. Murchana explains, for instance, that she was only able to pursue her own lifestyle and education while maintaining the culturally appropriate show of respect towards her in-laws (in dressing traditionally, observing rituals etc.) because they lived apart, and she could assume the proper dress and behaviour on the few occasions each year when she visited her in-laws’ home. I didn’t have any problem being a daughter. I got support from my father and from my mother also with no distinction between me and my two brothers, I  grew up very differently. As a daughterin-law, I had problems because I’m working, and my in-laws stay very far away. My parents also stay away from my workplace, and my husband is away for six months in a year. I want to be a good daughter-in-law, and trying to be that sometimes I’ve to act as a superhuman. Also, I’ve problems because my way of living and their way of living are very different. I come from a very liberal family, and they are from a very traditional family. So, I’ve to adjust a lot between the both. I get up early in the morning, have my bath and wear Mekhela Sadar,4 and then only I enter the kitchen. I do it because my in-laws want me to do it, and they are happy seeing me doing it. I want to look myself traditional by wearing Mekhela Sadar because I  get a lot of respect. They get satisfaction. Their happiness is my happiness. I think education has a lot to play with it. My husband cares for me. Maybe actually I’m caring for my husband’s happiness because, through him, I am emotionally attached to my in-laws. (Murchana) Riku similarly recounts the general expectation of a daughter-in-law living in the family of her in-laws. Her narrative highlights the limitations these expectations place upon the most highly educated and career-minded women, such as the expectation that, after marriage, they will always put family matters before paid work and career: The expectations are that your household work or your duties towards your families will always come before your career. Suppose you have a very important work to do or you have to go somewhere for your own work, and at that point some guests turn up; then you will have to entertain the guests at least for some time; no matter

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how important is your work, your work will always be treated as secondary. But because of the education that I have got, I know the things which are more important for me. (Riku) Yet Riku, who is a college lecturer with a three-year-old daughter, believes that childcare remains the prime responsibility of a child’s mother. In this way, she accepts her doxic feminine trait unquestioningly. This unconscious acceptance reflects the practices of symbolic violence and misrecognition of Assamese society. I am career minded, but if the situation comes where I  have to choose between me and my daughter’s career – for example: suppose there is an important conference for me to attend, and at the same time my daughter has her exams; then obviously my daughter’s exams will gain priority, and I will cancel my programme of attending the conference. (Riku) Interesting evidence thus suggest that hidden but inherent sources of “power” (see, for instance, Allen 2003) and agency operate within the varied socio-cultural “counterspaces” (Datta 2010; see also the last chapter in this volume) of Assamese society and magnify gender inequality (Deka 2008). Allen (2003, p. 2) argues that “people are placed by power, but they experience it at first hand through the rhythms and relationships of particular places” (such as the home, the classroom, the street) and the varied ways through which the actual registration of power is being shifted: proximity and reach, distance and mobility and, of course, place and presence. Therefore, power is “a relational effect of social interaction” (Allen 2003; see also Rice 2010). The geography of power thus underpins the dynamic of everyday practices and the social and political organization of a whole host of institutions disseminated across contemporary geographical space (Allen 2003; Rice 2010). I argue these spaces exacerbate unequal gender relations (see, for instance, Lorber 1994; McDowell and Sharp 1997; Rose 1993; Bondi and Davidson 2005; Walby 1990; Krais 1993). The gender politics concerning position in the family and the transition from daughter to daughter-in-law help explain the degree of variation in relative freedom experienced by the women (Bhattacharyya 2009, 2013a). Practices of symbolic violence, however, become more pronounced after marriage with respect to the standard of behaviour expected of a daughter-in-law, regardless of how well educated or career

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minded she may be. Arguably, a “suitable” femininity for married women retains an extremely powerful grip on Assamese society (Bhattacharyya 2009, 2013a). At the same time, nuclear family arrangements and increased spatial separation mean that for some women, the cultural expectations of a daughter-in-law are increasingly a matter of temporary and infrequent observance: a performance to put on during a brief visit for the sake of appearances. In summary, within the institution of marriage, a daughter-in-law/wife is exposed to different patterns of hidden power and symbolic violence, often with a greater degree of restriction on her freedoms and choices. The narratives in the sample clearly illustrate the resilience and the coping mechanisms adopted by the daughters-in-law/wives in order to (re)adjust in their husband’s family to prove themselves as “good daughters-in-law/wives.” This finding of the research echoes Durey (2008, p. 75), who suggests that “women may not only accept their subordinate role to fit the so-called ‘norm’; they may also choose that role because they are more likely to be valued and gain social acceptance, if they conform to dominant expectations and practices.”

Concluding reflections This study unravels the ways that gendered habitus negotiates between the socio-cultural structures of Assamese society and the daily practices of women within the regional genderscape of Assam. In Assamese society, among the middle-class and upper-caste Hindus, married women’s position, irrespective of their higher education and employment status, continues to be implicated in a contemporary socio-cultural trajectory of subordination (Bhattacharyya 2009, 2013a; Deka 2008). Thus, the research highlights the dichotomies through which the unequal gender relations in Assamese society are reproduced and shape the very social landscape. The everyday household spaces, cradling and framing the habitus, are important in scripting the gendered lives and aspirations of the women in this study. Allen (2003) has debated that power is experienced in everyday practice and effects social actions. I argue here that in order to recount nuanced understanding of gender inequalities in Assamese society, a gendered geography of Assamese society needs to be (re)conceptualized and mapped in terms of the lived experiences of Assamese women. This exercise needs to account for class, caste, gender and space and to draw out crucial insights, unpacking new forms of understanding, configurations of power and its effects and implications of symbolic violence. Recourse to understanding the regional genderscape is thus crucial to avoiding misrecognition.

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Notes 1 Sati is a traditional funeral practice of some Hindu communities in which a widowed woman would immolate herself on the funeral pyre of her husband. Banned in the 17th century by the Mughal emperors, made illegal under British rule 1829 and the government of India under the Sati Prevention Act of 1987, the custom continues, although infrequently and illegally (Hawley 1994). Karva Chauth is a ritual practiced by married women in North India for their husbands’ safety and longevity (Bhalla 2005). Teez are monsoon rituals in which women fast for the whole day (Bhatnagar 1988), and in RakshaBandhan, a sister prays for her brother’s well-being and prosperity by tying a sacred thread onto his wrist. 2 A term used to describe the line of genealogical relationship or decent that follows the female side of the family (Mizinga 2000). 3 The notion of subculture refers to a group of people or a society at a micro-social level, which is distinct within a broader culture in having its own set of beliefs and rules that are exhibited in a form that differs from the parent culture (Jenks 2005; Middleton 1990). 4 Ethnic Assamese outfit.

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3 THE POWER OF SOCIAL SPACES IN ENABLING GIRLS’ EDUCATION IN INDIA Perspectives from Indian origin students in the US Patricia M. Kewer and Martha E. Geores

Aitken and Valentine argue that “space is crucial in the maintenance of patriarchy – the structure by which women are exploited in the private and public sphere” (Aitken and Valentine 2006, p.  339). Clearly, there exists an “intimate relationship between gender and space” (Datta 2005, p. 125). Dixon and Jones state: “The relations that link the lives of men and women take place within and between a variety of specific sites, such as the family, school, and church, each of which is infused with patriarchy” (2006, p. 48). Staeheli and Martin add: “[Feminist] geographers pay particular attention to the gendered ways people come to learn about and interpret places . . . the access women as individuals and as members of social groups have to places, and their ability to act in various ways within those places” (Staeheli and Martin 2000, pp. 138–9). Similarly, Massey argues that spaces and places are not only themselves gendered but, in their being so, they both reflect and affect the ways in which gender is constructed and understood. The limitation of women’s mobility, in terms both of identity and space, has been in some cultural contexts a crucial means of subordination. (Massey 1994, p. 179) Such perspectives only serve to underline the importance of space as an agent in scripting gender roles and gender relations. This chapter attempts to uncover the social spaces that have been enabling and have allowed the study participants to overcome traditional constraints posed by gender as

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women within classic patriarchy to script educational success and empowerment for themselves. Such success and empowerment are reflected in their ability to join US higher education institutions after their schooling in different locales in India. According to the World Economic Forum’s The Global Gender Gap Report 2012 (Hausmann et al. 2012, pp. 202–3), India is 105th out of a total of 135 countries, ranked from more to less female equality. Furthermore, in terms of educational attainment, the Forum ranks India 121st out of 135 countries. India has made much progress in closing a male-leaning “gender gap” in education, with the gap between male and female literacy rates narrowing over several census years. However, restrictions on girls and women are still a fact of life, and India’s patriarchal culture is generally thought to underlie the gender gap in education which has existed in the country. It is evident, therefore, that the manner in which gender-appropriate behavior is scripted within classic patriarchy has constrained in varying degrees, many Indian girls and young women from receiving a good education and also from receiving the benefits which may result from having such an education. Chapter 1 of this volume makes the case for taking into account the regional contexts when describing aspects of gender empowerment or discrimination. Following from this, each of the cases described in this chapter was located within a distinct regional genderscape. These specific regional genderscapes presented the subjects with a unique set of constraints and opportunities in negotiating their individual agency through educational success. Of note was the manner in which they experienced agency in scripting their educational success within a particular set of social spaces. These social spaces themselves were located and shaped in the regional genderscape.

Background This chapter highlights research conducted to study a select group of young Indian women who have been challenged educationally not only by their gender but also in additional social, economic, geographical or other relevant ways. Nonetheless, despite such constraints, these women emerged as educational success stories.1 The research systematically investigated the social spaces which have been important to the study participants in their educational experiences. These four participants, schooled in India through at least the undergraduate level and graduate students in the United States, were asked to share their stories. In addition, the research examined the traditional separation of home and work spaces by gender and the school space as a link between the two. Inherent in this discussion is an examination of patriarchally derived spatial boundaries which may hinder or prevent the mobility of girls and women in a very real physical sense as well as in the social sense in different geographical contexts of India. The resulting analysis

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furthers the understanding of how social spaces can positively impact girls’ education in India – allowing scope for a scripting or re-scripting of gender in ways that can be empowering, at least at the level of the individual if not collectively. For the purposes of this study, “social spaces,” where human interactions occur, were broadly defined. For example, a social space may be a specific physical space: e.g. a school, a cultural area or region. It should be kept in mind that these social spaces are embedded within the regional genderscapes described in Chapter  1 of this volume. Using Lefebvre’s description of a social space as that which “permits fresh actions to occur, while suggesting others and prohibiting yet others” (Lefebvre 1991, p. 73), it is argued that there is a strong link between social space and people’s actions. Based on these understandings, the study sought to identify the specific social spaces, such as home or school spaces, which have enabled the women to succeed in their studies. In addition, the study explored the settings and processes found in or between these spaces that have enabled these women’s educational success. Finally, the study asked what role, if any, patriarchy played in the education of the participants. The study participants were recruited by the researcher through Indian graduate student contacts in the United States and were purposefully selected, using an extensive, highly structured questionnaire. The main participant information collection tools for the instrumental (or illustrative), multiple-case studies were the questionnaire and in-depth, semi-structured personal interviews. Finally, research validation approaches included the extensive use of participant description; provision of supporting context; and participant, peer and expert reviews. The full participant education narratives, constructed in the context of each participant’s life and her perspectives, were analyzed to identify and develop the main themes which relate to the study questions. The participant narratives and themes were then cross and collectively analyzed, and a number of additional themes became apparent between and among the participants regarding the research questions. The sections that follow detail the cases.

Profile of participants The four study participants were graduate students in the United States and were interviewed where they lived in the US. The young women originally belonged to three different Indian states and a union territory, and their home locales were a rural village, a small town, a city and the outskirts of a megacity. Two were Hindus, two Christians, and both Christians were members of a Scheduled Tribe.2 Financially, the participant range was from very poor to solidly middle class. Effectively, these social settings were located within different regional genderscapes of West Bengal, Tamil Nadu,

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Jharkhand and rural Delhi. As mentioned earlier, each participant had a unique set of constraints and opportunities presented by the regional as well as the local genderscape she was located within. The brief participant descriptions here are from the extensive participant education narratives constructed in the study.3 All names are pseudonyms. Text in italics represent the participants’ own voices. Karma was born and grew up in a small Himalayan hill town in the Indian state of West Bengal. For most of her childhood, she lived in a rented house with her parents and younger brother. Her father was a government employee and a college graduate. Her mother, a housewife, had completed the 12th grade. Karma’s first language was a Tibetan/Nepali mix, but she is now fluent in several languages, including English, Hindi and Bengali. She is a member of a Scheduled Tribe and a Pentecostal Christian, the faith of her father’s family. Although Karma described her family as middle class, it was a financial challenge for her parents to pay her school fee from preschool through Class XII for her private school, English medium education. Now in her early thirties, Karma is on a fellowship from a multinational nonprofit organization and studying international development in a master’s program at a private university in the US Northeast. Amy is a young Hindu woman in her mid-twenties from the rural interior of Tamil Nadu state in Southern India. She was born in a village, and then, at age one, moved with her parents to another village. Her father owned the four-room house in which her family, eventually including a younger brother, lived with her paternal grandparents and a paternal uncle and his family. She grew up for the most part with her extended family in her village. She did, though, live in the metropolis of Bangalore (Karnataka state) for four years as a child and in the city of Pune (Maharashtra state) while studying for a master’s degree. She said her family was middle class. Her father worked for the central government and had a degree in civil engineering. Her mother had completed the 12th standard (grade) and was a homemaker. Amy’s first language was Tamil. All of her schools, though, were English medium schools, the norm in India, she said, for middle-class children. Amy reached fluency in English as a teenager. She also later became fluent in Kannada and Hindi. Amy is now working on a doctorate in civil engineering at a large state university on the US West Coast. She supports herself on a research assistantship. Manorma was raised in a city in Jharkhand,4 the eldest child in her Hindispeaking family. She is a member of a Scheduled Tribe, which she described as “matriarchal.” Manorma’s family was Roman Catholic. Her mother had converted to Catholicism, her father’s religion, upon her marriage. Her mother, a college graduate, was a homemaker. Her father had 12 years of education and a good central government job. The job, however, was not near his family. The family, including two younger brothers, lived for many

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years with her maternal grandparents in the four-room house the grandparents owned. When Manorma was in Class VIII or IX, her mother’s brother and his wife and two children also came to live in the home following an economic setback. Describing the home environment, Manorma said, “The atmosphere was not good as there were always family tensions and [my] father also stayed away.” Manorma said that her father “had the habit of drinking. And then he was away from our home, and so he did not care about us.” Her father’s absence created financial problems for the “lower middle-class” family. Manorma said, though, that “my mother has done everything she could to make me study in a good school, and her motivation has helped [me] to study further.” Manorma attended English medium Catholic schools in India and was awarded a post-graduate fellowship by an international organization. Still in her twenties, she is now studying at a Catholic school on the East Coast of the US for a master’s degree focusing on social justice. Goma was born into a Hindi-speaking Hindu family which lived in a slum in a “rural part of Delhi” within the National Capital union territory. Her family rented one room of a house in which she lived with her mother, father, older sister and two younger brothers. They had electricity “maybe for one or two hours of the day.” Twice a day, people had access to public water taps. The family did not have a bathroom in their home, which necessitated walking 15 or 20 minutes to the public toilets. The slum in which Goma lived “was full of crime.” Neither her mother nor her father had any education at all. Her father pulled a rickshaw, and her mother was a factory worker. She said that [t]he place I grew up was very conservative. Girls didn’t have much liberty to go out of [the] home. It was also risky for girls to be out as the area was dangerous. Every day there used to be cases of rapes, murders. Parents didn’t feel safe to send their daughters out of [the] home. Goma was allowed, though, to attend the government primary and secondary schools in the slum, which were “almost free.” She excelled at these Hindi medium schools and, eventually, through the help of a mentor, received a bachelor of technology degree from an English medium engineering college in India. Through a study/work program, Goma came to the US at the age of 24 to begin master’s studies in computer science at a Midwestern university in the US.

The regional contexts Each of the participants was socialized within a distinct regional context in India before joining higher education institutions in the US. These regional

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contexts may be summarized as distinct genderscapes. (See Chapter  1 of this volume for details.) Following this, the genderscapes of West Bengal, Tamil Nadu, Jharkhand and Delhi are qualitatively different from each other. West Bengal in the Eastern part of India is culturally distinct from Delhi in the National Capital Region (NCR) situated in Northwestern India. The state of West Bengal is marked by goddess worship and cultivation of rice and tea, both demanding more of women’s labor in agriculture. This might translate into a better social value for women vis a vis other regions of the country. Within this, Karma’s location in the Dooars area of North Bengal is also a sub region where women have been active as labor in the tea gardens and as head loaders/porters within the hilly Himalayan tracts and foothills. Similarly, Jharkhand is a predominantly tribal state where the tribal ethos has assured women of a marginally better place in the social hierarchy than in other states. However, poverty, economic backwardness and remote locations may offset some of the relative advantages in both regions. Delhi, located within the NCR, on the other hand, could be said to be situated within the patriarchal heartland (see Datta 2005). Overall, it reports much higher rates of crime against women and overall stricter controls over women’s mobility. An area of in-migration, Delhi typically also reports lower sex ratios. In contrast, Tamil Nadu, located in the southern part of India, is distinct from all three of these. Based on a reading of census data, Tamil Nadu emerges as a state with better female literacy and maternal health. Several micro-finance initiatives and womencentric governance, together with the persona of a strong woman chief minister, the late Jayalalitha, have most likely shaped the regional genderscape of Tamil Nadu. Thus, the case studies cited in this chapter are embedded within the diverse regional genderscapes described broadly here. It should be explicitly mentioned that for this study, the state and regional genderscapes are considered largely the same. In reality, each state would have sub regions which display local differences in culture and dialect (Datta 2011). Our study has identified social spaces, and the interactions within and between these spaces, which have enabled the study participants in their education and in scripting their own personal agency through educational success. What is clear from the case studies is just how important particular social spaces have been in aiding or hindering the participants’ education. Often, too, both positive and negative influences were found in the same space.

Dominant themes and enabling spaces Based on the narratives of the participants, the following enabling powers of the social spaces of home, school and region representing different scales along with other external factors are now analyzed.

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The Home Space: The participants’ home spaces, as could be expected, have played important roles in enabling their education. Sometimes, however, the enabling has been in counterintuitive ways. Karma’s home space was extremely supportive in enabling her education. Her parents sacrificed financially for both her and her brother’s education, but the cost was worth the benefit to them. Importantly, both children were treated equally in the family. Moreover, Karma’s mother was an important role model for her. Her mother also realized the importance of an English medium education for her children, even though she could not speak English herself. Amy grew up in a traditional patriarchal household where her father was in charge, even when he was not physically living with the family. The women were subservient to the men in the home and given little voice. Amy’s younger brother was allowed far more freedom than she was. Her father, however, did pay all her educational expenses in India and eventually agreed to her studying in the US. In these ways, he enabled Amy’s education, although other factors worked to constrain it. Manorma’s home environment was, in many ways, not an enabling social space. There were problems within the family, especially financial problems. Her mother, however, provided much support to her daughter in her education and served as her role model. When Manorma was old enough, she had to become a provider in her home space – a strong impetus for her to make the most of her schooling in order to succeed in the workplace. Also, Manorma’s family did not put any pressure on her to give up her education in order to get married, in contrast to some of her Hindu and Muslim acquaintances. Goma’s family situation presented multiple challenges, not just to her education but to her well-being in general. The family’s paramount concern was just surviving from one day to the next. On top of the material deprivation found in the home, Goma had to deal with her mother’s physical and verbal abuse. This abuse was directed at her because Goma wanted an education, which did not fit in with her mother’s patriarchal norms, the cultural norms which prevailed in the community and the family’s economic conditions. Her father, however, was not patriarchal in terms of Goma’s education – just the opposite. His strong support was the one positive factor found within Goma’s home environment which did enable her education. Finally, Goma’s home was spatially nested within a slum community. This geographic situation only added to the disadvantage found in her home. It is interesting to note that three of the participants were the eldest child in the family. The fourth, Goma, had one older sister. All the brothers in the study, therefore, were younger than the participants, and all of the participants had at least one younger brother and no younger sister. Being either the only girl child or one with no other younger sister afforded the participants a better position and lower discrimination. The two participants

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with the greatest financial need, Goma and Manorma, were motivated to provide for their families and especially their younger brothers. Education was the means to accomplish this. This, too, may have worked to their advantage, enabling them within the home spaces as potential and actual providers. Also of interest are the absences of three of the fathers from the home space. With the exception of Goma’s father, all the other fathers had government jobs which kept them away from home in some fashion. This factor again may have diluted patriarchal control and made the home space more enabling. The Schooling Environment: What all the participants seemed to have in common was the capacity to make the most of the schooling situations in which they found themselves. The participants’ schools actually ran the gamut from virtually free government schools to very expensive private schools. All four participants attended at least one government or government-aided school at some point in their lives. All of the participants received at least some of their education in Indian cities. Cities are seen as being more open to girls’ and women’s education than rural areas. The school environment was excellent at Karma’s private primary/secondary school. For financial reasons, she attended government schools thereafter (bachelor’s, master’s and diploma programs), which were not as good but were English medium schools. She did not seem to experience any gender-based discrimination at any school in India. Amy mentioned a number of teachers without whose support her education story might have been much different. The teachers who stand out the most in her story are the nuns and other women who taught her at a Catholic school in Bangalore. These teachers had little to work with in terms of facilities, and many of their students were disadvantaged. Yet they managed to create a nurturing learning environment. Perhaps most important for Amy was the fact that the Catholic school teachers worked diligently and successfully with her to improve her English till she was fluent, which enabled her subsequent education. The Catholic school space itself, as a girlsonly school with the teachers invested in their girls’ education, appeared to be less restrictive in a sense. The irony of this, of course, is that the Roman Catholic Church is generally seen as one of the most patriarchal entities in the world. Manorma did have the opportunity to attend good schools in India, all English medium. At her nursery/primary/secondary school, the administration generously gave her family financial leeway so she and her younger brothers could attend. Nevertheless, inside and outside the classroom, she felt marginalized socially because of her financial status. Her description of the environment she found at this school was that of a space of exclusion. Manorma did, however, receive scholarship money at all levels of her higher education, and these scholarship programs have been critical to her

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educational success. Through Manorma’s own efforts and with the sponsorship of the international organization, her education has transcended national borders. Goma’s government schools, even if not always good, did enable her education. In her interviews, Goma said that she was able to study in discrimination-free spaces and to learn in these spaces. At her secondary school, performance incentives and school-sponsored competitions were available to help cover schooling costs. Goma also had school personnel and friends who helped her. All study participants mentioned school personnel in their interviews, often in a favorable light, but sometimes as people who were not very supportive. Also, all four chose to study at graduate schools in the United States. Indeed, in India, the collective educational space comprising colleges and universities abroad, especially in the US, continues to remain highly prized. Social and Geographical Challenges: The actual geographical milieus or regional genderscapes where the participants of this study grew up and scripted their educational successes provided both challenges and opportunities. In her hill town in West Bengal, Karma had no experience of discrimination based on her tribal, religious or gender identity, although she did experience class discrimination within her community. This resulted in social barriers being erected which physically limited her mobility. She also had some more traditional challenges walking to school over hilly terrain, sometimes swept by monsoon rains, or for long distances. The social constraints faced by Amy in Tamil Nadu were found in the geographical context of her origin. She was born into a traditional Hindu family, which principally lived in a rural village in South India. In effect, there were multiple and expanding layers of culturally based social spaces where patriarchal values were found. It should be noted that North India is generally considered to be more patriarchal and is located within a far more restrictive genderscape than South India, but Amy thought otherwise. Also surfacing in Amy’s story was a rural versus urban dichotomy. Her native rural area was conservative, traditional and constraining. Bangalore and Pune were just the opposite: liberal, progressive and open. Finally, the spatial link from India to the US was provided by a mentor Amy met at a conference in Delhi, a professor from India who taught in the US. The tribal social space of Jharkhand in Manorma’s story is a genderscape in which tribal girls and women carry much of the family responsibility for work. For Manorma, seeing the load of a married tribal woman may have been a disincentive to get married and an incentive to study. Her tribal status, however, may have been a factor for her in school admissions and was a factor in scholarship awards. For Goma, the slum environment in rural Delhi was located within a genderscape that worked to “push” her out of its bounds and made the “pull”

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of education even stronger. Even so, Goma had to overcome any number of formidable obstacles to get an education and use that education to gain the mobility to move elsewhere. The slum environment was a constant challenge and threat. There were people within this social space, though, such as her neighbors, who did help her in very meaningful ways. Cultural Spaces, Agency and Identity: In addition to their respective geographical milieus within diverse genderscapes, the participants drew their identity and also agency from specific cultural spaces. For example, Amy has struggled in the face of patriarchal forces, and much of the time on her own, to take control of her personal space and identity within and outside that space. She has had considerable success in this regard. Her parents still exert a strong influence over her, however, even though she has moved away. She wants to marry someone of a different caste, and to do this, she knows she will have to defy them. An arranged marriage, though, could put an end to the personal freedom she has now, including negating many of the gains and potential benefits her education has produced. Manorma’s Catholic faith underlies her entire educational experience. All of her schools, in India and the United States, have been Catholic schools. As a Catholic, she is part of a global religion, and thus her lifelong religious space can be easily accessed by Manorma in the US. Another religious space important to Manorma was a prayer group in India. As a job apprentice at a government ministry, Goma found a mentor in a manager there. He provided a safe and caring home environment in which she could study, and he became, in essence, a surrogate parent to her, giving her a sense of social awareness beyond herself. He also supported Goma financially, including paying for her bachelor’s degree. The mentor thus provided a milieu which enabled Goma’s education and improved her life. Goma’s technical skills have also given her a high degree of spatial freedom in determining where to work. All the participants in the study were personally committed to getting an education and at high, post-graduate levels. This commitment was influenced by circumstances, supportive or not, within each one’s particular social spaces and the realization that with education came more control over their personal spaces and, thus, their lives. Mentors, Friends and Extended Family: It is noteworthy to list spaces of socialization and expression of self-identity as enabling social spaces where crucial links with mentors, friends and family could be forged. Home spaces could also figure in this list, along with school spaces. Three of the participants each had a parent who played an important mentoring role in enabling her education. The parent’s level of education, though, had no bearing in this regard. Similarly, friends and extended family were often cited by participants as assisting them in navigating their educational and other social spaces.

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English Proficiency and Financial Aid Programs: One thread which tied all the participants together was their mastery of the English language. Obviously, none of them would be studying in the United States without it. Additionally, scholarships and other financial aid have been critical enablers in the four participants’ education, and access to cyberspace was an important factor in this regard. Cyberspace: All the participants visited “cyberspace” to look at graduate programs in the United States via their websites. In addition, one of the most intriguing dimensions of this study was how Goma learned English in the virtual communities found in the chat rooms she visited. This use of the internet serves to illustrate the ever-growing possibilities modern technology can bring to education, especially as the “digital divide” in India closes with increased access to computers by individuals and schools. Globalization: Karma, Amy, Manorma and Goma are all studying in the United States because of globalization and, in fact, are part of this process. The school websites available around the world; the jet airplanes routinely connecting India and the United States physically; and email, Skype and cell phones to stay in touch with home – all these globalization tools have contributed to the participants’ attending graduate schools in the US. In turn, they will take what they learn in the US, both their educational and life experiences, back with them to India to disseminate to others there. This geographical diffusion is at the heart of globalization. School Space to Workplace: All the participants have been able to find employment in professional positions because of their higher education. For all the participants, their schooling has enabled them to move from the private space of the home, traditionally associated with women, into the public work space generally associated with men. Their schooling has thus given them physical and economic mobility. The transition to the workplace wasn’t always without problems though. Both Karma and Manorma narrated that they had to confront financial irregularities in the workplace. Patriarchy: Patriarchy, as manifested through tight controls within the family, has played a significant constraining role in the education of Goma and Amy. Although geographically they were from different parts of India, Goma the north and Amy the south, both came from rural areas – though very different rural areas as Amy was from a rural village and Goma from a rural Delhi slum. For Goma, it was not her father, however, who held her back educationally but her mother’s traditional values, among other things, which impeded her. Amy was brought up in a decidedly patriarchal family with a controlling father as its head, and she faced myriad patriarchally derived social challenges inside and outside her home which were detrimental to her education in some way. Nevertheless, her father did not prevent her from getting an education and, in fact, financially facilitated her education.

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Concluding remarks The primary goal of this research study has been to further the understanding of the social spaces enabling girls’ education in India. Based on the narratives of the participants, Figure  3.1 presents a brief summary of the positive social spaces and enabling factors that have emerged from this study in scripting educational success. In this, the study has also found conditions, people and processes within various social spaces which have not been enabling. The narratives of the four participants reflect real stories

Home Space School Space

Mentor/Role Model

Individual Rewards

Spatial, Economic and Social Mobility Personal Accomplishment and Self-Esteem

Friends/Neighbors/ Extended Family Cultural/Religious Space Urban Space English

Participants’ Education

Personal Agency

Role Models

Financial Aid Work Space

Professional Knowledge and Skills

Returns to Community

Helping Others with Societal Challenges

Cyberspace

Transnationalism/ Globalization

Figure 3.1 Positive social spaces and enabling factors in scripting participants’ realized or expected education outcomes Source: Compiled by the authors

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of real people who have come up through the Indian educational system. In fact, the four women in this study started primary school between the mid-1980s and the early 1990s, a time period before liberalization of the Indian economy, when it could be assumed that it was perhaps far more difficult than now for a girl or young woman to get a quality education at any level. Many of the issues faced by the study participants in their educational journeys mirror issues still faced today by Indian girls and young women, in and out of school. This research also suggests that the effective use of technology in educating and promoting education should be a major tool, where possible, in enabling education. This could be anything from incorporating accepted or creative usages of the internet into the learning process to encouraging education – especially for girls – through entertainment media such as television shows or movies. As is evident from the figure, participants’ educational success yielded both individual rewards and returns to their communities. This study found a variety of factors that had positively influenced the participants’ educational successes. The case studies serve to underscore just how important the home and school spaces primarily, as well as cultural, religious and institutional spaces, are in enabling individual agency. Individuals such as family members, mentors and teachers often help in bridging these spaces and connecting the participant to other enabling spaces. The role of religious networks could also prove enabling, despite their apparently conservative stance on women’s roles. Finally, knowledge of English proved important in being able to access transnational spaces. The nature of opportunities provided by cyberspace, especially in bridging transnational spaces, is also critical. Of paramount importance concerning the case studies is the fact that they have given voice to the participants’ education stories. All the participants know that they can serve as role models for other girls and young women who may be challenged in their pursuit of an education. The returns to community, then, lie in the participant’s abilities to bring small but meaningful changes within their own communities in this capacity.

Notes 1 This chapter is derived from Dr  Kewer’s dissertation, “Social Spaces Enabling Girls’ Education in India: An Outsider’s Study,” completed under the direction of Dr Geores in December 2012. The dissertation may be accessed at http://hdl. handle.net/1903/13625. An early version detailing the planned research was presented by Dr Kewer at the March 2010 Contextualizing Geographical Approaches to Studying Gender in Asia International Seminar, hosted by the University of Delhi in collaboration with the Australian National University, Canberra. 2 Scheduled Tribe members may receive educational and other benefits under an affirmative action system in place in India. 3 The participant education stories were considered complete as of the end of April 2012.

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4 Jharkhand is a relatively new Indian state created in 2000 as a tribal “homeland” (Government of India 2011, p. 1097).

References Aitken, Stuart, and Gill Valentine, eds. Approaches to Human Geography. London: Sage, 2006. Datta, Anindita. “MacDonaldization of Gender in Urban India: A Tentative Exploration.” Gender, Technology and Development 9, no. 1 (2005): 125–35. Datta, Anindita. “Natural Landscapes and Regional Constructs of Gender: Theorizing Linkages in the Indian Context.” Gender, Technology and Development 15, no. 3 (2011): 345–62. Dixon, Deborah P., and John P. Jones III. “Feminist Geographies of Difference, Relation, and Construction.” In Approaches to Human Geography, edited by Stuart Aitken and Gill Valentine, 42–56. London: Sage, 2006. Government of India. India 2011: A Reference Annual. Compiled by the Research, Reference and Training Division. New Delhi: Publications Division, Ministry of Information and Broadcasting, Government of India, 2011. Hausmann, Richardo, Laura D. Tyson, and Saadia Zahidi. The Global Gender Gap Report 2012. Geneva: World Economic Forum, 2012. http://www3.weforum.org/ docs/WEF_GenderGap_Report_2012.pdf, last accessed on 19 March 2013. Lefebvre, H. (1991). The Production of Space. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Original work published in 1974 (trans. Donald Nicholson-Smith). Massey, Doreen. Space, Place, and Gender. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1994. Staeheli, Lynn A., and Patricia M. Martin. “Spaces for Feminism in Geography.” The Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science 571, no. 1 (2000): 135–50. http://ann.sagepub.com.proxy-um.researchport.umd.edu/cgi/ reprint/571/1/135, last accessed on 27 March 2011.

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4 INTERROGATING GENDER, PROPERTY RIGHTS AND WITCH-HUNTING IN JHARKHAND, INDIA Bashabi Gupta

Any research on property and its relationship to gender relations is an attempt to understand the power dynamics that govern the relative positions of men and women. These are usually expressed in various ways, such as patriarchy, female subordination or sexual division of labour. Property relations then become an important variable of the balance of power between men and women and are also instrumental in creating and maintaining local and regional genderscapes (see Chapter  1 of this volume), within which gendered constraints and opportunities are scripted, and agency is exercised. Extracted from a larger study, this chapter focuses on how, within the state of Jharkhand, in Eastern India, different land tenure systems relating to agricultural land and access to forest rights, together with communitybased power struggles in property inheritance, script inequality and marginalize women, denying them the agency to exercise their property rights. The practice of branding women as “witches” appears in these discussions as another strategy that is used to curtail women’s property rights. Tribe and caste are the two basic elements of social structure in India. Among these, tribal societies in India have usually been considered as egalitarian as compared to non-tribal caste societies in structuring gender. However, transformations in natural resource production systems in different agro-ecological regions have proven disadvantageous and disempowering for women in general and tribal women in particular. Due to this, in the Jharkhand region of India, women have moved from central roles of decision makers to peripheral roles of labourers. This chapter explores how tribal and non-tribal women have been systematically marginalized from power and resource systems governing property, especially agriculture, leading to increased levels of gendered inequalities in this region.

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Even as gender is placed within the template of power, exploitation and resistance, “space” has become one of the central issues in feminist negotiations. This is popularly known as the “politics of location” (Rich 2003). As tribes form the minority communities within the overarching caste society, tribal women are twice inscribed as a minority within a minority. This location implicitly creates culture as a location of contestations, transforming it from a culture of politics to a politics of culture – creating differences within various communities occupying the same space. The language of depiction, appraisal and narratives for various experiences of political economy within the community are analogous to each other, despite being constitutionally different. This creates a space that is inherently unequal to women. The principal argument made in this chapter is that in the Jharkhand region, gendered inequality is scripted through unequal property laws, exacerbated by development. Taken together these affect women’s livelihoods and are eventually sanctioned and enacted through culturally prevalent practices such as witch-hunting. This is true especially in the cases in which women seek to challenge and claim their land or property rights.

Background, context and methods The word “Jharkhand” denotes the region of Chota Nagpur plateau, evoking an image of lush forested land, hills, dales of red laterite soil and a significantly large tribal population. It is not only a distinct physiographic entity but also represents a unique cultural space inhabited originally by the various tribal groups and non-tribal migrants to the region over the past few centuries. The Jharkhand region was one of the first in India to receive massive industrial investment. These included “the temples of modern India” in the form of the hydroelectric project of Damodar Valley and the establishment of numerous steel industries along with mining, marking it out as an industrially developed area. Due to the opening of many industries, non-tribals migrated into the region, imparting to it a mixed culture that fashions the lifestyles of the tribal communities as well as the migrants. The region is thus constructed not only in terms of its physiography but also in cultural and economic criteria. By itself, it also constitutes a distinct regional genderscape. The tribal ethos accords women a relatively better position in the social hierarchy. However, this is offset by poverty, economic backwardness, exploitation at the hands of contractors and struggles over livelihoods or development-related displacement, the effects of which are noticeably gendered. Marginalization and displacement have marked development in the tribal region of Chota Nagpur plateau. The tribal communities have been in the throes of perpetual protest, be it against colonial rule in pre-independence days when it was considered a special area or in the post-independence

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period, against the laws of the government of India and later the Bihar state, together with agitations for the creation of a separate Jharkhand state. Small factories and large industrial complexes were both built on the remains of tribal villages, dotted with the samas, or sacred groves, that exist in a corner of every tribal village and the sasndiris, or traditional burial grounds; the magnitude of displacement was significant in most cases. It is within this geographical context that the access of tribal and non-tribal women to agricultural land and property is examined. Property as a category for analysis in this study is focused on several factors. These include the existence of private, public and community property in land; the importance of land as property; the property status of the household; gender relations and ownership rights, as well as effective rights over landed property for women. A qualitative framework based on the Participatory Rural Appraisal (PRA) method was adopted for this study. Seven districts of the Jharkhand state  – namely, Dhanbad, Giridih, Gumla, Bokaro, Hazaribagh, Palamau and Paschimi Singhbhum – were selected for the study and represent different levels of development. At one end of the spectrum is Dhanbad, which is the most developed district, while Paschimi Singhbhum, at the other end, is the least developed. This selection was arrived at after comparing various indices of demography and social and infrastructural development and constructing a composite index for the same, together with examining the proportion of tribal populations in the district. From this range of districts, 13 villages were selected through purposive random sampling for a representative mix of tribal and non-tribal populations and nearness to the government forest area. All villages had a fairly equal mix of tribal and non-tribal population and had some connectivity to the district headquarters. Village selection in the study was thus based on the following criteria: (i) a mixed village with a fair representation of all the social groups (fifty percent tribal population and fifty percent non-tribal population) and having reported at least three to five incidents of witchcraftrelated police cases, and (ii) the village had a metaled road connecting it to the main district centre. A total of 11 focus group discussions (FGD) were completed in these villages. Each focus group included six to eight women and men. In addition to these FGD, 72 in-depth interviews were also conducted with both women and men. The participants for these interviews included 38 women and 34 men. Among the men, 17 were tribal and 17 non-tribal, whereas among the women participants, 20 were tribal and 18 were non-tribal. The age range for both men and women was between 18 and 45 years old. A little over half the participants had studied in formal school system till Standard 8. An overwhelmingly larger proportion of men than women had had some formal education. The main reason for this kind of selection was to examine the social relations and the land ownership patterns of tribal and non-tribal communities

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inhabiting the same space (i.e. the same village) under the same governance. Tribal and non-tribal households were randomly selected from the chosen villages. Individual interviews were conducted with district-, block- and village-level administrative personnel and development agencies to understand the land laws and their interpretations. Structured group discussions with the village sabhas (councils) shed important light on the processes and means of acquiring and exercising property rights. Fieldwork was conducted from July  2008 to December  2008 in the first phase and from February 2013 to November 2013 in the last phase. The gap between the first and second phases was due to political disturbances in the region. The focus of data collection during fieldwork was primarily on land ownership of tribal and non-tribal households, property rights exercised by the women of both tribal and non-tribal households in the study villages, their livelihood status, access to land as a livelihood resource and differences in forest rights available to the tribal and non-tribal women in the villages. Together with information on land ownership, property and livelihoods, the discussions on the incidence of witchcraft practices in the village emerged – in particular, narratives of the violence faced by women designated as witches when they tried asserting their property rights or resisted sexual and other exploitation. Analysis of fieldwork data showed how character assassination and witch-hunting have been deployed as modes of persecution against women for exercising their property rights. Taken together, character assassination and being labelled a witch scripted a gendered inequality by constraining women in exercising their livelihood options and property rights in the region. The section that follows highlights the framework against which property rights accrue to tribal and non-tribal women in the case study area. This is followed by a discussion of work and livelihood issues before finally highlighting how witch-hunting is often deployed against women in this region when they try claiming their property rights.

Property rights among non-tribal and tribal women Several studies point to the fact that women’s property rights are not simple rights; rather, these link reproduction, sexual (or gender) divisions of labour and the organization of the household economy to an analysis of production processes at various levels of the economy (Friedmann 1978, 1986; Beneria 1979, 1982; Leacock and Safa 1986; Beneria and Stimpson 1987; Whatmore 1988, 1991; Papaneck and Schwede 1988; Hoodfar 1997). India was one of the first nations to grant complete equality to women in the legal arena after independence (Sharma 1989; Agarwal 1994; Devi 1994); however, property laws in India devolve primarily from

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the personal laws of different religious communities, and these vary across religions and regions. Property is inherited by Hindus through two systems of jurisprudence: Jimutvahana’s Daya Bhaga system and Vijnyaneswara’s Mitakshara system (Sen 1995). The difference between the two systems is in the concept of who is a person to inherit. In the Daya Bhaga system, the unborn foetus in the mother’s womb is considered inanimate and thus does not have the right of inheritance till it is born a live child. The Mitakshara system considers and grants the right to inherit even to an unborn foetus in the mother’s womb. This difference is also marked by caste- and region-wide adaptation of the two systems, with the Daya Bhaga system being more prominent in the Eastern part of the country, i.e. West Bengal and Assam. The government of India introduced changes in the Hindu Succession Act (HSA) in 1956. The legal reform of 1956 gave daughters, widows and mothers (themselves Hindu) of a Hindu man dying intestate equal inheritance rights as sons in his property. Rights granted to the Hindu women were those of absolute ownership of land on which the homestead was built (bastizameen) but not of agricultural land. The recent reform in the HSA in 2005 has granted the right of inheritance of agricultural land to the daughters, widows and mothers of such men (Section 14, Hindu Joint Family Succession Act, 2005). Land reform programmes followed by the central and state governments in the 1950s and 1960s pursued policies that discriminated against women and affected their land rights, specifically in the domain of agriculture. In the fixing of a ceiling under land reform laws, there are at least two obvious anomalies: firstly, additional or extra land is allowed to be retained in the household on the account of adult sons but not adult daughters, and secondly, assessment of family land means that the land belonging to both the spouses is evaluated together and often; the land held by the wife is declared surplus. This is apparent in the narrative of Rama Devi (name changed): We are Bhumihars who have been settled here since 1900 when my father and father-in-law had migrated from Gaya. We were one of the largest landowners in this area. But when the land ceiling was imposed in the 1960s, it was the land that was registered in my name that was surrendered by my husband. He was deaf to all my appeals, and I had to sign away my rights. Why were lands registered in his name not surrendered? (Rama Devi, age 65, non-tribal, village Kusumpur, Giridih) These facts belie the assertion that women were granted complete equality in the legal arena. Most importantly, there is a gap in women’s legal rights in terms of actual ownership of a piece of land and asserting effective control

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over the land resource. These gaps are more pronounced in the non-tribal communities. Even though dowry is a common practice amongst caste Hindus in rural Jharkhand, it is rare for land to be given to the daughter. Women have to clearly assert themselves in order to gain any kind of property through inheritance. Widows can and do inherit land from their husbands or their husbands’ lineage but rarely have effective control over it. Decisions regarding the productive process of land are generally taken by other male members of the household. Discussions with the participants showed that any failure on the part of women to comply with socially acceptable behaviour becomes an excuse to take away their land from them. Their inheritance is tolerated as long as there are no male heirs to bequeath the land to. If a woman has borne only daughters, then she does not have the right to pass on the land to them. In such cases, the larger family or community interests force her to leave the land to the surviving indirect male heir or else to gift it to a kinsman. Direct ownership of land by a woman is thus contested, and she has to mediate through some male to assert her rights. If a woman is deserted or divorced or even just disliked by her married family, she will become landless and have no share in assets owned by her husband or his family. Often, such women are reduced to penury and forced to either beg or work as landless labourers. The situation of tribal women and their property rights is slightly different. Property ownership amongst women in tribal society emerged in the early decades of the 20th century, when land rights were being solemnized in the guise of the settlement reports of the various districts after active surveying. It was the first time that ownership rights were legally enforced by assigning ownership papers or pattas to the villagers. This was also the beginning of massive land alienation for the tribal community, and as tribal women are located in a twice-marginalized locale, they lost control over whatever few rights they had. The Indian legal system does not recognize tribal customary laws as legal, and these have the status of extra-legal or practices of common and long usage. Moreover, tribal communities who have not converted to any other religion and practice their original religion are treated as “lesser Hindus” in the courts of law, though such a category does not exist in the Indian Constitution. Hence, for tribal women in Jharkhand, the right to property has always been a contested terrain, governed as it is by two sets of laws: first, the customary laws and then the legal system of Hindu law or the personal law of whatever religion they follow. Customary laws regulating lineage and kinship have primarily structured their access to and control over property; usually they do not enjoy absolute right to property but have usufructuary rights. From the literature cited here as well as the results of fieldwork, I argue that gender inequality and male domination in the tribal society which is

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embedded in the regional genderscape of Jharkhand are related to the effort to control women’s labour. As is well known, in tribal society, forms of property range from community property at one end to individual property of the patriarch of the household at the other. There are thus a variety of property rights that should accrue to the woman. Though tribal societies are considered to be egalitarian in nature, in reality, they are marked by a high degree of class stratification as well as the traditional intra- and inter-tribe stratification. The social formations of tribes date back to pre-class society. Slowly, with changing food relations, the inter-tribe and intra-tribe relations in society emerged. But in spite of all these changes, the idea of private property did not emerge. The growing monetization of the economy has changed this, and eventually land became a commodity that could also be purchased and sold like any movable property (Sen 1962). In the foraging band of tribals, membership determines access to productive resources. Income, though, is of the individual family where the intra-household power dynamics come into play. The male head has almost no exclusive control over the household income; the women conduct all marketing and basically control the household income. Yet patrilocality is the norm. Often women suffer from physical violence as at times they refuse to part with their money to their husbands, or male relatives to buy alcohol or cigarettes or any other item deemed necessary. In addition, certain tribes such as the Santhals practice the tradition of bitlaha, a custom that restricts their women from having relations outside the tribe. This tradition is practised to ostracize people committing social crime. These crimes for women may range from having sexual relations with a person outside the tribe or clan to being a witch. The tribal woman thus faces double marginalization, first as a member of the tribe and then as a woman within a patriarchal society.

Work and livelihood issues The sphere of work is a complex network of relationships and power alliances that structure and regulate opportunities to work. This study finds that within these networks, tribal women are powerless as most of the opportunities are controlled by non-tribal men. According to census reports, the work force participation (WPR) rates (defined as the percentage of total workers both main and marginal, to the total population) of the tribal women have come down from fifty-five percent in 1981 to thirty-seven percent in 2001. In 2011, this fell further to thirty-one percent. These figures are indicative of severe stress within the local economy, wherein even minimum work is unavailable. The wage rates are also depressed in the rural sector where most of the tribal people are engaged in work. The non-tribal population

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is in a relatively better position and has resources that help them overcome such stress. Results from fieldwork showed that women’s participation in work is lowest in Paschimi Singhbhum, the least developed of the study districts, as compared to Dhanbad, which was the most developed district. This trend is in conjunction with the work participation rates all over the country yet is special in the case of the tribal women of Jharkhand as these communities are already living on the margins, and it takes little to push them into penury. The main reason behind this is the fall in women’s participation in household-level industrial work and non-forest timber products work that is available to them in the lean agricultural seasons. The mining sector that used to employ women as piece rate workers (a casual labour category) has also scaled down its active engagement. Data from the field also confirms that another important arena where tribal women are being marginalized is the household industries sector, where demand for their products has declined due to the increased availability of industrially produced goods. Given the situations described here, forests provide succor to the impoverished tribals, making forests an important entity in creating a livelihood. Minor forest products (henceforth referred to as MFP) include all forest products such as tendu leaves, mahua flowers, lac, honey, sal leaves etc., and their collection forms an important part of tribal livelihoods (Sharma 1989). MFPs also represent cash to the tribal woman as she can keep the money from the sale of the MFP for her personal use (Kumari and Sinha 1994). With the introduction of social forestry and joint forest management programmes, the villagers allege that more and more village forests were taken over as the property of the government. The study revealed innumerable instances of skirmishes that create problems for the tribal women as they are most often engaged in forestry and associated activities. At times, the forest officials have to be bribed for access, and petty forest crimes involve heavy fines as well as imprisonment. Thus, shrinking of forest areas through forest laws, industrialization, urbanization and nationalization of the MFP trade has adversely impacted conditions of livelihood for the tribal women in the region. Non-tribal women in these areas also have a certain level of dependence on the forests yet their level of reliance is different from that of the tribes (Deeney 1983). The perception of the legal status of forests amongst the tribes and non-tribal populace comprise the site of contesting rights and privileges. The gathering of forest produce for market economy and selfconsumption play a part in the livelihood sustenance of the tribal women. This, in turn, is a function of the rights of access and usage of forests, which are governed by state forest policies. The non-tribal women do not have the legal right to collect MFP from the forests. They do this only near the village

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forests and on the common lands. They also do not get any cash from the sale of the MFPs. At the same time, they do not have to face harassment at the hands of the forest guards and other administrative representatives. Thus, the non-tribal communities in the region have little access to forest resources and only form the basic market for the products of forest foraging (Weiner 1962). At times, non-tribal women act as petty traders but only as substitutes for their husbands, fathers and brothers, who are the actual owners of the small shops and other trade activities. During fieldwork, they reported that this had not always been so, as earlier they, too, had collected firewood and other MFPs from the forests. They were more likely to be labouring along with their husbands as they were mostly landless labourers, and their labour had value as weavers, fisherwomen, oil extractors etc. as the lower ranked service community in tribal villages. However, notions of honour played into the way livelihood activities were being viewed by both communities and actually worked to depress livelihood options within the region.

Witches and loose women: connections between gendered violence and exercise of property rights Witchcraft-related crimes exemplify violence against women and are a clear indication of their degraded social status and vulnerability. While such degradation may actually be driven by more than declining livelihood opportunities, I argue here that the main motive is to ensure that women remain inferior in status to men and that they retain little or no control over resources or decision-making. This appears to be systematic within various economic, cultural, social and political spheres, each sphere reinforcing the other in creating a particularly unequal space within this regional genderscape. Reports of witch-hunting and driving women out of the village appear regularly in the newspapers published in Jharkhand and have also been cited in the ASHA and UNIFEM ‘Report on Awareness and Advocacy Campaign on Women Exploitation in the Name of Witchcraft and Land Entitlement, Witch-Hunting and Superstition’ (see news reports freely available online). The persecution of women accused of witchcraft is usually seen as being linked to local superstitions, so any study requires a sensitive approach “without hurting the pride and sentiments of the local population” and creating a “tribal/non-tribal divide.” However, a significant number of cases have also been reported among non-tribals, so the problem is not exclusive to tribal communities. Rather, this is a method through which women in general can be dominated and oppressed in both communities. In the study area, all the police diaries that were filed for witchcraft-related cases were done by men.

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The belief that superstition and illiteracy are the main causes of witchcraftrelated persecution is also debatable. The case studies presented next suggest that there is usually a complex background of women’s economic subjugation, sexual exploitation and persecution, especially of widows and independent, vocal women. As in the case of Sati (the practice of immolating widows on the husband’s funeral pyre), victimizing women as witches can be seen as the height of patriarchal suppression. Such suppression devalues and undermines a woman in society and renders her both propertyless and resourceless. Women in the study area are an easy target, especially when they express any resistance. From the study, it emerged that forest department guards often trap them when they are walking through the forests and accuse them of planning to collect forest produce. The women are also subjected to various degrees of sexual harassment by these guards. Thus, women have reason to feel angry, though such anger usually has to be suppressed. This represents a partial picture of different aspects of women’s everyday repression. Whatever money women earn by working or selling MFPs often has to be gifted to the husband, who routinely proceeds to either drink or gamble the money away rather than saving it or using it to buy daily necessities. In situations in which women refuse to hand over their earnings, they report high incidences of physical violence. This is another facet of the violence that is intrinsic to the everyday lives of tribal women in Jharkhand. During interviews with women members of the village community and various witch doctors in Chaibasa, Gumla, Ranchi Giridih and Dhanbad, it was evident that the belief in evil spirits (including witchcraft) is part of a villager’s life. The men believed that killing a woman suspected of practicing witchcraft cleansed society and served the community. Villagers attributed a range of unpleasant happenings to witchcraft: accidents, unexplained deaths, chronic and incurable diseases, epidemics, crop failure, the failure of a woman to bear sons and the death of livestock, among other things. It is, therefore, not difficult to instigate villagers against a particular woman by claiming that she is responsible for some misfortune. This is because, where the belief is real, there is a genuine fear that the “witch” will harm anyone who ventures close to her. Usually, a woman is branded a witch by identification of special powers assigned to her for causing illness, death, famine or any other misfortune that may occur in the immediate vicinity of that community. This often leads to a public trial, in which the accused becomes completely powerless with no assistance or support from the local community. The public trial is then followed by the purging of the evil, wherein the witch is either beaten or subjected to other kinds of physical violence which in many cases results in her death. If the accuser is willing to accept compensation or if the accused woman can flee, she does so by submitting all her valuables and

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cultivated land in exchange for her life. Quite often, the male perpetrators and other female onlookers of such violence keep quiet about the entire episode. The women keep quiet because there is always a fear that they themselves may also be branded as witches and subjected to continued violence. The men keep quiet as this silence conceals their wrongs, which then further emboldens them to commit such crimes in the future. This reveals the tight web which traps the victim of violence and protects its perpetrators. In each of these cases, social sanction and agreement prevent the women from gaining any form of support or assistance from the villagers. This situation is well illustrated in an interview with women from village Durhirta in West Singhbhum. Discussing witchcraft, the women (many of whom belong to a women’s group associated with literacy programmes) expressed fear about a spinster who lived alone and who was suspected to be a witch. This woman had been attacked by the villagers at the instigation of a few local men, but the police had intervened, and the attacks stopped. On further investigation, it was discovered that the instigators had managed to extort some property from the woman and so were probably allowing the matter to rest. The villagers, however, genuinely believed that the woman was a witch and had shunned her since they feared her evil powers. They wanted her to leave, but without the headman’s sanction, they could not take any action against her. The key issue, then, concerns certain powerful people in the community who exploit the villagers’ superstitious belief in persecuting women as witches. That initial push ultimately leads to a drastic crime. The conspiracy of silence and the sanctioned violence in the case of witchcraft-related crimes have major implications for property ownership and control of property by women. Mutri and Simuli (names changed) of Durhirta and Bora village of Paschimi Singhbhum, victims of such accusations, said that they were branded as witches only when they opposed sexual exploitation and refused to sign over land to their male agnates. My husband was a good man, but he drank and liked to gamble. He found work with the forest contractor in the neighbouring forest and started working as a forest labourer. During this time, the village priest or the pahan of village started to visit the household quite often. He proposed to me that I should leave my husband and move in with him as he would be able to provide me a better life. But I did not want any such relationship, and when his suggestions were too much for me to tolerate any more, I shouted at him to leave. The pahan left that day. The next day, he came back with my husband accompanying him. I was said to be a witch, and this was proved by three signs that the pahan demonstrated in my courtyard. My family simply turned their collective back on me, and my children 58

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were taken away from me ceremonially. I ran. Later on, with nightfall and over a period of a week, I  managed to walk to district headquarter[s], which provided me with enough anonymity to survive, though barely in a slum. But I had won; I was alive. (Mutri, age 50, ST, Duhirta village, Paschimi Singhbhum) Similarly, the next narrative shows how a woman was divested of her land through the accusation of witchcraft. I was quite a well-known face in my village as I was an adored only child who had the luxury of studying till standard eighth in the local school. I had married another man of my tribe from a different village, and he had shifted in with me so that together we could till the land that I had inherited from my parents. I was also childless. Slowly, I came to hear that my husband was being coerced to leave me and get married to a more fertile woman, but he was reluctant as I  owned a large tract of cultivable land. I  quarreled with my husband over this, and feeling insulted, he left me. After a few months, I heard that he had gotten married again in his own village. Hereafter, I was told by the moneylender in my village, who was a non-tribal person, that he was the actual owner of my lands as my husband had sold them to him. I approached the village headman to mediate on my behalf with the moneylender as everyone in the village knew that the lands belonged to me and not my husband, and anyway those lands were my livelihood. The meeting saw the moneylender and the headman accuse me of being a witch. I was subjected to physical violence in front of the whole village and finally agreed to leave the lands and the village to the moneylender and the headman as I could not bear the torture any more. I also craved the anonymity the town provided and struggled to survive, but then I was still alive. (Simuli, age 35, ST, Bora village, Paschimi Singhbhum) Both these women had been driven out of their homes in the villages and were on the streets of the nearest urban centres, in this case Chaibasa. They lived in slums and worked either as scavengers or as maids in hotels during the tourist season, hiding from their fellow villagers and afraid of being discovered. In another case, Kanti Oraon (name changed), a 29-year-old tribal woman from village Nawatoli Palkot in Gumla, narrated her ordeal: I lost my access to the water in the well to irrigate my small field where I would grow vegetables to sell in the local market after it 59

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was decided that I should hand over the rights to my land and home to my husband’s younger brother as my husband had gone out to Punjab to work, so I myself had no right to a livelihood resource in my husband’s absence. This was also considered within my matrimonial family as a double income as my husband was earning outside, and I was also able to earn in the village which, the family felt was not right as then I  would become too big for the family and then the village. Thus, I was prohibited to draw water from the well and labelled a witch, which then ensured my complete exclusion from the family and the community, and I had to literally beg or live entirely on the forest to survive. Unfortunately, my husband met with an accident and died while working in Punjab, and this further enhanced my matrimonial family’s assertion of me as a witch as I had then eaten my husband. (Kantia Oraon, age 29, ST, village Nawatoli Palkot, Gumla) In regions where witchcraft-related crimes are common, a woman dare not protest or oppose the social system for fear of being labelled a witch. These cases illustrate that persecuting women as witches is preplanned and systematically perpetrated. As stated earlier, the main motive is to ensure that women remain inferior in status to men and that they have no control over resources or decision-making. Other motives, such as to wrest property, tackle family feuds, and sexual exploitation, are usually part and parcel of this patriarchal strategy. Kelkar and Nathan (1991) argue that the low status of women cannot be inferred from the practice of witch-hunting. This is because witch-hunting is prevalent where women might enjoy a relatively higher status. Hence, it could be read as an attack on their existing status. This argument is legitimate to the extent that women who have attempted to assert themselves in a male-dominated society, who have resisted sexual advances from powerful men and who are widows with land rights are among the victims of witch-hunting. In other words, it is women who have in some way threatened men’s superior position in society and those who own land as property who come under attack. Witch-hunting discourages any attempt by women to assert themselves and ensures that they maintain their inferior position in society. This study finds that regions where witch-hunting is common are also areas where women are denied participation in village council meetings and have no decision-making power in village matters, such as deciding wages for labour; all these decisions are made by men and result in discrimination against women. In addition, women face violence frequently, usually in the form of physical assault and beatings by their husbands. The sexual freedom that used to prevail in tribal society in the form of the akhara,

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or the common dancing arena, and the dormitory system for adolescent boys and girls were perceived by non-tribals to be evidence of loose sexual morals amongst the tribal women. Thus, tribal women lost their autonomy and became subjected to sexual advances and exploitation in the process of eking out their livelihoods. This is a well-documented fact (for example, see Sengupta 1980; Kelkar and Nathan 1991; Ahmad and Lahiri Dutt 2006). The village headman (manki) and the priest (pahan) are hereditary positions, and they wield immense power in the access to and distribution of common property resources. The traditional administration system allows the headman unilateral power in deciding village affairs and settling disputes. Literature on common property corroborated by fieldwork for this study shows that within the overarching non-tribal administration there was little knowledge about common property resources, and lands that used to belong to the village common had been registered in the name of the manki in the colonial period. This was further sanctioned legally in the settlement surveys that were conducted in Jharkhand in 1961–2 (in Paschimi Singhbhum) and 1975–6 (in Dhanbad). These surveys in effect converted common lands into private property of the mankis and the pahans. Further, in January 1995, a report from the Bhuria Committee, a government-appointed committee tasked in 1994 with extending Part IX of the Constitution of India, which accorded panchayats a constitutional status as institutions of local selfgovernance for rural India to tribal areas, was released. The committee accepted the community “as the basic unit of the system of self-governance in tribal areas.” The report further suggested that all resolutions of disputes, day-to-day administration, investigation and adjudication of all matters should be managed by the village community. Thus, on the one hand, the report hoped to promote control over natural resources and usufruct rights over forest produce, while on the other, it accepted a nondemocratic, gender-biased and partisan system of administration which legitimized a village headman’s power and subjected women to further subjugation. Against this background, accessing the commons or arguing for their property rights or livelihood resources, even resisting sexual exploitation, only results in adding a layer of vulnerability to the women.

Conclusion This chapter has explored in detail the scripting of gendered inequality in land ownership/property and livelihoods among women in both tribal and non-tribal communities in Jharkhand. It is seen that colonial laws and contemporary development policies have both contributed significantly to this process and made women vulnerable to violence and exploitation, robbing them of their autonomy and customary rights. Contemporary realities show that livelihood options for women in the region are declining, and tribal

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women are in a far more vulnerable position than their non-tribal counterparts. Women’s efforts to assert property rights are met with violence, and in the cases discussed, archaic and cruel practices of witch-hunting and subsequent excommunication are deployed. Ultimately, alternative ideas of development are needed not only to counter inequalities but also to be able to provide for a vibrant, equitable, democratic and gender-just society within the region.

References Agarwal, Bina. “Gender and Command Over Property, an Economic Analysis of South Asia.” World Development 22, no. 10 (1994): 1455–78. Ahmad, Nesar, and Kuntala Lahiri Dutt. “Engenderging Mining Communities: Examining the Missing Gender Concerns in Coal Mining Displacement and Rehabilitation in India.” Gender Technology and Development 10, no. 3 (2006): 313–39. Beneria, Lourdes. “Reproduction, Productions and the Sexual Division of Labour.” Cambridge Journal of Economics 3, no. 3 (1979): 203–25. Benería, Lourdes. Women and Development  – The Sexual Division of Labor in Rural Societies: A Study. New York: Praeger, 1982. Benería, Lourdes, and Catherine Stimpson, eds. Women Households and the Economy. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1987. Deeney, John. What Tribals Get from the Trees of the Jungles. Tribal Training and Research Centre, Chaibasa (Unpublished report), 1983. Devi, T. “Sexual Abuse and Poverty: Tribal Women of Wayanad.” A  paper presented at the First International Congress of Kerala Studies, Tiruvananthapuram, August 27–29, 1994. Friedmann, Harriet. “World Market, State, and Family Farm: Social Bases of Household Production in the Era of Wage Labor.” Comparative Studies in Society and History 20, no. 4, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press (1978): 545–6. Friedmann, Harriet. “Patriarchy and Property.” Sociologia Ruralis 26, no. 2 (1986): 186–93. Hoodfar, Homa. Between Marriage and the Market Intimate Politics and Survival in Cairo. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1997. Kelkar, Govind, and Dev Nathan. Gender and Tribe: Women, Land and Forests. New Delhi: Kali for Women, 1991. Kumari, P., and A. K. Sinha. “Role of Minor Forest Produce in Tribal Economy.” In Tribal Transformation in India, Vol. III, edited by B. Chaudhuri, 348–61. New Delhi: Inter-India Publications, 1994. Leacock, Eleanor, and Helen Safa. Women’s Work: Development and the Division of Labor by Gender. South Hadley, MA: Bergen and Gravey, 1986. Papaneck, Hanna, and Laurel Schwede. “Women Are Good with Money Earning and Managing in an Indonesia City.” In A Home Divided: Women and Income in the Third World, edited by Daisy Dewyer and Judith Bruce, 71–98. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1988. Rich, Adrienne. “Notes Towards a Politics of Location.” In Feminist Postcolonial Theory: A Reader, edited by R. Lewis and S. Mills, 29–42. New York: Routledge, 2003.

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Section 14, Hindu Joint Family Succession Act. Government of India Press, 2005. Sen, Bhowani. The Evolution of Agrarian Relations in India. New Delhi: Peoples Publishing House, 1962. Sen, Subratā. The Institution of Strīdhana in the Dharmaśāstra. No. 94. Sanskrit College, 1995. Sengupta, Nirmal. “Class and Tribe in Jharkhand.”  Economic and Political Weekly 15, no. 14 (1980): 664–71. Sharma, B.D. Report of the Commissioner for Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes, 29th Report, Government of India, 1989. Weiner, Myron. The Politics of Scarcity. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1962. Whatmore, Sarah. “From Women’s Roles to Gender Relations.” Sociological Ruralis 28, no. 4 (1988): 239–47. Whatmore, Sarah. Framing Women Gender, Work and Family Enterprise. London: Macmillan Academic and Professional Limited, 1991.

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5 GENDER AND AGENCY IN DECENTRALIZED POLITICAL SPACES IN RURAL WEST BENGAL Barnali Biswas

This study explores how specific geographical contexts affect women’s negotiation and use of public space, especially in political arenas located within rural areas in India. Feminist geographers have long argued that gender meanings, roles and relations vary historically and geographically and are a product of specific practices, places, spaces and discourses (Domosh and Seager 2001; Massey 1994; McDowell 1999). For McDowell (1999), place and gender are intrinsically interlinked because subjective positioning is always place related. Once such gendered spaces are created, they get institutionalized and are lasting in terms of encoding gender roles and relations (Domosh and Seager 2001; Massey 1984; Spain 1992). Following from these readings, at the heart of this chapter is the idea that space is not just a container of events but an important causal factor in itself. Thus, differences in the nature of space could have implications for the events and processes unfolding in it. Political space in this study refers to those spaces within which political decisions impacting local to national or international events are taken. As is evident, such political spaces can exist at various scales, but within this study, only those impacting local events are considered. As Andrea Cornwall’s work reminds us, these spaces for participation, political or otherwise, are not neutral but are themselves shaped by power relations (Cornwall 2002). Drawing on the arguments presented in Chapter  1 of this volume, I  argue here that spaces of participation  – in this case, the spaces of political participation – are located within specific regional genderscapes which shape them. (See Datta 2011 for a more detailed explanation of genderscape.) Such spaces are intricately intertwined with the ways women relate to power, and in my view, decentralization as a political

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process comes to complicate such gendered spaces. In this context, the 73rd and 74th Amendments to India’s Constitution stand out as significant legislation, aimed at not just decentralization but also mainstreaming gender in local governance by providing women space for decision-making in political spaces. The Constitutional (73rd Amendment) Act 1992 makes it mandatory for reservation of elective posts for women at the local level in an attempt to empower women and change the rural power structure. Accordingly, Panchayati Raj (local self-governance, a government initiative since 1992) institutions provide women spaces and opportunity for participation in political decision-making and develop personnel and higher levels of leadership quality. The Panchayati Raj comprises three tiers or layers of institutions of local governance. Each tier corresponds to a particular spatial scale. In West Bengal, where this study is sited, the West Bengal Panchayat (Amendment) Act, 1992, has made provisions for a public forum consisting of all registered electors of a constituency within the area of Gram Panchayat. This forum is the Gram Sansad and is at the base of the Gram Panchayat. The Gram Panchayat, or village council, is the first tier and includes elected members. The head of the Gram Panchayat is the Sarpanch, again an elected representative. The second tier institution is the Panchayat Samiti. These are taluka, or block-level bodies, and link the Gram Panchayats to the districtlevel bodies, or Zila Parishads. Zila Parishads are at the apex and represent the third tier in the Panchayati Raj institutions. The focus of this chapter is to examine how these amendments have played out in two different rural contexts in the Eastern state of West Bengal. The key questions therefore are twofold. Firstly, how have these decentralized spaces of local decision-making varied according to where they are located? Secondly, how successful have women been in articulating their concerns and participating in these political spaces? How effective are these in bringing about women’s “empowerment”? The study explores these questions within the regional genderscape of rural West Bengal. At the onset, one should note that the state of West Bengal has a long history of decentralization of political processes (see Mookherjee 2007). As a result, local institutions in this state are perceived to be more democratic and socially better represented than those of other states. Since the 1970s, the Panchayati Raj has played an active role in various governmental initiatives, including land reform measures; major rural development programmes; and anti-poverty, employment generation and social forestry schemes and has achieved great success. But the state has lagged behind in women’s participation in decision-making, particularly in rural areas. Except for a few research studies (Anitha et al. 2008; Devika and Thampi 2007; Mukhopadhyay 2007), the absence of women from political decision-making processes has seldom been analyzed in depth. Therefore, a specific focus on West

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Bengal becomes relevant for addressing the question of women’s empowerment in the context of political decentralization. Drawing on fieldwork conducted in two rural districts of West Bengal, district Purulia and district Hugli, this study examines differences in the decentralization process in both districts. In consonance with the questions raised earlier, a particular focus is the impact of the Panchayati Raj legislations in increasing the participation of women in the political spheres and how this has come to influence the gendered political spaces of the panchayats and practices within them. Thus, an attempt has been made to understand the extent to which differences in location, especially in terms of contrasting development contexts within the same cultural region, affect women’s negotiation and use of public spaces in the political spheres. The study was therefore sited in two different developmental contexts in West Bengal – Hugli and Purulia districts. Based on social and economic parameters, Hugli district provided for a more developed context, whereas the same parameters rendered Purulia less developed than Hugli. Based on fieldwork conducted in these districts, it is argued that women’s restricted access to public space, as evidenced by participation in decisionmaking in political arenas, is largely a result of historical and socially produced gender practices and exacerbated by lower levels of development.

Background of the study The study was conducted during 2008–9 in the Hugli and Purulia districts of West Bengal. As stated earlier, a comparison of social and economic indicators placed Hugli as a relatively better developed space and Purulia as somewhat less developed. The fieldwork covered approximately 400 households, selected on the basis of random sampling. A total of 475 women from four Gram Panchayats (village councils) and villages were interviewed. The study villages in the Hugli district included Debanandapur (belonging to the Debanandapur Gram Panchayat) and Thaipara (belonging to the Saraitinna Gram Panchayat.) Similarly, in the Purulia district, the study villages were Charra (of the Charra Gram Panchayat) and Uparbatari (from the Nowahatu Gram Panchayat). The level of development of the study villages in these districts was not identical. The four villages were chosen through stratified sampling techniques. Factors such as approachability, the presence of sufficient Scheduled Caste/Scheduled Tribe populations, literacy rates, female literacy rates and other standard development indicators played a role in this selection. In the Hugli district, Debanandpur was better developed than Thaipara. In Purulia, Charra was better developed than Uparbatari. The process of development and the literacy drive have reduced social backwardness, particularly gender inequality in Hugli villages. In fact, Hugli

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reports a higher than average female literacy rate, while the female literacy rate of Purulia is lower than the state average. In Purulia, the less developed district, sixty-three percent of girls 6 to 14 years old are never enrolled in school (Biswas 2010, p. 101). In fact, Uparbatari village had one of the lowest female literacy rates among the villages of West Bengal. In Purulia, perennially low enrolment, along with poor attendance, high school dropout rates and the engagement of girls in work, illustrate the lower social status of women. Importantly, the typical reasons for girls not going to school, revealed in the surveys as well as in previous studies, included lack of interest; pre-existing higher levels of female illiteracy; seeing no value in girls’ education, particularly its relation to its opportunity costs; distance from school; lack of security (restricting mobility of girls); lack of infrastructural space (separate toilets for girls); the need to participate in paid or unpaid work; and a lack of female teachers in schools. Information on the nature, functions, participation and roles of elected women representatives of Panchayats were collated while interviewing women from Gram Panchayats (village councils) through semi-structured interviews. The key respondents for this study were Sarpanch (village head), Upa-Sarpanch (deputy head), Panchayat secretary (council secretary), Anganwadi (rural childcare centre) workers, local women leaders belonging to different political parties, women of self-help groups (henceforth, SHG) and members of Gram Sabha (village assembly) at the village level. In addition, the responses of female representatives of Panchayat Samiti (block development councils) and Zilla Parishads (district boards) at the district level were included. Group discussions on gender issues were also conducted with diverse socio-economic groups of women in the villages.

Space, gender and empowerment through decentralization Empowerment has been defined as “the process by which those who have been denied the ability to make choice acquire such ability” (Kabeer 2005, p. 13). The term has gained currency in development literature and is often viewed as an outcome signifying women’s development. However, a nuanced understanding would suggest that empowerment is an ongoing process in which subjects acquire the ability to wield more power and take control over their own lives. Participating in political decision-making is thought to bring about such empowerment. In the Indian case, while women constitute nearly half our population and play a crucial role in the development of family, community and nation, they hold only a meager eleven percent of seats in the Indian Parliament (World Bank 2015). However, there is considerable evidence to show that spaces which have experienced rapid progress in health and education are often those where women have played

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a far more active role than men within the household and in society (see, for example, Dreze and Sen 2002). In the last decade, across different countries, efforts have been made to strengthen public spaces, including political spheres, for constructing different visions of gender inclusive and democratic governance practices (Bardhan and Mukherjee 2007). In India, the 73rd and 74th Constitutional Amendment Acts mandating the presence of women in rural and urban local bodies provide women an opportunity to take part in political decision-making by participating in political spaces and thereby developing their leadership. The 73rd Amendment, introduced in 1992, requires thirty percent of seats on local councils or Panchayats in rural areas to be occupied by women. The structure of the three-tier Panchayati Raj system was explained earlier in the chapter. The reservation of seats for women in this system has helped bring about increases in women’s representation in local government in rural areas and led to prioritizing matters of importance in women’s daily lives within these decision-making bodies. However, the outcomes of these efforts have been highly uneven across spaces and social groups. The establishment of the three-tier system of local government institutions through rural local bodies  – the Gram Panchayats, or councils at the village level; intermediate Panchayat Samiti, or council committees; and Zilla Parishad, or councils at the district levels – with political representation by direct election at all levels has given new meaning to spatial decentralization of power. As argued earlier, the spatial distribution of power through decentralization is a significant element of changing the geography of power and, through this, tackling gender inequalities. This system offers enough scope for advancing gender equality and women’s empowerment in the politics of rural space. Consequently, local governments have now emerged as new spaces of political power through responsibilities for the preparation of plans and the implementation of development schemes. In addition, provisions for public forums such as Gram Sabha and Gram Sansad (village parliament), which include all registered electors in the Panchayat, incorporated by the West Bengal Panchayat (Amendment) Act, 1992, have provided immense opportunity for women’s participation in public spaces. Both these spaces are widely acclaimed by political observers as spaces of participatory democracy. However, despite expanded economic, social and political opportunities for women, spatial barriers to women’s “empowerment” and agency in political spaces remain widespread, especially among the rural poor and other marginalized social groups. The proportion of women representatives in the Panchayat (or village council) varies from one district to another. Significantly, but not surprisingly, it was observed that socially and economically developed places tended to have more representation of women than less developed places within the same district and under the same governance. This is borne out by the fact

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that Debanandapur Gram Panchayat in Hugli had fifty percent and Charra Gram Panchayat in Purulia had thirty-eight percent women representatives. In contrast, Nowahatu Gram Panchayat (Purulia) and Saraitinna Gram Panchayat (Hugli) had fewer women members (approximately thirty percent). With the exception of Nowahatu, all the Gram Panchayats were found to have had women as Gram Pradhan since 1993.

Women’s participation in local governance: shifting spaces of power While the 73rd Amendment may have modified the local power structure in rural areas by enhancing the scope of participation by women representatives in Panchayat, women’s access to different spaces, especially public and political spheres, still remains generally more limited than that of men. This may be due to gendered allocation of tasks, such as the home-based constraints associated with reproductive labour and also the “forbidden” and “permitted” use of spaces governed by strong patriarchal power relations. The following sections provide details of women’s participation in the meetings of Gram Sabha, Gram Sansad and Gram Panchayats. Gram Sansad meetings were public meetings held twice a year, in May and November, to discuss, advise and also give recommendations or suggestions to the respective Gram Panchayat in matters related to socio-economic development. It was observed that in official meetings in Charra and Uparbatari in Purulia, only a few women from Panchayat, SHG members and village committees were in attendance. Moreover, most of the women who attended were shy and did not say anything in the meetings. The Gram Pradhans of Purulia said that “we cannot express ourselves at any meetings and also play minor role in Panchayat functioning.” It was known that women “Pradhans,” who are elected representatives and members of Gram Panchayat in Purulia, were barely literate and belonged to marginalized groups. One may argue that the decision-making role pertaining to Panchayat functioning is often gendered. More men participate in formal/ official and public meetings like Gram Sabha, while women are often marginalized in terms of both attendance at such spaces and not being able to speak up and participate in making plans (Sultana 2009). The women who were elected representatives with lower education levels and lack of experience in Purulia villages were faced with considerable constraints, both from the community and from the functionaries on account of the strong domination of men belonging to elite and high caste groups. During observation, one could easily read the strong power dynamic set through these social patterns of gender interaction. Because of this, women leaders were not able to translate the considerable degree of solidarity from their own groups into effective performance.

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In contrast, in Hugli, the more developed district, all the women members of the Panchayat had a relatively high educational level, with forty-seven percent of members being graduates. Ms  Malati Chatterjee, the female Pradhan of the Debanandapur Gram Panchayat, was from a high caste and herself a graduate. She reported that all the ward members were quite aware of their roles, responsibilities and development issues pertaining to women, children, health, education, etc. and also the need for accountability and transparency in the functioning of local governance. Interestingly, it was noticed that women’s participation in Gram Sansad (village parliament) meetings was significantly higher where the Pradhan was a woman, as in Hugli. While in Hugli, twenty to fifty percent of women members attended Gram Sansad meetings in various Panchayats, only two to five percent of women attended meetings in Purulia. Another striking fact was that more men attended the meetings in Purulia where the Gram Pradhan was a man. As a result, it was rare for women from Purulia to have a voice in Panchayat functioning, as political decisionmaking was seen as a distinctly masculine task. This holds immense social significance and is in line with the findings of a government report, “Study on Elected Women Representatives in Panchayati Raj Institutions,” which shows that women’s participation is quite low, less than twenty-five percent. This is attributed to widespread illiteracy of women, their adherence to patriarchal norms of behaviour with restricted participation and an overall lack of capacity building. Based on these, it can be reiterated that reservation of seats by itself is not a sufficient measure to ensure increased political empowerment of women, especially when they lack education/literacy and other skills. In India, as in many other patriarchal societies, some tasks are fairly loosely defined as “women’s jobs” or “men’s work,” but other tasks are more strictly gendered and are enforced by taboos which usually apply to women, often reducing their “bargaining power both within and outside the household” (Aggarwal 1997, p.  33; Jewitt and Baker 2011, p. 216). Therefore, despite increasing awareness of women’s rights and greater mobility of rural women from lower socio-economic groups (especially in spaces such as Hugli which are better developed), there remain entrenched gender divides in task allocations. According to Sultana (2011), this is clearly linked to social constructions of the domestic/ private being feminized spaces while public spaces are seen to be masculine and therefore not a place for women. Also, the present study shows that many women, particularly those from higher caste and Muslim communities, have limited mobility in public spaces. This is especially true of the relatively less developed areas. Due to this, few women get opportunities to take part in public discussions or speak up in front of men, especially in public places.

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Group discussions with women revealed that they were not encouraged to participate in Gram Sabha meetings for a variety of reasons. Most of the women from marginalized groups said that they did not attend meetings as they were mostly engaged in their work and could not afford to lose a day’s wage. For instance, the women of Uparbatari, in a less developed and remote area in Purulia, were engaged in beedi (handmade mini cigarette) binding activities and were found to spend up to ten hours a day in beedi binding within their households. This was revealing and showed how women’s mobility was restricted within the domestic domain, both socially and economically. Discussions with women from different social class, caste and religious groups revealed that reasons for nonparticipation in the public realm were “domestic work,” “lack of interest,” “political conflicts,” “women discouraged by male members in household to go into public meetings” and “neglect of women’s issues” (see also Das 2000; Isaac and Franke 2000; Ghatak 2002). The notions of honour and shame are also often observed to control gendered mobility in rural spaces. These are practised by both men and women in reinforcing who is allowed to go where, how far, and why and often constrains the bargaining power of women (Sultana 2011). Gram Sansad meetings have the potential to emerge as an important gendered space of mobilization. They could be instrumental in making villagers, particularly women, aware of a wide range of basic issues such as the importance of health, education, sanitation, women’s protection, right to information, women’s property rights, etc., even if they are not part of any organized group. Such meetings provide an inclusive public space where women can articulate their concerns and participate in planning processes. As mentioned earlier, out of the total members present in the Gram Sabha meetings, fifty percent were women in Debanadapur and twenty-eight percent in Thaipara (both in Hugli district). In contrast, women’s participation was reported to be conspicuously low in Purulia – only five percent in Charra and two percent in Uparbatari. It was observed that the concerns raised by women in Gram Sansad meetings vary over space and social background. Most of the women from Hugli said that they often raised issues of their basic needs like drinking water, sanitation, housing, wage opportunities, pucca roads, education and health, etc. However, the women in Purulia did not raise any concern in any of the meetings. Capacity-building activities have been found to expand women’s empowerment, agency and access to public space. The women representatives of the Debanadapur and Charra Panchayats reported that all members regularly attended the Panchayat meetings. All 15 women members of the Gram Panchayat in Hugli were reported to have attended training sessions/classes to understand the powers and responsibilities of the Panchayat. In stark contrast, only four out of eight women members of Gram Panchayats in

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Purulia had attended training sessions. Moreover, in the Debanandapur Gram Panchayat (in Hugli), the woman Sarpanch had a significant voice. She said: My long-standing experience in Panchayat activities, higher educational attainment, capacity building through training sessions and political association have been effective in addressing womenrelated issues, in directing public policy as well as ensuring social development schemes towards the disadvantageous section to a considerable extent. In this Gram Panchayat, representing a better developed context, fortyseven percent of the women members were graduates. On the other hand, the woman Pradhan of Charra and other women members of Gram Panchayats in Purulia were barely literate. In a Panchayat meeting at Charra, organized by block-level officers along with Panchayat members, SHGs, teachers and village committee members, it was observed that women members were shy and played a minor role in the proceedings of the Panchayat. At the end of the meeting, they spoke of their inability to express themselves at any meetings. From group discussion, it emerged that this could be due to their lower educational level and lack of experiences and training, as well as the strong domination of the men. Empirical data from both Hugli and Purulia districts thus reinforce the importance of recognizing “geographies of gender” within the decentralized decision-making process because, while gender inequalities may be nearly universal, they are not uniform across space (Kabeer 2003). Socio-economic and political factors have a major influence on women’s participation within decentralized political spaces, and this impacts their ability to mobilize, articulate and take part in local-level decision-making leading to empowerment and a collective negotiation of agency.

Space, gender and community mobilization From the preceding discussion, it may be noted that a higher degree of women’s literacy, their educational attainment and their leadership qualities play an important role in negotiating political arenas and public spaces, enhancing their bargaining power and allowing them to take part in decisionmaking activities in local governance. Importantly, in terms of agency, the village women who are part of organized groups are better able to articulate their views and take decisions within households and communities in far greater measure than the women who are not part of any organized groups. From the discussions with the participants, it emerged that there have been cases in which women from Saraitinna Gram Panchayat in Hugli

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went to the block-level officers to demand scholarships, incentives, etc. and protested corporal punishment and absenteeism of teachers in the village schools. Group discussions with women from the Hugli villages revealed that those who had attended Gram Sansad meetings where budgets, records and audit reports were placed for public scrutiny also had an awareness of and knowledge about various development programmes, Panchayat’s budgetary details and expenditures on various schemes. Villagers in Debanandapur said that “due to regular monitoring by women Panchayat leaders and other village committee members, the schools, ICDS centres and primary health centres (PHCs) of Debanandapur Gram Panchayat are functioning effectively.” It is felt that when women are empowered in their political spheres, they acutely feel the need to radically change the situation and prioritize women’s development issues in the villages, making a substantial difference on the ground level. On the other hand, the remote and highly populated village of Uparbatari in Purulia did not have a single Anganwadi. Here, the village-level committees for health, education, etc. were reported to be functioning improperly due to lack of supervision, monitoring, and political will. The women who were elected representatives were found to be totally ignorant of womenrelated schemes, village committees, SHG and budgetary details. They did not attend training classes due to the long distances between the training centres and their remote villages. It is evident that limited mobility of women in public spaces in less developed areas often includes constraints on travelling distances beyond baris, or homesteads (Sultana 2009). Many have argued that as the principal ruling party consolidated its organizational power in the countryside, these institutions for local selfgovernment fell into the morass of party control and party rivalry. This factor has severely undermined the interest of the women who have lower representation and no voice in decision-making processes in less developed places and remote areas. Group discussion with the Panchayat members in Purulia revealed that the decision-making positions within the ruling political party (the CPI (M) at the time of the survey) and the bureaucracy of the state were nearly exclusively the domain of men. While the poor had a weaker voice, poor women had the weakest voice – their general lack of resources and access to power compounded gender-related marginalization in those spheres. This illustrated that in the less developed areas, there were hardly any spaces for women in the decision-making process and politics; hence, they had a weaker role in community mobilization.

Conclusions The dynamic interplay of space, gender and the decentralization process – in this case, in the regional genderscape of rural West Bengal, which has

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a long history of decentralization  – has impacted gendered participation in significant ways. This demonstrates the transformation and reconfigurations of the meanings of space and gender empowerment within a changing decentralization process. In predominantly patriarchal societies, women are considered subordinate to men due to lack of power/authority. The main reason for women’s lack of power is said to be lack of access to available resources that produce power. In this situation, differences in the socioeconomic and geographical contexts within which decentralization occurs and changing control over political power, provide greater insights into how gendered spaces are constituted through decision-making and how gendered relations are scripted, manifested, experienced and reproduced in society through spaces of power. It is evident from this study that involvement in local governance or the reservation of seats for women by itself is not sufficient to empower them. The role of education and capacity building is important for their political empowerment. The women representatives of Debanandapur Gram Panchayat in this case created a success story of the Panchayat by using this space as an effective agent for ensuring women’s empowerment. The women members, who were educated, became politically conscious and socially aware due to the capacity building process and could intervene and make a difference even in the limited decision-making space available in rural Hugli. The shifting realities demonstrate that gendered spaces are constructed not just by social relations but also by local politics, and public political spaces are negotiated, utilized and experienced in a continuum as part of an ongoing process. Significantly, the decentralization of power and accessing rights to power end up changing the spatial patterns of power and the mobilization of women in the relatively more developed rural areas. Here, women were able to address women- and child-related issues and their basic needs. Their collective efforts helped not only in ensuring gender-inclusive democratic space by enhancing their participation in decision-making in private and public spaces, but also in curtailing corrupt practices. This study demonstrates that despite well-entrenched meanings and practices of the private/public divide, notions of femininity and masculinity are constantly reproduced and negotiated through the ways power is accessed, utilized and experienced. Even poor women could articulate their powers and were expressive of their needs within a systematic support system created through interventions. There have been instances in which women in local government institutions have worked admirably, the development machinery has been facilitative and the women gained substantially. Women on various village-level committees and groups reported, “Participation in community and Panchayat work has not only increased our spatial mobility, but also these are empowering experiences. Now we can partake in decision-making within households.” In these ways, spaces of power, the

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power of spaces and gender relations are (re)produced and (re)negotiated (Sultana 2011). However, there is anecdotal evidence from the field as well as existing studies to support the view that women Pradhans, mostly holding reserved seats in backward and less developed areas, are often subservient to their husbands or other powerful men and are hesitant to take any decisions. They leave the decision-making exercise entirely to the male members of Panchayats. This could be related to the habitus, as was discussed in Chapter  1 of this volume. Similarly, perceived constraints and disadvantages such as illiteracy; domestic responsibilities; poverty; and lack of experience, exposure, awareness and communication skills resulting from the prevailing male-dominated rural power structure continue to handicap women’s ability to participate in public political space at the local level in Purulia. From the study, it becomes evident that while gender differences cannot be seen as being isolated from other social axes of differences, space or geographic context – in particular, the level of development – is an important agent in shaping outcomes of interventions.

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Dreze, Jean, and Amartya Sen. India: Development and Participation. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002. Ghatak, Maitreesh, and Maitreya Ghatak. “Recent Reforms in the Panchayat System in West Bengal.” Economic Political and Weekly 37, no. 1 (2002): 45–8. Isaac, T. M., and Richard W. Franke. Local Democracy and Development: People’s Campaign for Decentralized Planning in Kerela. New Delhi: Leftword, 2000. Jewitt, Sarah, and Katherine Baker. “Spatial Agendas for Decision-making in Jharkhand and Uttar Pradesh: The Influence of Place, Class, and Caste on Women’s Role in Environment Management.” In Gendered Geographies: Space and Place in South Asia, edited by Saraswati Raju, 213–44. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2011. Kabeer, Naila. Gender Mainstreaming in Poverty Eradication and the Millennium Development Goals: A  Handbook for Policy-makers and Other Stakeholders. Ottawa: Commonwealth Secretariat, CIDA, IDRC, 2003. Kabeer, Naila. “Gender Equality and Women’s Empowerment: A Critical Analysis of the Third Millennium Development Goal 1.” Gender & Development 13, no. 1 (2005): 13–24. Massey, Doreen. Space, Place and Gender. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1994. Massey, Doreen, and John Allen, eds. Geography Matters. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984. McDowell, Linda. Gender, Identity and Place: Understanding Feminist Geographies. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1999. Mookherjee, P. B. “Decentralisation in West Bengal: Origins, Functioning, and Impact.” In Decentralisation and Local Government in Developing Countries: A  Comparative Perspective, edited by P.B. Mookherjee, 203–22. New Dehli: Oxford University Press, 2007. Mukhopadhyay, Swapna, ed. The Enigma of Kerala Women: A Failed Promise of Literacy. New Delhi: Social Science Press, 2007. Spain, Daphne. Gendered Spaces. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1992. Sultana, Farhana. “Community and Participation in Water Resources Management: Gendering and Naturing Development Debates from Bangladesh.” Transactions of the British Institute of Geographers, no. 01 (January 2009): 346–63. Sultana, Farhana. “Spaces of Power, Places of Hardship: Rethinking Spaces and Places Through Gendered Geography of Water.” In Gendered Geographies: Space and Place in South Asia, edited by Saraswati Raju. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2011. World Bank. Proportion of Seats Held by Women in National Parliament, 2015.

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6 MAHILA PANCHAYATS OF DELHI Scripting agency within low-income urban neighbourhoods Swagata Basu

The concept of regional genderscapes in India theorizes women’s lived spaces as a product of realms of nature, social relations, meaning and agency which come together to determine women’s mobility and participation in society and their agency and autonomy within specific locations (Datta 2011, 2005, and also Chapter 1 in this volume). Space thus is an important element in determining the degree to which women have agency in regionally constituted patriarchies. Drawing on these arguments, this chapter explores the transformatory power that spaces of nonformal feminist jurisprudence, the Mahila Panchayats (literally meaning “women’s courts”) have in cases in which women face domestic violence or other forms of injustice in their matrimonial homes within low-income neighbourhoods in Delhi. These spaces of the Mahila Panchayat are thus simultaneously the spaces of resistance to patriarchal power within the household and also spaces where women from the poor households of Delhi can derive a measure of agency when faced with domestic violence. Feminist scholars have characterized the household as the locus of conflicts and dissimilar power relations between men and women (Deshmukh 2002). Foucault refers to power as a “strategic game” that results in some people trying to determine the conduct of others, and somewhere between the states of domination and games of power he situates governmentality. Foucault also suggests looking into the resistances offered to such power relations to understand the mode of operation of power (Hindess 1996). This chapter explores the manner in which the nonformal spaces of Mahila Panchayats resist the forms of patriarchal power operating through violence within households in low-income neighbourhoods. In the South Asian context, the norms of patrilocality hinder women’s mobility, opportunities

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for employment and interaction with neighbours. In keeping with the practice of village exogamy, marriages in low-income communities in urban areas are locally exogamous, and here, brides migrate from different neighbourhoods even if they marry within a city’s limits. This distance adds to their vulnerability and acts as a barrier to easy access to their natal homes, bringing out the peculiarities of living in a large urban settlement. Newly married women thus have the fewest social networks in the locality and are overly dependent upon family members and neighbours around their marital home after marriage. Capability-diminishing practices within the household, like control on women’s mobility and autonomy in terms of access to monetary resources, make it all the more difficult for women to access legal support. A deeper understanding of the available options for women in case they face domestic violence reveals a deep chasm between women who are capable of exploring the state-provided options of negotiating their marital disputes and women who are not. Only women with basic capabilities such as knowledge of the existence of such laws, along with the resources required and the autonomy to move out of their household and be present at the court or police station, are in a position to access the state system for redressal. This chapter focuses on those women who do not fall into this category. These are women living in low-income neighbourhoods, who lack formal education, and access to paid work and are located at lower echelon of the caste/class divide in the urban social milieu of Delhi. The question that needs to be asked, then, is that given their experience of multiple marginalities, including lack of monetary resources and being confined to the household and completely unaware of the possibilities of escaping a violent marriage, how can these women be in a position to exercise their right to seek justice from the police or the judiciary? In such contexts, what role do Mahila Panchayats, or women’s courts, have in creating violence-free and empowering spaces for these women?

Women’s courts (Mahila Panchayats) in Delhi Panchayats, or local self-governments, have a long history within communities. These Panchayats have traditionally been bastions of male power in Indian rural spaces and have acceptance within the family and community as legitimate bodies for dispute management. (See Chapter 4 of this volume for an account of how Panchayats have been impacted by the reserving of seats for women within them.) Mahila Panchayats, in contrast, are not traditional. They grew out of feminist establishments like the ‘Sabala Sangh’ and have been in operation for the last three decades. These Mahila Panchayats were promoted in Delhi by the Delhi Commission for Women to offer legal knowledge and support to women experiencing violence.

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To provide a background, the Delhi Commission for Women functions in the manner of a civil court and was constituted with the aim to investigate and examine all matters relating to the safeguards provided for women under the Constitution of India and other laws. The Commission strives to ensure its aims through various programmes like Sahyogini, Mahila Panchayats, Rape Crisis Cell, Mobile Help Line and Premarital Counselling Cell. The jurisdiction of the Commission is within the National Capital Territory of Delhi. The Sabala Sangh, on the other hand, was formed by the activists of Action India, a nongovernmental organization (NGO) established in the 1970s and carrying out development projects in urban slums while focusing on women’s empowerment. Literally meaning “union of able women,” the Sabala Sangh comprises the activists of Action India along with local women from the slums where Action India carries out their community development programmes. (See Mehrotra 1997 for more details.) Against this background, the Mahila Panchayats are an informal group of part-time volunteers and a few paralegal workers. They operate under the aegis of the NGO but are not an NGO themselves. The members are trained in legal issues; counselling; dispute resolution; and laws related to crimes concerning women, property, maintenance rights, marriage and custody. They are also trained to get First Information Reports (FIR) registered at police stations when pursuing cases with the police and how to proceed with legal recourse. Members of the Mahila Panchayat have a variety of responsibilities assigned to them, depending on their designation in the Panchayat. The paralegal workers of the Panchayat are at the apex of the hierarchy and take the lead role in the arbitration process. Paralegal workers are trained in all legal provisions afforded by the state to women, children and families by the Indian penal code. They undergo training to upgrade their knowledge base, capacity building and skill enhancement and take the final decision during the process of arbitration as to whether a case can be resolved at the Mahila Panchayat or should also be pursued through the courts and the Delhi police’s crimes against women cell too. Most importantly, the paralegal workers ensure that the decisions they take are legally viable. Women’s subordination to gender and caste is maintained through women’s complicity with patriarchy, such as their adhering to caste-based endogamy. (See Chapters  2 and 11 in this volume.) This neighbourhood-based women’s community, on the other hand, is built on commonalities other than kinship or caste connection. The Mahila Panchayats work towards protecting victims of domestic violence from being revictimized by modern institutions such as the courts and the police. Organizations like Mahila Panchayats work towards gender justice across all classes of women, cementing bonds among women across their caste/class and religious identities. Such Mahila Panchayats are the prime movers in the “governance of

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gender” and also the agents who alter the “gender of governance.” With women in governance, one important structure of the patriarchal system gets occupied by women. This, in turn, opens up spaces for dissent against traditional practices as well as the nature of services provided by the state for women who access the justice system. In her analysis of domestic violence, Mirchandani finds that grassroots social movements can make a difference in legislature as well as the judiciary (Mirchandani 2006). Basu contends that Mahila Panchayats are used for the purpose of negotiation between family members for the restoration of family life, and women are usually advised to not invoke section  498 of the Indian penal code as it often eliminates the possibility of a woman returning to her matrimonial home (Basu 2006). Ghosh finds that alternate dispute resolution systems work towards preserving marriage and cessation of abuse but very rarely facilitate divorce or separation (Ghosh 2004). Several other studies mention the apathy of the community, the resistance from the natal family to accepting women back into their natal homes and women often being willing to forgive their abusers in order to revive their relationships – hence, the need for settling family disputes through simple procedures (Anand 2012; Vanka and Kumari 2008; Bhatla and Rajan 2008; Shramajibee Mahila Samiti 2008, among others). Magar explores strategies to counter domestic violence against women in the slums of Delhi through NGOs (Magar 2007). Social and political participation of victims of domestic violence through the Mahila Panchayats not only enhances their individual capabilities of addressing the violence meted out to them but also augments group capabilities by including them as part of a strong network of women.

The study The neighbourhood chosen for this chapter is a low-income neighbourhood in the Northeastern part of New Delhi. It is in spaces such as this that one experiences stark relative deprivation in terms of economic well-being as well as other forms of freedoms. The marginalized social locations that married women are placed into by migrating into such neighbourhoods allow for physical distance to grow between them and their kin who could offer support or redressal. Most often for women in such situations, livelihood options are absent or limited, and their locations in both space and class hinder access to the legal structures provided by the state. Needless to add, such women also have little control over household resources or decisionmaking, are unaware of legal provisions made available by the state to address domestic disputes and lack the support system and financial ability to travel to courts and free legal aid centres to seek redressal. Hence, the role of the Mahila Panchayat assumes added significance.

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A combination of various methods was adopted while undertaking fieldwork for the study. These ranged from participant observation of arbitration processes in Mahila Panchayat meetings, focus group discussions with members of the Mahila Panchayat, and semi-structured interviews with complainants of domestic violence who sought redressal from the Mahila Panchayats. In the initial stages, observation involved attending Mahila Panchayat meetings and being a spectator to the arbitration process to gather a nuanced understanding of dispute resolution in cases of domestic violence. Later, once familiarity was established, some Mahila Panchayat members were also interviewed to understand their roles in the Panchayat and their journeys from being outsiders to active participants. For the present study, 17 members of the Mahila Panchayat were interviewed: one paralegal worker and one volunteer; the rest were ordinary members of the Mahila Panchayat. The ages of the women interviewed ranged from 30  years to 70  years, and the number of years they had been associated with the Mahila Panchayat ranged from two years to 30. Eight members were Hindus with different caste affiliations, and nine were Muslims. None of the women were educated beyond high school. Finally, the study also involved talking to residents in the locality where the Mahila Panchayat office is located. This group did not include the complainants of domestic violence, and an additional round of interviews was done to assess the influence of the Mahila Panchayat on the local residents. The questions ranged from their socio-economic background to the causes and nature of violence they had experienced and the kind of redressal the women were expecting from the Mahila Panchayat.

Multilayered alterations in household power dynamics Westlund (1999) discusses the peculiarity of domestic violence in the context of Foucauldian power analysis as an act which combines both modern and pre-modern forms of power exertion on the subjects (married women). It is pre-modern since victims of domestic violence experience brutal and corporeal forms of power, and at the same time, modern forms of power operate on the subjects in the form of self-surveillance to conform to the model of the ideal wife and unknowingly co-opt the oppressor’s motive to subjugate the victim. This is similar to the doxic understandings of a good wife or daughter-in-law, as discussed in Chapter 2 of this volume. The women subjected to these forms of violence accept it as part of their role or norm and find it difficult to break out of this cycle. Breaking out of the cycle of violence and challenging patriarchal power thus requires the subjects first to identify what comprises violence and then to build strategies to overcome such acts of violence. In the Indian context, the interactions of victims of

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domestic violence with non–family members in the neighbourhood assumes greater significance. Chakravarti, for example, documents that patriarchy in India is plural and operating in a multitude of ways; hence, building resistance to it is an ongoing process (Chakravarti 2006). In her study of women’s courts in Delhi, Magar (2007) observed that the enhancement of women’s capabilities through their association with the Mahila Panchayats transpires at two levels: the individual and the group. This chapter goes well beyond these two known impacts and probes into the nature of the alterations of power dynamics that occur within the social space of the neighbourhood. In other words, the negotiations with the patriarchy that are being played out in the neighbourhood due to the presence of Mahila Panchayats subsequently make their way into households and alter the power dynamics of the households. If knowledge confers power, then the community-level activities of Mahila Panchayats raise women’s awareness and empower them by apprising them of their legal rights. Through these awareness-raising campaigns, Mahila Panchayats make a dent in the household. The Mahila Panchayats also make a concerted effort to make women view their existence independent of patriarchal roles. These roles are imbibed by women through various institutions, of which the family is the most potent. Over and above raising the consciousness of women on the need to critically question the arrangement of power and allowance of freedom within their homes, simultaneously offering them a space to address family discords requires the creation of new spaces. Mahila Panchayats fulfill this need. Suzuki (2000) observes two different modes of operation of social movements: by direct protest action or by nurturing alternative lifestyles for their members. With the dematerialization of society, knowledge and symbolism have emerged at the apex of the value-added hierarchy producing signs rather than material objects. This explains the shift of social movements from physical security to conflicts over culture, meaning and identity (Suzuki 2000). The cultural nature of these movements, which replaces “emancipatory politics” with “life politics,” involves deeper moral and existential questions, through which members are made to understand how they should live their lives in emancipated circumstances. The Mahila Panchayat brings about this shift as members address the existential crisis of women in distress. The nature of marital crisis women experience is innate to being a woman in these contexts and hence is easily comprehended and empathized with by women alone. Another aspect of the Mahila Panchayat which enhances its effectiveness in arbitrating family disputes is that the office bearers of the Panchayat (members, volunteers and paralegal workers) are women who belong to the same socio-economic echelon from where the aggrieved parties come. This acts as an assurance that the judgement is one that stems from an “insider”

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perspective, unlike the general disenchantment with police proceedings and court orders which reflect “outsider” opinions. The Mahila Panchayat members’ easy access to households in the neighbourhood becomes a very effective overlapping of public and private spaces. Through this, the Mahila Panchayat members get to know the ways of the family, and the household space does not remain as an impenetrable citadel of domination over women.

Observing the Mahila Panchayat arbitration process The two case studies that follow reveal the ways in which an aggrieved woman is helped by the Mahila Panchayats to build on her agential capabilities and to overcome her vulnerabilities in the marital home. The titles reflect the observations of the Mahila Panchayat and the spirit of the judgement. A loose translation in English is provided in parentheses. At the outset in both cases, the PLW (paralegal worker) of the Mahila Panchayat begins the arbitration by clarifying the rules of the Panchayat which the parties must follow: the parties must refrain from using abusive language, each party pays a one-time fee of Rs 50 for the arbitration and the verdict is conditional – sharton par faisla hogi in local parlance. The party which registers the case gets to speak first, and it is expected that no interruptions will occur when each party speaks. Two copies of the verdict are made: one for the local police station and the other for the Mahila Panchayat. Crucially, the Panchayat members can visit the household at any time to investigate should any breach of the agreement occur. (i) Ladki apne iccha se rahegi (the bride would stay at the marital home out of her own will) Rita comes to the Mahila Panchayat office, exhausted, holding her sevenmonth-old daughter. She complains that her husband does not provide for her basic needs of food and clothing, which forced her to leave her marital household within three months of her marriage while pregnant and stay with her parents as she required care and nutrition for the growing baby in her womb. She claims she has been married for almost two years and has been subjected to physical and verbal abuse. She was also never helped monetarily by her in-laws. At the time of the marriage, the in-laws had said that she was not expected to work outside the household and generate extra income for the household. Her husband now complains of not being able to make ends meet and feels that the only way for the couple to live together is to go back to his ancestral village in the Aligarh district in Uttar Pradesh. The Panchayat members first verify whether the respondent has really helped his wife monetarily, and he is reprimanded for not doing so. The

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Panchayat members then interrogate him about his work and income. They learn that being a labourer, he earns Rs 200 per day (at the time of writing one rupee is roughly equivalent to 1.2 euro cents), which amounts to Rs 6,000 per month. The members of the Panchayat then very skillfully enquire about his total monthly expenditure, which he says is Rs 1,250 for rent. He also says that he spends Rs 50 for his food, and since he walks to work, he doesn’t need to spend on conveyance. Since he has been living away from his wife for over one year, the Panchayat members are quick to ask him why he has not taken care of the wife’s needs with the balance of his income. The husband retorts that he wouldn’t do that if Rita stays at her natal home. The Panchayat members then ask him whether he has saved the money which he had not given his wife. If he hadn’t, then where was he spending all the money? The Panchayat members also reveal their sharp comprehension of ground realities when they decide that Rita should not be forced to stay in her husband’s ancestral village, arguing that a woman brought up in Delhi would find it extremely difficult to stay in the village. Since, at the time of the marriage, it was not made clear that they would live in the village, her husband should make efforts to earn regularly, spend his income judiciously and live in Delhi, where Rita can easily reach her parents in case of any need. The arbitration process involved counselling the two parties, making Rita’s husband realize his responsibilities towards his wife and daughter, and also making him commit to mending his ways. A complete change in the power equation is observed in the Panchayat meeting since, within the household, the breadwinner’s autonomy on his spending behaviour usually remains unquestioned. However, in this case, this behaviour has been successfully challenged. The patrilocal nature of marriage is also challenged when Rita is advised to continue to live in her natal home till she, along with the Panchayat, is satisfied with her husband’s commitment to supporting Rita and her child. (ii) Faisla sab ke hit me hoga (the decision will benefit all parties) The internalization of feminist ideals and consciousness by the members of the Panchayat is clearly discernible at the meetings. The case of the marital dispute between Jyoti and Raja highlights this aspect. Jyoti and Raja have been married for 20 years, and though they do not have children of their own, they are against adopting. A  year before, Jyoti discovered to her dismay that Raja had fathered a baby boy out of wedlock. The Mahila Panchayat summoned Raja and confirmed Raja’s fathering of the child, but instead of asking Raja to stay with Jyoti, they contacted Sneha, who had given birth to his child. The Mahila Panchayat explained to Jyoti that the new law takes live-in relationships into consideration, that Sneha and her

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child also have rights to Raja’s income and that he cannot be forced not to communicate with his child’s mother. Sneha, who was summoned to the Panchayat at the next meeting, was counselled about the insecurities associated with women bearing children out of wedlock, and even though the law recognizes such relationships and guarantees her right to residence, the chances of violence and disharmony within the household would continue since, just as she has her rights concerning Raja, Jyoti, as his legal wife, would continue to have hers. The members then turn the discussion to men having multiple sexual partners and the threat of women contracting sexually transmitted diseases, which exemplifies the ability of the members to relate to and empathize with various aspects of women’s vulnerability and make efforts to protect them.

Interviews with Mahila Panchayat members An analysis of the responses of Mahila Panchayat members and office bearers on their own journeys towards empowerment through association with the Panchayat is also telling. Responses highlight the changes members experience in terms of their personalities and capabilities as they participate in and contribute to the Mahila Panchayats. Mostly, they report becoming more articulate, confident and aware, standing up to injustices and feeling in solidarity with other women. (i) Hamari izzat hone lagi (we are being treated with respect) Members are quick to recognize the new found respect and dignity associated with being a Panchayat member. One member proudly recalls that often people refer to her as Pradhanji (leader). From a subdued homemaker with practically no accessibility to the neighbourhood, it is indeed a great achievement to be referred to as a leader in the locality by the menfolk. “Samaj bhi izzat ke saath dekhte hain. Bade samajhne lagen” (members of the society too treat us with respect. . . . they consider us elders). A victim of partner abuse in the past, Mani today is a volunteer living on her own with her children. She fought her own case in the court and now gets maintenance from her husband. She is quick to remind her husband about her newfound confidence and support system: “Pata hain main kahan naukri karti hoon?” (Don’t you know which organization I work for?) An association with the Mahila Panchayat offers an empowering influence, and members vouch for a positive change in their level of confidence. Tremendous change in self occurs; as Rammati says, “Ab koi bhi bade aadmi se baat karne mein dar nahin lagta” (Now we don’t feel scared to speak to any high official), so the entire equation of position- or caste-based dominance has been overthrown in the minds of the Panchayat members.

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(ii) Baat karne ki tameezh seekhi (we have learnt the art of speaking) Members feel confident to speak out and agree that the forum has given them the ability to speak up for their own rights. They report becoming capable of resolving their household matters. While cases are heard, the opinions of the members are awaited for taking decisions on cases. The members’ self-worth gets enhanced as their opinions and understanding are sought and valued. Mani proudly proclaims her ability to talk to lawyers and police personnel without hesitation: “Bejhijhak Police, Wakil ya Judge se baat kar sakte hain” (Without hesitation, I  can talk to police, lawyers or judges). Karuna ascribes her newfound “modern” knowledge about the body, the environment and sanitation to her association with the Mahila Panchayat, apart from acquiring the knowledge of laws. Karuna’s empowered state of being is reflected through her assertion that she can stand up for her own and other women’s rights. (iii) Aane-jaane ki sahuliat (ease of coming and going within the neighbourhood) Women’s mobility within the neighbourhood has also undergone a very positive change, with women freely joining the weekly meetings of the Panchayat. While most of the members don’t need permission from home to attend the meetings, there are members like Tayyaba who, after ten years of association, still keeps her visits to the Panchayat a secret. All the members interviewed reveal a tremendous change in their selves, shedding their earlier demure and underconfident selves to become women who see through the injustices done to women. According to some members, women earlier wouldn’t go out alone even to see a doctor; now if even four women get together, they are capable of resisting violence in the locality. (iv) Hum sab behne hain (we are all sisters) This study also shows a greater level of cohesion between women belonging to different religious groups. Members belonging to two major religious groups, namely Hindus and Muslims, often quipped that across the religious boundaries, the conditions of women remain unchanged, and in fact, their circumstances are more similar than different. A sense of sameness and not othering is clearly observed when members discuss cases from different religious and caste backgrounds. During the holy month of Ramadan, members wait for “hamari Mussalman behene” (our Muslim sisters) as they require more time to cook and prepare for the iftaari, or post-fast evening meal. Magar (2001) also notes how the Mahila Panchayats play an important role in the dilution of caste-based associations within the neighbourhood. 86

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Thus, Mahila Panchayats enable their members to forge solidarities across religion and caste. (v) Sangathan mein jude rehne se sangathan ki taaqat hume bhi majboot karti hain (the strength of the group strengthens us) Neerja observes that the power of community-based action gets transferred to individual women members too. “Sangathan mein jude rehne se sangathan ki taaqat hume bhi majboot karti hain” (By being a part of the group, the strength of the group strengthens us as well). During the discussion, one member quips that she learnt to speak, found a job, her confidence level has gone up and she gets hope to fight back once she meets all her Panchayat behen (sisters). Another member retorts “Ab akal aye hain; pehle toh maar khati thi” (Now I realize; earlier I just took the blows). The same member is now a pillar of support to other women. She had accompanied her neighbour, whose in-laws were not letting her live with her infant child, to the Panchayat. With the help of local police, this member reunited the young mother with her child. Tarannum had never stepped out of the household, but her tryst with the Mahila Panchayat began “jab meri apni beti ke sath zulm hua” (when my own daughter faced injustice). Now she regularly visits and feels happy that many women in the neighbourhood who had trouble living in their marital homes have now been counselled and supported and are able to live with dignity in their marital homes. Often, the members of the Panchayat refer to such incidences as the Panchayat having “saved” those marriages. (vi) Dost mile (we found friends) Taisha says she found an empowering space at the Mahila Panchayat: “Dost mile, kuch ghanto ke liye ghar ki zimmedari bhul kar kuch accha kaam karte hain” (I found friends and, for a couple of hours, can forget the responsibilities of home to do good work). Sehla finds a lot of change in the locality  – the neighbourhood space where women meet their fellow Panchayat members and feel free to discuss their household problems, even outside the Panchayat office. Women’s association with these groups, their activism and their interventions at the Panchayat bear fruit within and outside the household space. All of these contribute to women’s sense of autonomy, self-determination and self-actualization.

Subtle subversions, advocacy, support and backlash From a discussion of these cases, it is evident that the creation of a structure like the Mahila Panchayat constantly challenges patriarchal norms and provides another legal space of redressal, which otherwise would be 87

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negotiated only through the police and the courts. The paralegal workers as well as the members of the Mahila Panchayats offer candid views on the role of the Mahila Panchayat in creating spaces within the neighbourhood in terms of safety, dignity and respect of women. The safety of women can never be guaranteed, but if a woman feels threatened by visiting the police stations, she may instead visit the Mahila Panchayat office without any hesitation. Her identity is protected, and the Mahila Panchayat gets the help of the police on her behalf to guarantee her safety. A member quipped that “jo badmash hote hain woh to police se bhi nahin darte; toh humse kya darenge” (The wayward men are not even afraid of the police, so can they ever be scared of us). Yet a paralegal worker remembers with a great sense of pride how a factory owner in the vicinity of the Mahila Panchayat office who used very abusive language to control his workers was gradually reformed with gentle counselling by the Mahila Panchayat members and is a reformed man today. Similarly, the paralegal workers try not only to change the mind-set of the husband and wife so that they refrain from violence but also to sensitize the mothers-in-law and the daughters-in-law to empathize with each other’s perspectives. This works well as the members of the Panchayat, too, are a mixed group of mothers-in-law and daughters-in-law who bring in their own experiences and sensibilities in deciding the outcome of disputes. This is important in situations in which household resources are limited, as is the case in localities where Mahila Panchayats operate. As members take their experiences from the Panchayat back to their households to discuss the cases there, they notice a perceptible change in the attitude of the male members of the household, too, as the men begin to understand that women deserve dignity. The house visits by the Panchayat members open up the household space to women from outside the family too. A member recalls the plight of a young bride dealing with heavy menstrual flow in her household, unable to get any medical help because she couldn’t bring up the issue with her in-laws and had no monetary resources and no mobility to visit a doctor. The visiting member with her experience knew what was amiss, discussed the problem with the bride’s mother-in-law (who was in the same age group as the member) and took the bride to the hospital, where she received treatment and soon recovered. The existence of the Mahila Panchayat in a locality is thus a constant reminder that women, too, have a place to go to in case of any violation of their rights within their marital homes. What emerges from the engagement of the Mahila Panchayat with the neighbourhood space is the deliverance of everyday justice. The Mahila Panchayat periodically organizes Gali meetings (meetings in the lane), where knowledge about community-based programs on existing laws for women is disseminated. In this manner, awareness is generated among non-members, too, and assurance is offered that Panchayat

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members are there to help if the need arises. In the words of a paralegal worker, since women whose cases have already been solved bring women in distress to the Mahila Panchayat, the existence and functions of the Mahila Panchayat get advertised by word of mouth to almost all the women living in the neighbourhood and even to their relatives and friends living in other localities or towns and villages. This process has a slow but steady effect in altering the gendered nature of the macro space. Not only do women become aware of their rights, but men also become sensitized to the issue of women’s rights, and the space of patriarchal power in the household thus begins shrinking. However, the transition from male-dominated spaces to egalitarian spaces is not smooth. Most of the members have experienced backlash and efforts by both men and women to stall the process of change. As Mani recalls, her husband would often show his frustration regarding her association with the Mahila Panchayat: “Jab se Panchayat mein kya baithne lagi hain . . . zabaan chalati hain” (Ever since you joined the Mahila Panchayat, your tongue is wagging). Most of the members faced resistance from their families when they joined the Mahila Panchayat, but there has been no collective effort by the neighbourhood or any social group to threaten the existence of the Mahila Panchayat.

Reflections The NGO-ization of feminist vocabulary and agendas might pose a problem when NGOs are not partners or do not share the philosophy of the local feminist movements. This study of Mahila Panchayats bears out that an NGO which is aware of the local social space where it operates is in a position to enhance the agential capacities of women through both awareness generation and retributive justice wherever and whenever required. Since the members of the Mahila Panchayat usually belong to the neighbourhood, the obstacle of distance and the cost of reaching out to mentors are minimized. The possibility of reaching out to a Mahila Panchayat member as a mentor has an empowering effect on women who married into families which may be hostile to them. Physical accessibility and the close proximity of the women’s court to spaces of conflict hold the key to altering the gender equation of those spaces. By raising the idea of gender justice in an informal manner, the Mahila Panchayats are not only successfully containing the brutal and corporeal forms of power in cases of domestic violence, but are also able to alter women’s internalization of the inevitability of their subservient role in private spaces. This is instrumental in building on women’s existing capabilities and freedoms and working towards the creation of violence-free homes.

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The solidarity among women sends a strong signal of zero tolerance for violence against women in the locality. Justice delivered through the arbitration process is almost always tailor made for the woman seeking justice, even while adhering to the legal framework. The informal nature of the organization helps the justice seeker to not get revictimized by state-based institutions like the police or the courts. Women learn about an alternate lifestyle to their socially approved roles, and their networking through groups becomes a constant reminder of the patterns of oppression to which they are subjected and that group/structural resistance is necessary to challenge such structural oppression. This is a departure from viewing women as helpless, gullible victims of patriarchal oppression. Rather, women consciously seek out spaces for fighting their battles and allowing their personal experiences to be viewed and addressed politically. This study therefore shows that resistance to patriarchal power exists in the same spaces where such power dominates, but it requires the collective effort of multiple subjects to raise consciousness and alter the dynamics of domination and control that women experience within their homes. In sum, the Mahila Panchayats in the low-income neighbourhoods of Delhi embody the spaces of power and the power of spaces of nonformal feminist jurisprudence in (re)scripting gender within a genderscape embedded in a lowincome working-class neighbourhood in Delhi.

Note All names have been anonymized. The name of the Delhi locality in which the study was carried out has also not been revealed. The study was conducted between 2014 and 2017.

References Anand, Rashmi. Room 103 Nanakpura Thana. New Delhi: Times Group Books, 2012. Basu, Srimanti. “Playing Off the Courts: The Negotiation of Divorce and Violence in Plural Legal Settings in Kolkata.” Journal of Legal Pluralism 38, no. 52 (2006): 41–75. Bhatla, Nandita, and Anuradha Rajan. “Private Concerns in Public Discourse Courts.” In Democracy in the Family: Insights from India, edited by Joy Deshmukh Ranadive, 128–50. New Delhi: Sage, 2008. Chakravarti, Uma. Gendering Caste: Through a Feminist Lens. Calcutta: Stree, 2006. Datta, Anindita. “MacDonaldization of Gender in Urban India: A Tentative Exploration.” Gender, Technology and Development 9, no. 1 (2005): 125–35. Datta, Anindita. “Natural Landscapes and Regional Constructs of Gender: Theorizing Linkages in the Indian Contexts.” Gender, Technology and Development 15, no. 3 (2011): 345–62.

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Deshmukh Ranadive, Joy. Spaces for Power. New Delhi: Centre for Women’s Development and Studies, 2002. Ghosh, H. Ahmed. “Chattels of Society: Domestic Violence in India.” Violence Against Women 10 (2004): 94–118. DOI: 10.1177/1077801203256019. Hindess, Barry. Discourses of Power from Hobbes to Foucault. Oxford: Wiley, 1996. Magar, Veronica. “Resisting Domestic Violence and Class Inequality: All-Women Courts in India.” In Feminism and Antiracism: International Struggles for Justice, edited by France Winddance Twine and Katheline M. Blee. New York: New York University Press, 2001. Magar, Veronica. “Empowerment Approaches to Gender Based Violence: Women’s Courts in Delhi Slums.” In Urban Women in Contemporary India, edited by R. Ghadhially, 118–36. New Delhi: Sage Publications, 2007. Mehrotra, Nilika. “Grassroots Women Activism: A Case Study from Delhi.” Indian Anthropologist 27, no. 2 (1997): 19–38. Mirchandani, Rekha. “Hitting Is Not Manly: Domestic Violence Courts and the Reimagination of Patriarchal State.” Gender and Society 20, no. 6 (2006): 781–804. Samiti, Shramajibee Mahila. “The Shalishi in West Bengal: A  Community Based Response to Domestic Violence.” In Democracy in the Family: Insights from India, edited by Joy Deshmukh Ranadive. New Delhi: Sage, 2008. Suzuki, Tessa Morris. “For and Against NGOs: The Politics of the Lived World.” New Left Review 2 (2000): 66–84. Vanka, Sita, and M. Nirmala Kumari. “Sustaining Democracy Within the Family Through Family Courts.” In Democracy in the Family: Insights from India, edited by Joy Deshmukh Ranadive. New Delhi: Sage, 2008. Westlund, Andrea C. “Pre Modern and Modern Power: Foucault and the Case of Domestic Violence.” Signs 24, no. 4 (1999): 1045–66.

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7 “IT IS BETTER TO DIE THAN TO LIVE LIKE THIS” Widowhood, economic denial and violence in rural Punjab Kanchan Gandhi

Being a widow in the Indian context is usually a harrowing experience deeply influenced by class, caste and religious positions. In different parts of India, as a part of social rituals, widows are required to break their bangles and wipe off their vermillion; they are also traditionally prohibited from wearing colourful clothes or eating certain types of food and face other kinds of restrictions and denials. The social stigma attached to widowhood in almost all regions of India results in the widow being considered “inauspicious” and often excluded from “happy” community events, such as weddings and ceremonies for pregnant women (see Gandhi et al. 2016). Widows in general are also much more likely to live in poverty due to the patrilineal system of inheritance. This chapter focuses on the experiences of elderly and young widowed women from different castes in rural Punjab. As Datta (2005, 2011, 2016; also Chapter 1 of this volume) highlights, different regions provide different physical and social contexts in which different genderscapes evolve. In the case of Punjab, gender relations have to be analyzed in relation to the progress of the green revolution, which was a national strategy introduced by the government of India in the 1970s. The ‘Green Revolution’ of the seventies transformed the agrarian economy of Punjab from intensive farming, where women played an important role in farm activities, to a mechanized, technology-oriented farming system which led to the elimination of women from farm work (see Chowdhury 1994) for a similar discussion in the context of neighbouring Haryana). This agrarian transformation also impacted women’s status in the economy and society. Among the changes noted, animal husbandry suffered a setback due to the use of pesticides in the fields as water bodies and grazing lands became toxic. The widespread use of pesticides has also made Punjab the

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“cancer state” of India. There is a high incidence of the disease in the state. Further, the bumper yields that resulted from green revolution inputs such as improved irrigation, a high-yielding variety of seeds and widespread use of fertilizers and pesticides led to a sense of abundance among farm owners and agricultural labourers alike. This period of “economic prosperity” led to increasing social vices in society, such as a dramatic rise in alcoholism and drug abuse among men and youth. Social evils related to substance abuse have had a deep impact on gender relations in the state. Given this social background, the study attempted to understand and document the experiences of widows as a category of single women in terms of their treatment by their families, their communities and the state in five districts of Punjab. While the larger study focused on several categories of single women, this chapter examines how religion, caste and class intersect with the “singleness” of widowed women to make them socially, economically, politically and culturally “vulnerable.” In Punjab, it was seen that “lower-caste” single women were more vulnerable than the more affluent Jats (the landowning castes) and that among widows, issues of violence and abuse were closely interwoven with issues of alcoholism and drug abuse among men in the community.

Background and methods This research was part of a larger study conducted by the Centre for Equity Studies (CES), a Delhi-based NGO, in collaboration with the Ekal Nari Sangathan (ENS) (the Single Women’s Forum, SWF), Udaipur (with a presence in several states). The aim of the study was to understand and document the experiences of “single women” in different states in India. The CES study aimed to have a good regional representation of gender issues from the North, South, East and West of India. From North India, Punjab, a state known to be highly patriarchal, was selected. Our research partner  – the Single Women’s Forum – was working at the grassroots level in this state. For our study, we looked at the de jure categories of “single women” – i.e. the never married, separated, divorced and widowed women. The singleness of women gets complicated by these different axes of marginalization, and this is what we wanted to document. The ENS grassroots workers collected data on the presence of single women in the districts, and based on this information, five districts were selected for the study due to the larger number of single women in these districts compared with others in the state. These were the districts of Tarn Taran, Ludhiana, Fatehgarh Sahib, Patiala and Mansa. The district Mansa was selected as many episodes of farmer suicides in that district had been reported in the vernacular and national dailies, and this meant it had a large number of “suicide widows.” In each of the case study districts, two villages were covered for this study.

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The year-long study commenced in February 2013, and the states of Punjab and Gujarat were selected for the first phase of the study. Two teams comprising two members each were delegated to cover these states. The main method followed was to have focus group discussions (FGDs) with groups of single women in the villages spanning these states. I was a part of the first phase of the field study, and this chapter is based on my interactions with groups of women during the FGDs. During our FGD, we found that many women wanted to share personal experiences, and we would single them out for an in-depth discussion. Thus, while we started discussions with a collective of women from different villages, these invariably would end up in discussions with smaller groups and individual women. The method we followed for recruiting women in the different villages was to make an announcement through the public announcement system in the Gurudwara (place of worship for Sikhs). After hearing this, women would gather in an open space either on the roof or the courtyard of the Gurudwara, and we would introduce our research topic and invite them for discussions. Many times, the women, especially the widows, thought that we were surveyors sent by the government to include them in pension lists. As a result, most of our respondents tended to be middle-aged and elderly widows. It was sad to see their disappointment when they realized that we were not visiting to give them any benefits. The women still opened up to us and came forward to share their stories. The research was close to our hearts, and we could identify with some of the experiences we heard. Both my research partner and I were single women: she was never married, and I was separated from my spouse and marital family. Although we were both Punjabis hailing from Delhi, the situation of the women in rural Punjab was vastly different from our own. Hence, our positionality as single Punjabi women conducting research on single women in rural Punjab did not necessarily lead to a better understanding of their situation.

Singleness and widowhood in India The literature on single women tends to focus on “de jure” categories of single women, such as widows, never married and separated women. Among these, studies on widows have received the largest attention. While widows are an extremely “vulnerable” category as pointed out by various scholars (see Chen and Dreze 1992, 1995, 2002; Reddy 2004; Jenson 2005), it is increasingly realized that women who are de facto heads of households (i.e. their husbands are alive but missing, infirm or alcoholics) have received much less attention in both academic research and policy (cf Ruwanpura and Humphries 2004; Hyndman 2009; Gandhi 2010). In the case of Punjab, it becomes imperative to examine the “de facto” women heads of households since many men have become infirm due to the substance abuse rampant in

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the society. The differences in the situations of widows (de jure) and de facto women heads of households are important ones; while the former get state, NGO and kin support (although conditionally), the latter are usually not incorporated into policy making. In the case of Punjab, widows were entitled to a small pension; however “never-married” or separated women had no such entitlement to claim from the state. The category of “singleness” thus must be debated and nuanced by policy makers and administrators. Chant (1997, p.  47) notes that widows are often regarded as “more deserving” of policy intervention than other categories of single women (including single, divorced and separated women). However, within the category of “widows,” too, there exists diversity in living conditions depending on their class, ethnicity, caste and age positions in a given context. For example, writing in the context of multi-ethnic Sri Lanka, Ruwanpura and Humphries (2004) and Hyndman (2008) acknowledge the different situations of widows from diverse ethnic backgrounds. The authors note that while the Sinhalese widows benefitted from both being the majority group and being able to draw on a favourable legal code, which gave them matrilineal inheritance, Muslim widows were constrained, being a minority and due to restrictive cultural norms. Reddy (2004, p.  93) highlights the need to deconstruct the category of “widows” in India, which he contends has so far been treated homogenously by policy makers. He illustrates that it is difficult to describe the life of widows in India since their experiences vary according to the “state, caste, economic and social level, education and whether the family is rural or urban.” Dreze and Chen (2002) argue that widows in North India lead an extremely marginalized and restricted life and choose not to remarry since they are denied inheritance, stigmatized if they remarry and generally considered inauspicious. The authors also argue how a widow in North India is a highly vulnerable category (compared to one in South India) since she hardly “receives any support from persons other than her children, and even when she lives with one or several of her adult sons she remains highly vulnerable to neglect” (Chen and Dreze 1992, 1995). Further, her ability to engage in income-earning activities of her own is severely restricted, partly due to various patriarchal norms such as patrilineal inheritance and the division of labour by gender. The consequences of this social and economic marginalization are manifest in poor health and high mortality levels. The authors have called for greater attention to the plight of widowed women rather than men who lost their spouses on account of “the much higher incidence of widowhood among women than among men (and, relatedly, the much greater freedom that widowed men have to remarry), and the social and psychological deprivations endured by many widows, in addition to economic hardship” (Chen and Dreze 1995, p. 2438). Chen and Dreze cite a study by Mari Bhat which brings out regional patterns in mortality rates.

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Specifically, the gap in mortality rates between widows and married women appears to be much larger in many of the Northern states (including Punjab, Haryana, Uttar Pradesh and Bihar) than in South India. This is in line with the findings of earlier studies, suggesting that the economic and social condition of widows is particularly unfavourable in North India. Jenson (2005, p. 358) explains that about fifty-five percent of women aged 60 and above in India are widows primarily due to the age gap between the husband and wife, which contributes to their economic vulnerability, especially in rural areas where employment opportunities involve hard physical labour. Citing Chen (2000), Jenson argues that cultural norms and restrictions on the diet and movement of widows make them even more vulnerable to exploitation by family members. Hyndman (2009) argues how the issues faced by young widows and old widows are different; similarly, the situations of war widows and tsunami widows are different, as the latter may have lost their entire family. The literature on women’s status and widowhood in India also points out that ownership of property is an important factor in reducing abuse and violence against them (see, for example, Chen 1998; Agarwal 2003; Panda and Agarwal 2005). A brief review of the literature cited in this section on de jure and de facto single women thus concludes that both society and state policy are more sympathetic towards the de jure categories of singleness, especially the widows. However, the category of “widows” itself is quite vast and needs to be nuanced to account for its intersections with other markers of social identity. Widows belonging to the upper castes, for example, may have better social capital and networks, which enable them better social and economic protection in rural contexts. They may have better political connection with the village heads since these typically belong to the upper castes. The section that follows elucidates these differences by providing stories of different caste widows and their differential access to the job market and social networks in the village

Vignettes from the field This section provides the cases of three widows from different caste groups from Ludhiana District in Punjab. The reason that all three detailed studies are from Ludhiana is that we got the maximum time to do in-depth interviews in this district. In other districts, our stay was shorter, and the interaction with women was more in the form of focus group discussions. While the FGDs helped us to gather the larger generic issues that single women were facing in these villages, the in-depth interviews helped in detailing some of these deprivations and violence. These case studies demonstrate the role of the family, community and state in supporting/ostracizing these widows. Widows who return to their

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natal families face lesser abuse than those who stay with their marital families after their husbands’ demise. The case studies show the difficult negotiations for share in property and wealth that these widows had to undertake with their marital families to ensure a secure future for themselves and their children. They also demonstrate how upper-caste women have better social networks that help them to survive better in the aftermath of widowhood. (i) Praneet: her parents, her saviours In Khanna Block of Ludiana District, we stayed at the house of Praneet (name changed), one of our research subjects who was also a former worker in ENS (our partner organization). Praneet is a Dalit (oppressed caste) woman. At the time of the study, she was a young widow with a five-yearold son and was staying with her parents in her natal village after her husband died in an accident soon after their son was born. Her marital family had started mistreating her and wanted the custody of her newborn son without wanting her to be a part of their household. Praneet returned to her parents’ house with her son and fought with her marital family for his custody. Staying with her, we got an actual glimpse of how single women were treated when they returned to their natal home. Her parents had been exceptionally supportive when she came back to their house. Her sister-in-law (her brother’s wife) had some objections to sharing the house with her and had moved to the first floor with her husband (Praneet’s brother) and children where she could run her own household with a separate kitchen. Praneet’s parents clearly stated that their daughter was their priority since she had suffered a huge setback in her life; it was their primary duty to provide shelter to her and protect her from oppressive in-laws. This was an encouraging prospect in the patriarchal society of Punjab. Staying with Praneet and her family provided us an insight into the life of a young widow and her role as a daughter and a single parent. Her parents helped her immensely with her parenting responsibilities, and she was able to take up a job as a fieldworker at the NGO for the ENS project. However, she could not continue working on the project since the project head was an old patriarch who treated fieldworkers very badly. Female fieldworkers from different districts were often summoned to the head office in Chandigarh, which meant that they had to travel several hundred kilometres in a day, often returning late at night, which they felt was unsafe in the context of Punjab. The project head also spoke to the women in a dismissive manner and refused to pay them decent wages or travel allowances on time. Due to the exploitative work conditions, she resigned from the job with her parents’ encouragement. Praneet’s situation was better than that of many of the single women we met due to the parental support she

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had. The fact that her father was supporting her financially ensured she didn’t get pushed into low-paid, exploitative work. The testimony of Praneet made us wonder if male-headed organizations should be made implementers of a sensitive project such as one dealing with the lives of single women. In Praneet’s case, while family and economic support was available, workspaces were exploitative. The male project head also behaved very roughly with us despite the fact that we were not his employees. All these lived experiences in the field reminded me of Anupamlata et al.’s (2006) work “Playing with Fire,” in which women fieldworkers of a prominent NGO in Uttar Pradesh describe the deeply exploitative nature of their work in organizations that work for “women’s empowerment” as their stated goal but actually exploit grassroots women workers. (ii) Bina Rani: abandoned by in-laws In Otala village, Samrala Block, of Ludhiana district we met an upper-caste (Khatri) widow called Bina Rani (a pseudonym). Bina Rani was a graceful woman who had the mannerisms of a well-educated person. She told us that her natal family is in Ambala, a big city compared to the villages we were visiting. She had four daughters  – the elder three were school passouts and were now married, and the youngest one was doing her bachelor’s degree. Her mother-in-law and brother-in-law’s family had stayed in Otala village, and she had moved in with them after her husband died 18 years before. They were not very welcoming of her, and she had to muster her own resources to be able to put a roof over her head. She worked in a private school for three years before she got the job as an Anganwadi (rural childcare centre  – a scheme initiated by the government of India) worker 15 years ago. Her brother-in-law and his wife were not very cordial towards her. She said that nobody was supportive of her after she lost her husband. (She cried as she talked about that time.) Her eldest daughter was only five years old then. They had to sell the house in which she lived with her husband for his treatment after he met with an accident. She was able to buy her present house with the help of the former sarpanch (head of the Panchayat – a body for village governance), Karam Singh. She said that he was very good towards her. She refused to take the plot near the Scheduled Caste housing area and wanted to buy a house near her in-laws’ house only so that later they would not attack her character. No one stopped her from working, she says, since there was no one to provide for her. She said that she never gave any dowry for her daughters’ weddings. She had made it clear to their parents-in-law before the marriage that she wouldn’t be able to give any dowry. But the eldest daughter’s husband worked erratically and had asked her to set up a business for him. Hence, they had taken a loan of rupees 2.5 lakhs (approximately 3,000 euros) and set up a shop for him. She

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and her eldest daughter still had to repay the loan, which was why she had left her husband and migrated to Australia. Her daughter had expressed that she wanted to divorce her husband since he was a liability for her. But Bina Rani said that they were in a tough situation due to the eldest son-inlaw since she had bought the house jointly in her daughter and son-in-law’s name. She feels constrained about taking the case to court since that would be another financial burden. Bina Rani’s narrative demonstrated that as an upper-caste educated woman from the city, she had better access to a government job (i.e. at the Anganwadi). She also managed to educate her daughters and not pay dowry at their weddings. However, she had still faced patriarchal oppression from her in-laws and then from her son-in-law and still struggled for a life with dignity. Compared to some of the Dalit widows we spoke to, she had had a better life due to her educational and employment status, but she still suffered at the hands of her marital family on account of her widowhood. Bina Rani’s narrative, however, proves that if single women are provided with educational and employment opportunities, they have a much better chance at a dignified life. While Bina Rani received no support from her in-laws, she was saved the humiliation of violence since she purchased her own house in the same village. Some of the other widows who had to share the house with their in-laws faced violence from their brothers-in-law too. (iii) Pinder Kaur: battered by the brother-in-law This case study is of a widow who had to share the house with her inlaw family after she was widowed. In Rauni village in Khanna Block of Ludhiana District, we met Pinder Kaur (not her real name), a 42-year-old widow who had been widowed 23 years ago. She belonged to a family of agricultural labourers from the lower caste who did not own any land in the village. She had lived with her husband for only six years and had two daughters and a son with him. Her son had been only two months old when her husband passed away. Her daughters and son had now completed school. She had three brothers-in-law, an elder and two younger ones. Her father-in-law divided the house into four parts and gave them a portion each, so she had a roof over her head. She brought up her children by sewing clothes for people in the village. Her son was training to be an electrician. She said that the village people helped with her daughters’ weddings. They donated clothes and utensils for the weddings. Her own brothers-in-law were not helpful at all. They were drunkards and also struggling to survive and support their own families. Her mother-in-law laboured as a cook. Her brothers-in-law had been abusive towards her. Eleven years ago, her younger brother-in-law got drunk and demanded money from her; he smashed her head with a glass bottle. She was bleeding

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profusely and got 32 stitches on her head (the injury marks were still visible). The village people had helped her by admitting her to the hospital. She had been able to recover and live on due to the kindness of her neighbours. Her elder sister-in-law was a widow before her. Her mother-in-law used to nag and trouble that sister-in-law, too, but her natal family was financially strong and took care of her needs. Having a natal family that is wealthy was an asset that helped women live their lives with dignity, Pinder Kaur believed. She had a ration card in her name and got twenty-five kilograms of subsidized wheat per month. She received nothing else on that card. She said that her brothers-in-law were also in a bad financial situation since they were heavily into drinking. They’d had a flour mill earlier, which they sold, and the money from this had been spent on drinking. Pinder Kaur’s experience was among the most physically violent experiences that we heard in the course of our fieldwork. Although most of the single women we met shared that they had faced mental torture at the hands of their marital families after their husbands passed away, Pinder Kaur had faced extreme physical violence after becoming a widow. It was the kindness of the community that had helped her survive. There had been no state support to ameliorate her situation. She did not receive a widow’s pension and had to stay on in her marital family even after her husband died. Despite the deeply violent episode with her brother-in-law, she had moved on with dignity and married her daughters off. Overall, the most prominent themes from our interviews were abandonment and violence by marital families, lack of state and family support, economic hardships and the struggle to live with dignity. Women identified education and livelihood strengthening as two major areas needing intervention from the state. Some narratives clearly brought out deeply embedded caste and gender biases and oppression in the society. Dalit women were feeling doubly jeopardized due to the dominant social organisation and state neglect. Clearly, the so-called welfare measures by the social justice department were not making much real impact on the status of Dalits. The next section discusses these issues and the policy implications of this research.

Discussion and reflections Although due to the research design and methodology adopted, we ended up talking mostly to elderly Dalit widows in the villages, the findings here are relevant to broader societal issues and pertain to the status of women within the genderscape of Punjab more generally. The oppressive caste system and substance abuse affect almost every family in the society. Similarly, issues of familial neglect and lack of pensions relate to all categories of single women – de jure and de facto – within this genderscape. To ameliorate

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the status of single women in Punjab, the state and civil society must address these broader social, economic, political and environmental issues that have escalated in the aftermath of the green revolution. (i) Abandonment and violence from marital family Most of the narratives in this chapter highlight how the marital families turned hostile after the death of the husbands. Praneet’s marital family disowned her and her son for fear that they would claim a share in the family property. Similarly, Bina Rani was turned away by her in-laws and had to fend for herself and her daughters. Pinder Kaur was beaten by her brotherin-law for claiming a share in her husband’s house. The law on inheritance addresses women’s property rights from her natal family but is not so explicit about her rights from the marital family if the husband passes away without leaving a will. Hence, many of these widows have had to put up with manipulation from their marital families after they became widowed. They were either asked to leave or faced mental abuse and physical violence in their marital homes. Legally, a widow may have full rights over the deceased husband’s assets, but in real terms, when the properties are jointly owned by the marital family, they often get rid of the widow without giving her her rightful share. This is a space where the state and legal machinery could intervene to ensure that widows get their rights in the marital family’s property. (ii) Poor social security and livelihood support for single women from the state The pensions for widows, the aged and differently abled women are paltry and mean nothing for them in real terms. Apart from this, there are no special schemes for single women in Punjab. Most men in the state are into heavy drinking, which leads to more instances of widowhood as well as de facto headship of households for women. In this context, the state could have started some special schemes for strengthening the livelihoods of women in general. A minimalistic pension scheme for widows which is also full of delays and gaps is not enough to cater to their needs. The state needs to examine and recognize the special needs of different groups of women, both single and married, arising out of the unique social problems caused by the caste structure and alcohol menace in the state. In such a situation, women lived lives of extreme deprivation and sometimes provided emotional support to each other. These networks of widowed women, however, were also influenced by kinship, caste and class affiliations. Many women exhibited symptoms of depression and said that they led extremely lonely lives which they perceived were worse than dying.

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(iii) Social evils resulting from substance abuse The problems of single women bear a strong relation to the negative impacts of the green revolution which are now highly visible. Our findings revealed that the agricultural and economic abundance resulting from the green revolution is believed to be a main contributing factor to alcohol and drug problems in Punjab. The green revolution led to the creation of excess wealth among the Jats (the landowning caste), which led to the creeping in of social evils related to abundance, such as alcoholism. As social inequality grew in the aftermath of the revolution and increased the tensions between the landowning Jats and the lower-caste Majhabi (Dalit) Sikhs, gender-based oppression also increased, creating a toxic landscape which combined a lethal mix of pesticides and fertilizers with caste and gender oppression. The toxicity due to drugs and pesticides manifests itself in many lethal diseases, such as AIDS, tuberculosis and cancer. Many widows I met and interviewed were a creation of this drug epidemic that had claimed the lives of their husbands. Yet others were widows who had contracted HIV from their late husbands, who had been using drugs or driving trucks, going on long-haul trips that are infamous as prostitution corridors. The injustice to these women was compounded since they carried the lethal disease and the stigma attached to it without any fault of their own. Yet the government of Punjab didn’t appear to have any concrete strategy to deal with this epidemic except opening de-addiction centres. NGOs in the state believed that the government earned revenue from liquor and would not ban it in the state. We saw liquor shops at frequent intervals on every road that we travelled. Unless the menace of liquor and drugs is addressed proactively, the situation of women will continue to remain poor in the state since alcohol abuse contributes to increased violence against women within the highly patriarchal Punjab society. Due to addiction, men do not contribute their share of income for the family and often extort women’s earnings to buy drugs and alcohol. There is increased tension in marital relationships due to these issues. When women become widowed, the same cycle of violence and exploitation continues from the widow’s son, who also typically falls into addiction. (iv) Lack of employment opportunities for women, especially single women The mechanization of agriculture led to a decreased role for women in agriculture and thus fewer or no earnings from that sector. Unable to find alternative employment avenues, most of these women who lost jobs turned to working as domestic helpers in the Jat houses, which further affected their status negatively and increased the social distance between

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the Jats and the Scheduled Castes. Field research in Punjab thus reflects that the state has become a cesspool of caste- and gender-based oppression. The moral economy of intercaste cooperation and support that was once glorified has nearly disappeared. Jodhka (2006, p. 1534), for example, argues that suicides increased due to the “crisis of ecology” and the “breakdown of the community” after technology was introduced in the agricultural sector in Punjab. FGDs with women revealed that due to increased toxicity of water bodies and grazing lands, many cattle had died, and animal husbandry was no longer an employment avenue. In Mansa, we conducted an FGD where we met widows whose husbands had committed suicide due to indebtedness in agriculture. The plight of these widows was the most heartrending among all the widows we met. There was no social protection extended to these women, and they were still waiting for compensation from the state. The state needs to address these concerns on an urgent basis and detoxify the land and water resources in Punjab so that both health and employment opportunities can be improved. (v) Oppressive caste system intersects with the “singleness” of widows The fieldwork provided ample evidence that government schemes were not working for the disenfranchised lower-caste, landless poor in rural Punjab. The Jats (who are landowning castes) enjoy money and political power in the villages which has absolutely no trickle-down effect to the subaltern peasantry. The government’s employment program (MGNREGA) was defunct in most villages. The public distribution system (PDS) for food subsidies was also not helping women much. All the government schemes were controlled by the Jat-led panchayats, and the Panchayati Raj system was termed “defunct” in Punjab by most of the women and NGOs interviewed. As a result of this, many widows and single women were forced to work in extremely exploitative conditions in factories and other people’s homes instead of finding more dignified MGNREGA work within the village. The movement of women to factories for work also exposes them to a variety of violent situations, including being teased while walking on the streets and while at work. Older widowed women, who formed the bulk of our respondents, faced multiple jeopardies on account of their gender, age and caste. The lack of employment opportunities meant extreme economic deprivation and dependence on their sons and their families, which were most often a source of abuse. Coupled with this, the lack of social security in terms of pensions and health benefits left these widows extremely vulnerable to exclusion from the family’s share of wealth.

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It emerges from this study that the issues that single women, especially widows, in Punjab face are harrowing and multi-faceted. In this region, the toxic landscape of post–green revolution agrarian issues, increasing substance abuse, unemployment and rigid patriarchal control combine to create a context within which widows face oppression at the level of the family, the community and the state. They expressed the most heartache at the treatment meted out to them by their marital families after their husbands passed away. This is why many women expressed that it was better to die than to live a life full of many indignities suffered at the hands of their sons and male kin. In their words, “It is better to die than to live like this.”

References Agarwal, Bina. “Gender and Land Rights Revisited: Exploring New Prospects via the State, Family and Market.” Journal of Agarian Change 3, nos. 1–2 (2003): 184–224. Chant, Sylvia. Women Headed Households: Diversity and Dynamics in the Developing World. London: McMillan Press, 1997. Chen, Martha Alter. Widows in India. New Delhi: Sage Publications, 1998. Chen, Martha Alter. Perpetual Mourning: Widowhood in Rural India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2000. Chen, Marty, and Jean Dreze. “Widows and Health in Rural North India.” Economic and Political Weekly 27, nos. 43–44 (1992): 24–31. Chen, Marty, and Jean Dreze. “Recent Research on Widows in India: Workshop and Conference Report.” Economic and Political Weekly 30, no. 39 (1995): 2435–9, 2442–50. Chowdhury, Prem. The Veiled Women: Shifting Gender Equations in Rural Haryana. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1994. Datta, Anindita. “MacDonaldization of Gender in India: An Exploration.” Gender Technology and Development 9, no. 1 (2005): 125–35. Datta, Anindita. “Natural Landscapes and Regional Constructs of Gender Theorizing Linkages in the Indian Context.” Gender, Technology and Development 15, no. 3 (2011): 345–62. Datta, Anindita. “Genderscapes of Hate: On Violence Against Women in India.” Dialogues in Human Geography 6, no. 2 (2016): 178–81. Dreze, Jean, and Martha Alter Chen. “Widowhood and Well-Being in Rural North India.” In The Village in India, edited by V. Madan. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2002. Gandhi, Kanchan. “Identity Politics, Power and Resistance in Disaster Response: A Case Study of the 2004 Tsunami Relief, Rehabilitation and Recovery in Tamil Nadu.” PhD Thesis, National University of Singapore, Singapore, 2010. http:// scholarbank.nus.edu.sg/handle/10635/22061, last accessed on 7 March  2020 at 15:04. Gandhi, Kanchan, Harsh Mander, Agrima Bhasin, Radhika Jha, and Sejal Dand. “Living Single: Being a Single Woman in India.” In India Exclusion Report II. New Delhi: Yoda Press, 2016.

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Hyndman, Jennifer. “Feminism Conflict and Disasters in Post-tsunami Sri Lanka.” Gender, Technology and Development 12, no. 1 (2008): 101–21. Hyndman, Jennifer. “Troubling ‘Widows’ in Post-Tsunami Sri Lanka: Feminism Meets Double Disasters.” In After the Waves: The Impact of the Tsunami on Women in Sri Lanka, edited by Neloufer De Mel, Kanchana Ruwanpura, and Gameela Samarsinghe. Colombo: Social Scientists’ Association, 2009. Jenson, Robert T. “Caste, Culture, and the Status of Well-Being of Widows in India.” In Analyses in the Economics of Aging, edited by David A. Wise, 357–76. London: The University of Chicago Press, 2005. Jodhka, S. “Beyond ‘Crises’: Rethinking Contemporary Punjab Agriculture.” Economic and Political Weekly 41, no. 16 (April 22–28, 2006): 1530–7. Panda, Pradeep, and Bina Agarwal. “Marital Violence, Human Development and Women’s Property Status in India.” World Development 23, no. 5 (2005): 823–50. Ramsheela, Anupamlata, Reshma Ansari, Richa Nagar, Richa Singh, Shashi Vaish, Shashibala Surbala, Vibha Bajpayee, and Richa Nagar. Playing with Fire: Feminist Thought and Activism Through Seven Lives in India. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 2006. Reddy, Adinarayana. Problems of Widows in India. New Delhi: Sarup and Sons, 2004. Ruwanpura, Kanchana, and Jane Humphries. “Mundane Heroines: Conflict, Ethnicity, Gender and Female-Headship in Eastern Sri Lanka.” Feminist Economics 10, no. 2 (2004): 173–205.

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8 “THIS IS OUR AREA AND THAT IS THEIRS” Scripting the spatiality of migrant masculinity in Goa, India Ajay Bailey

Masculinity in its various forms is socially constructed and changes over time and space (Berg and Longhurst 2003; Coles 2009; Connell and Messerschmidt 2005; Hopkins and Noble 2009). The ways in which masculinities are both produced and reproduced reflect the struggles between dominant and subordinate groups of men and women. However, the structural categories of being dominant and subordinate/marginalized are relative to the spaces (geographical, personal and metaphorical) where these masculinities are performed. In keeping with the theme of this volume, it is argued here that spatiality is one of the key factors in understanding the context and variations of performed masculinities. In this chapter, I  examine the various performances of migrant masculinities as situated within inclusionary, exclusionary and liminal spaces. An attempt is made here to situate performances of masculinities within the intersecting discourses of migration and poverty. For this chapter, I  draw on data collected through in-depth interviews, focus group discussions and a survey which included explicit sections on migration, migrant identities and the relationship with the host population in the state of Goa. Due to the changing demographic scenarios and increasing investments in infrastructure for tourism, Goa attracted labour from surrounding states, including Karnataka. In order to understand the daily life of the migrants better, the researchers stayed close to migrant settlements as this facilitated close observation of activities. The selection criteria for participants in both the qualitative and quantitative studies were: male, married, aged between 20 and 45 years, born in Karnataka and then migrated to Goa, and had spent the last whole year in Goa. Mobile men were those who travelled between Karnataka and Goa for work as truck

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drivers and fishermen. The data include 25 in-depth interviews, 16 focus group discussions and a survey involving 1,259 men. In addition, the chapter also draws on a study conducted in 2009 which included observations, in-depth interviews and focus groups on migrants’ access to health care.

Space, masculinity and performance The performance of masculinities as discussed in this chapter is based on Butler’s (1990) concept of performative gender. Butler developed the concept of gender performativity, in which gender is not seen as an expression of what one is, but as something that one does: “[G]ender is the styled repetition of acts through time” (Butler 1990, p.  141). According to this approach, the subject does not express its identity through acts and gestures, but rather the reality of the subject depends on its own performance. Though much of Butler’s work has been applied to queer studies, there is a fair amount of work which applies this post-structural approach to studying masculinities (Hibbins 2005; Jackson 2001; Onoufriou 2009; Roussel and Downs 2007). Elmhirst (2007) applies this performative gender approach in Indonesia to examine the performance of masculinities by young men left behind due to feminized labour migration. In India, studies on masculinity in its various forms have highlighted the relationship between various socio-cultural factors and the construction of masculinity. Key themes identified include sexuality (Datta 2008; Mane and Aggleton 2001; Ramasubramanian and Jain 2009; Srivastava 2004; Verma et al. 2006), media representations, popular narratives (Derne 2000; Murty 2009; Rajan 2006), Hindu fundamentalism (Banerjee 2005), honour (George 2006) and migration (Ali 2007; Osella and Osella 2000; Shah 2006; Sharma 2008). The literature shows that relationships between dominant and subordinate masculinities are more pronounced in the context of migration, in which the host population assumes a dominant position in relation to the migrant population. However, it can be argued that among migrant groups, length of stay and accumulated (social and financial) capital can lead them to perform either dominant or subordinate masculinities in relation to other migrants. In this chapter, the focus is on male migrants who move between the states of Karnataka and Goa. By focusing on migrant men, I do not intend to give the opinion that masculinities are performed only by men. I strive to situate the performances of masculinity among the migrant men in a relational context. To this end, I first present a background to the study in Goa, then reasons for men to migrate to Goa, which leads to discussion of the various performances of migrant masculinity as situated in inclusionary, exclusionary and liminal spaces. Finally, an account of the positionalities and performances of researchers’ masculinities in the field is presented.

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For this study, inclusionary spaces are those that the migrants create for themselves through their space-making activities. Similarly, exclusionary spaces are those where migrants experience discrimination and social exclusion from full participation in public life. Liminal spaces are more metaphorical spaces where migrants find themselves “betwixt and between” (Turner 1979). Taken together, a narrative of how space shapes gender performances of migrant men is built up, showing them to be performing dominant and subordinate masculinities in relation to spatial factors.

Goa: a distinct social space Goa has had a different history from the rest of India and thus constitutes a distinct genderscape. The state has experienced both in-migration and outmigration processes, which have contributed to the making of Goa as it is today. Goa remained a colony of Portugal for 450 years until 1961, after which it became part of India, and then attained complete statehood in 1987 (Desai 1997). According to Couto (2004), there are two versions of Goa: “Goa Dourada” (the Portuguese Goa) and “Goa Indica” (the Indian Goa). Goa Dourada refers to the Portuguese colonial construction of Goa, which sees Goa as a European enclave attached to the Indian subcontinent, and Goa Indica refers to the anti-colonial construction of Goa which emphasizes the Indian element in Goan society. Migration and extensive infrastructure development for tourism are perceived by Goans to be threats to the Goa Dourada identity (Saldanha 2002). Portuguese Goa is still cherished by the dwindling Catholic elite groups, as they find it hard to accept Goa Indica (Couto 2004). Goans also experience liminality, which is evident in the sentiments whereby what may be viewed by some as the “liberation” of Goa from the Portuguese may be constructed by others as an “invasion” of Goa by the Indian forces. Goa was, indeed, the last of the colonized territories in India to be liberated. The then-dictator Salazar claimed Goa as a province of Portugal and not as a colony. Hence, it was impossible under the auspices of the UN for Goa to become independent. This led to an armed liberation of Goa by Indian forces, thus creating Goa as it is now – part of the territory of India, a small state surrounded by the Arabian Sea in the West and the states of Maharashtra in the North and Karnataka in the East and South. Migration as a phenomenon in Goa is multifaceted. Da Silva Gracias (2000) defines three historical phases of migration from Goa: first, migration to the neighbouring kingdoms; second, migration to British India and Africa; and third, the postcolonial migration to the Gulf, the West (Europe and America), Australia and New Zealand. It is the last phase, and most noticeably to the Gulf states, which da Silva Gracias (2000) has described as migration “in search of petro dollars.” Post liberalization and the accompanying swift development of the tourist industry induced large-scale

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infrastructure development. With the Goans migrating to other countries, a vacuum was created at the lower levels of the labour hierarchy. To support the infrastructure development, a third Goa emerged: the Goa of migrant labourers. The Goa of migrants is very different and would not be considered a luxury tourist destination. Migrants from Karnataka are clustered in slums and shanty towns. With respect to health and demographic indicators, the level of modernization and economic development is higher in Goa than Karnataka. Pull factors in Goa are per capita income (the highest in India) and the availability of better civic facilities (see Bailey 2008).

Reasons for migration and mobility from Karnataka to Goa The common migration pattern followed by Karnataka men in Goa begins with married men moving to Goa in search of work. After finding work, they stay on between two to three months and then bring their wives and children to Goa. Men tap kinship and social networks to initially find work and accommodation. The push factors for migration to Goa are, in most cases, lack of work, rising debts and meagre wages in Karnataka, which make it difficult for the respondents to clothe and feed their households. In the years prior to the fieldwork in 2004–5, many districts in Northern Karnataka experienced drought. The villages in these districts depend on the monsoons for their agricultural activities. With the advent of drought, there was less work in the fields as people could not sow seeds. The people most affected were the agricultural labourers as they were dependent on large landowners for work. With less work, men started to borrow money from money lenders in the village. This burgeoning debt and low wages in many cases act as push factors for migration. In terms of wages for a day’s work in the villages in Karnataka, the men received about 20 rupees (20 euro cents), whereas in Goa they earned at least 100 rupees (1.28 euros) per day. In the survey, men were asked for their primary reason for migrating/joining mobile occupations. Unemployment was the most commonly mentioned factor. As their communities were primarily agricultural, migrants could not find other employment opportunities in their villages. The other commonly reported reason was that migrant men had extended families in Karnataka, and they shared the responsibility of supporting their younger siblings and elder family members. Many migrants sent money home either through a money order or through fellow villagers going back home. The pull factors for Goa are that the migrants can easily find jobs as labourers at construction sites, at ports and in other businesses where labourers are required. Wages are also higher than in their villages. The living conditions in Goa are perceived to be satisfactory; the migrant men are able to find housing in the areas where other migrants live. Migrant men

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rely in the beginning on kinship and social networks to locate housing and to find work. The existence of migrant settlements and strong ethnic and linguistic ties helps migrants cope with the new environment.

Our area: masculinities in inclusionary spaces This section moves beyond the centre-periphery discourse on migrant settlements and looks deeper into the place-making exercises of migrants, in terms of architecture, language and temples within migrant settlements. The social production and reproduction of place by migrants can be seen as a means of coping with the harshness of the new hostile environment. The performance of masculinities is based on various discussions held in different migrant settlements located in Vasco, Madgaon and Panjim. The migrant settlements are adjacent to industrial areas, work sites and urban periphery. Within their settlements, migrants feel safe and exercise social power. For an outsider, the settlements may appear as another version of slums and shanty towns visible in other urban centres, but for the migrants these settlements are their homes, communal spaces and spaces of political power. Through various place-making activities the migrants are able to recreate in some settlements their former rural life. Here all are friends; here in C. there are only Karnataka people; here everywhere there is Karnataka “system.” There is nothing from Goa in this place. There are Karnataka people here, so why should people go to Karnataka to celebrate their festival? Here in this area, everyone speaks Kannada; here there is Karnataka system. From here if you go to Panaji, then the Goa system starts. Here, we feel as though we are living in Karnataka only. (Migrant, Vasco) The major place-making activities extend from private spaces such as homes to include communal spaces such as temples, mosques and monasteries built and maintained by the migrant men. In two of these settlements, men formed a temple and a mosque committee through which they increased their bargaining power with the local politician, the municipal authorities and the host population. These committees were instrumental in building schools where Kannada and Urdu are used as a language of instruction. A  mosque committee, consisting only of men, was busy negotiating with the local politician for better civic facilities. The local politicians here were more “giving” with local elections close by. The local politician in this case was a Goan woman. In our discussions, the committee refereed to her as Bai, a term of respect attached to her name due to her position. However, women from the migrant settlements did not have the right to be part of this

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committee. Women within the settlements were confined to their domestic roles and hardly ventured out to work. Some of the Muslim women were able to get out of the settlement to work as domestic help in Goan homes. These women, however, were bound by strict rules of time and, any violation would risk a loss of name and lead to domestic quarrels with spouses and mothers-in-law. The schools, temples and mosques were built with the capital raised within the migrant settlements and from fellow migrants in other parts of Goa. The settlements were also spaces where men could generate cultural and social capital. In one of the settlements where they have the Yalligeshwara Matha (monastery), the committee of men organized an annual fair called Jathri in Kannada; this was the main event which brought all migrants together. On the occasion of the Jathri, the head Swamiji, popularly referred to as Muthya and Ajaaru (both words refer to an old wise person) visited the Matha, and the devotees had an opportunity to meet him. The committee started the preparations a few months in advance. They printed handbills and went to various migrant settlements to collect donations for the Jathri. The members organizing this event saw it as a way of galvanizing support for migrants and as a show of strength. The acceptability of the fair by the Goan population is a result of the spatial politics that underlie the efforts to showcase Goa as more than a Catholic state. Some people give 500, some 100 and some others 1000 rupees. It all depends on their “Kushi” [happiness/wish]. Whatever they give, we take. Everyone gives something. (Jathri, fair organizing committee member) During the Jathri, devotees seek blessings from the Swamiji. Men in the interviews reasoned that the Jathri gives an opportunity for all the Kannada people to come together. They used the word Nammajanaru, which translates as “our (Karnataka) people,” a connotation that the fair is for the welfare of Kannada people in Goa. Thus, migrant settlements should be examined not merely as peripheral urban sites but, more specifically, as cultural microcosms which are spatialized by their social relations. The cultural microcosms are produced by migrants who carry only not their belongings when they move, but also their cultural schemas and the broader cultural meaning systems.

Their area: masculinities in exclusionary spaces According to Canales (2000), “exclusionary othering” is a process in which people use the power within relationships for domination and subordination. The exclusionary othering discussed here is based on exclusion

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experienced by migrant men in both public and work spaces. The Goan community ascribes a certain identity to the migrants from Karnataka, calling them Ghati. The term “Ghati” is derived from the reasoning that the people from Karnataka live over the Ghats (mountain ranges). Yes, they call us Ghati. See, when we come from Karnataka, we cross the Ghats. So they call us Ghati. Because we have left the Ghats and come here. (Migrant, Panaji) The Western Ghats, or the Sahyadri Mountains, run along the Western coast of India, forming the Western edge of the Deccan plateau and separating the plateau from the Arabian Sea. When migrant men move to Goa, they cross these Ghats; thus the term “Ghati” is ascribed to them. Though the Ghati identity has a spatial reasoning attached to it, the ascription of this identity itself excludes the migrant. Exclusionary othering is related to the journey of crossing the mountains. The crossing is not only of the administrative boundaries between Karnataka and Goa but also of natural and cultural boundaries. In the survey, eighty-three percent of the migrant men and fifty-two percent of the mobile men (truckers and fisherman) agreed that Goans call migrants from Karnataka “Ghati.” Over the course of time, the geographically ascribed identity has turned into an abusive reference for migrants. Migrant men offer cultural reasoning for the differences between migrants and Goans. Exclusionary othering is based on cultural markers, such as the styles of dressing and the use of language. Many Goan Catholics wear western clothes, whereas the migrant men, especially those who have just arrived in Goa, prefer to wear traditional clothes such as a dhoti/lungi (a rectangular piece of cloth wrapped around the waist and the legs and knotted around the waist). Some men also wear a topgi (a white cap) and a walli (a small piece of cloth carried around the shoulders). The women mostly wear saris – either the ones that are traditionally made in Karnataka or the newer designs that they can buy in Goa. Sometimes the distinction between migrant and Goan men in their clothing can get blurred, with younger migrant men wearing more western clothes. The distinction between migrant women wearing saris and Goan Catholic women wearing western clothes is starker. Thus, dressing styles act as visual cues by which the Goan population can distinguish the migrants. In the following interview quote, we see the different interconnections between Ghati identity and socio-economic status. The imagined situation around a police inspector throws light on the different status that a migrant police inspector has, compared to a migrant labourer. Ghati why they say. . . . If someone wears good clothes like you and come, they will not know, they will [not] know whether he

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is from Goa or outside, but when these Kannada people come in lungi, in “topi,” then they say,“Ghati Muslim.” They don’t understand. These Goa Muslims, they don’t use this “topi” that much. Now it’s happening if they see people wearing pyjama they say “Ghati.” If he is a police inspector from outside, how will they say “Ghati”? Will they say, “Ghati, no, there is no question. It’s like that. I observe that sometimes salla he doesn’t say Ghati to him” [laughs]. (Migrant, Vasco) Language is the second cultural reasoning presented by men as a factor for exclusion and othering. Goans speak Konkani, which is spoken widely in the Indian Western coastal region known as Konkan through the states of Maharashtra, Goa and Karnataka. North Karnataka migrants find it difficult to learn the language. There is no facility where they can go and study Konkani. Migrants who stay for longer periods, however, learn the language from their peer groups. The national language, Hindi, becomes a vehicular language, used only when men interact with Goans and migrants from other Indian states. Participant: Yes, I have heard of this. They do call Kannad people Ghati. People from Karnataka cannot speak Konkani; they speak only Hindi. So the Goan people call them Ghati. Some Kannad people don’t know Hindi, so they speak Kannada, and the Goans speak Konkani, so they don’t understand each other. Interviewer: How do you reply when they call you Ghati? Participant: We don’t reply. When we came to their desh [country/ place], we should bow to them. When they know that these people don’t know their language, they use such words. People will reply if they know Konkani. (Migrant, Madgaon) Migrant men reported incidents of violence when their sense of security was considerably threatened. Violence was reported to take place in two ways: individual targeting or group fights. In the first case, individual migrant men are beaten up by local Goan men, and the second refers to fights taking place between groups of migrants and the local men. We heard from the scrap-metal collectors about being beaten up and abused and enquired further about a possible connection between the Ghati identity and this violence. Nearly 58 percent of migrant men and 62.5 percent of mobile men agreed that there were violent fights between some Goans

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and migrants. Fights were possible only in places where the migrants were in the majority. While walking in the city, even if our body touches them a little also, they come to beat us. Because they know we are from Karnataka, and they boss over us. And we have to bear it. Isn’t it? We have to live being scared. (Truck driver, Vasco) We feel bad  .  .  . but what to do; everyone comes here for their stomach. Sometimes when they say such things [Ghati] if we say anything in return. . . . Then once or twice it has happened that we said something and then got beaten up by them. (Migrant labourer) Men feel more vulnerable outside the migrant settlements and are more prone to attacks at their place of work or in public spaces such as markets and bus stops. This fear of being attacked infuses a sense of insecurity among the migrant men. A sense of fear that they will become more vulnerable outside their own settlement restricts their ability to develop a sense of belonging to Goa. The discrimination and fear are embodied in the performance of the masculinities in relation to the host population.

Masculinities in liminal spaces Liminality is a concept used by Van Gennep (1960; cf Little et al. 1998) in his 1908 study of rites of passage. In his analysis, there is a period of transition when a person has left his previous stage and has not yet entered his new stage; it is this in-between stage that Van Gennep termed “liminaire.” Building on Van Gennep’s work, Turner (1979), in relation to ritual and performance, defines the liminal as a space “betwixt and between the normal, day to day cultural and social states.” According to Turner, both time and identity become liminal during a ritual or a performance. In the context of migration, an event which includes many transitions, liminality comes to the fore in illuminating the lived experiences of migrants who are in a liminal state, in terms of both identity and time, as many migrants may aspire to return home or to be accepted as full members of the host community. Liminal states and migration stages are closely linked; as newcomers in a country/state, they are much attached to their place of origin. In the next stage, when the migrants start to settle down by finding a job and a place to live, they move then to the liminal state, wherein they have not given up their previous identity and remain unassimilated into the culture of the host population. In this

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liminal stage, migrants live in closely clustered migrant settlements with strong ethnic/linguistic ties. An implication of the exclusion and othering process is the wish for return migration. Many men wanted to return to their villages in Karnataka in the future. Exclusionary othering coupled with violence and difficulties in accessing services infuse a liminal existence in the lives of the migrants. Return migration is perceived as a return to the original identity. A sense of placelessness (Relph 1976) underpins the wish to return to Karnataka to reestablish identity and ties with disrupted social networks. Though many migrant men do visit their villages in Karnataka for festivals and other family occasions, they still wish to return “home one day.” There [Karnataka], our Muslims are more; here, what is there in Goa? Here, anything can happen; we are only [a] few people here if they [Goans] attack us. There [in Karnataka], we are more in number, so we have more support. We can stay there well. Here people will always say Ghati. Insha Allah, I will go back some day. (Migrant, Panaji) After completing work here, we go back to our village to join our family members. It is our desire to live in our houses. Last, we sell everything here and go there. It is our birthplace, where we grew up; everything is ours; we have right; nobody asks. Tomorrow they say go, but in my place, nobody says that. (Migrant, Vasco) As the men had a liminal existence, they were at different stages of accumulating resources to go back to Karnataka. Men gave examples of fellow villagers who moved to Goa, earned enough money and went back to their villages to setup small shops and businesses. Investing in land as an asset was perceived to be helpful. In the survey, more than thirty-seven percent of the migrant men owned land in Goa, and all of them owned land in Karnataka. Migrant men used the English term “settle” to explain their wish to “place” themselves back in their villages, thus moving out of the liminal existence that marked their identity and time in Goa. In the future, after I earn some money, I want to return to my village. I don’t know if that will be possible. Because in our Karnataka, we can stay better. . . . We can do anything we want. Meaning there we can live in harmony with others . . . sharing and caring for others. Whatever we do – how we live in our village – we cannot live in the same way here. I would like to go back and build a house there for myself. If it is possible for me, then I would like to go and

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settle there. The way you settle here is not the same as you settle there. There is no guarantee that I will get the same job there, but still I have to earn a lot of money before I return. (Migrant, Vasco) The experience of liminality differs with generation and the length of stay of the migrant families. The second generation is nostalgic about their parents’ native village but do not know if they would prefer to go and live there. Among the first generation, those who have stayed longer maintain ties through arranging alliances for their children from their native villages or towns. A  common pattern is that sons bring wives to live with their extended families in Goa and vice versa. Recently, in some settlements, I also came across men who moved to Goa to live with the family of the bride. The reason given was to look for employment or that the father of the bride had promised to find a job for the groom. This group (migrant sonsin-law) experiences liminality due to the process of exclusion from within existing migrant groups as men in the settlement do not involve them in gatherings or events. One of the men who had moved to live with his wife’s family always took her along when he had to go to a doctor or the market as she was raised in Goa and was able to speak Hindi and some Konkani, languages, of which he had less knowledge. Hence, the experience of liminality varies among men and depends on the social and cultural capital that they can tap to survive in the liminal period.

Conclusions This chapter has shown that there is a certain fluidity in the manner in which migrant masculinities are performed. In inclusionary spaces, the performances are evident in the place-making activities carried out by men. To build schools, temples and mosques within the migrant settlements is performance, wherein the men are exercising power by which they create places for their safety and their fellow migrants. By furthering religious and cultural practices, they help create a sense of belonging at least to the settlement, if not to Goa as a whole. The performances of migrant masculinity within the inclusionary spaces are those of men acting as protectors, philanthropists and providers. As political bargainers, they underplay their masculinities when negotiating with the Goans. In exclusionary spaces, masculinities are in conflict with that of the host population. Here, the performances when in public spaces and at work sites are more subordinated. The ascription of Ghati identity and the accompanying abuse and violence further marginalizes/subordinates migrant masculinity. Hence, men have less power to exercise, especially reduced bargaining power, as they do not, or are not allowed to, feel a sense of belonging to

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Goa. Further, men are poor, uneducated and lower in the labour hierarchy. The performances of migrant masculinity in the exclusionary spaces are those of men acting as victims, subordinates, abused selves and powerless entities. In liminal spaces, masculine performances are transient, and men are in various stages of accumulating capital to return to their “homelands.” The wish to return home highlights the lack of a sense of belonging to Goa and their relative powerlessness, due to which they may be evicted from the settlements where they now reside. The liminality that affects migrant masculinity stays with it forever, as the migrant is not completely at home in Goa or completely pleased to return home to unemployment and poverty. The accumulation of capital is one of the measures by which, when they return to their villages, they can reclaim their hypermasculine identity as the abundant provider. The performances of migrant masculinity in the liminal spaces are that of men acting as transient and nostalgic entities, accumulators of capital and seekers of “home.” The empirical material presented in this chapter is in line with research from Ali (2007) and Osella and Osella (2000). The latter show in their analysis how masculinities and mobilities converge to create new performances of masculinity, but also socio-economic privilege. Migration in itself is a transformative process which changes power relations both between and within genders. The contribution of this chapter is to show the different performances of masculinity and how power and poverty interact to produce these different forms of masculinity. All these performances of migrant masculinity are part of everyday lives and everyday geographies for the migrant men in Goa. The spatiality of the performance highlights the fluidity of masculinities. These performances depend on the spaces men occupy and the power struggles within the relationships. A  migrant man in Goa can perform all or some of these masculinities in the course of a day. In this paper, I have tried to highlight the different spaces where men perform their masculinities in order to underline the importance of local geographical contexts in scripting gender performances. In future research, a more complete understanding of the spatiality of gender among migrant communities would also require delving into the parallel narratives of women within the same genderscape.

Acknowledgements This paper was presented at the international seminar on Contextualizing Geographical Approaches to Studying Gender in Asia in Delhi, India, 3–5 March 2010. I would like to thank the participants in the seminars for their comments and suggestions. I also wish to thank the NGO collaborators the François-Xavier Bagnoud Foundation, Goa; the Life Line Foundation; and

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Jan Ughai. I also acknowledge the guidance of Professor Inge Hutter, Population Research Centre, University of Groningen; Dr Rajaretnam from the Population Research Centre, Ierdharwad, India; and Mr  H. R. Channaki for assisting in data collection. The study was funded by HERA (Healthy Reproduction; Research for Action, a joint research programme between the University of Groningen and the Netherlands Interdisciplinary Demographic Institute, The Hague).

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9 WATERCENTRIC ROLES AND WOMEN’S SPACES Narratives from drought-prone villages of Gujarat Nairwita Bandyopadhyay and Ashis Kumar Saha

What will she do by going to school? Even after marriage, she has to collect water, so what’s the point? What will she do with a degree when there is no water to drink in the house? (Kamala ben, Laxmanpura village, District Sabarkantha, Gujarat)

By and large, women in village Laxmanpura in the Sabarkantha District of Gujarat mirror Kamala ben’s views. Such narratives are common in much of rural Gujarat, where women and girl children bear the responsibility of collecting, storing and managing water (Shiva and Jalees 2005). In places where there is no water for farming, men migrate to urban areas, leaving behind women and children in the villages. The time and effort that go into water-related tasks leave the women with little or no time for any other work. In this region, the inhospitable terrain and arid to semi-arid agroclimatic condition leads to the emergence of a particular set of watercentric socio-economic requirements. Due to the scarcity of water, resulting from a combination of geographical factors, there is a need to fetch water from faraway places. These water-related tasks fall on women who are inscribed by tradition to stay mostly within the home spaces, while usually the men are out of the house toiling in the fields or have out-migrated from these villages to other areas in search of better economic opportunities. Chapter 1 of this volume has argued that the geographical contexts influence the variations in gender roles, especially with regard to women’s access to public spaces. This chapter attempts to emphasize the influence of the drought-prone terrain of Gujarat on the construction of women’s roles

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in water-related household tasks. In this, our study emphasizes the roles women are expected to play within their household as these are moulded by their responsibilities related to the water needs of the household, against the backdrop of the parched, arid landscape of the region. Since water is scarce, women are mainly engaged in its collection, its conservation and its management. While doing this, they develop a particular relationship with the resource and exercise a certain kind of control over its use. According to Soni (2002), women are the prime water carriers, managers and end users, directly affected by availability and nonavailability of water. We highlight the fact that water scarcity has created or given new meanings to certain spaces which are inherently gendered. We note the meaning women give to these spaces and how they experience them in their everyday life, which is replete with traditional patriarchal undercurrents. In India, the National Commission for Women, in a 2005 report, had observed that in rural areas in Rajasthan, a neighbouring state, women and their girl children bear the responsibility of collecting, transporting, storing and managing water. This applied to each and every household. The report also highlighted that in regions hit by a shortage of water for farming, men usually migrate to urban areas for work, leaving behind women to attend to the elderly and the children. Some regions of Gujarat  – which have similar agro-climatic and topographic features  – also report almost identical stories from their women. The need for agriculture in Gujarat has been steadily rising, due to growing population. However, agriculture here has been traditionally rain fed. The absence of perennial rivers in the North Gujarat, Kachchh and Saurashtra regions of the state have led to increased demand for underground water, both for domestic consumption and for irrigational purposes. A  significant burden of this scarcity falls on women, irrespective of age, as they have to bring water to the household from distant sources. Thus, in these areas, the women, typically in charge of cooking and caring, are forced by their circumstances into this hardship, as there is a lack of easy access to water for cooking and other household chores. Extracted from a larger study, this chapter underscores the necessity to assimilate the stories of both women and men for the larger picture – the varying gendered spaces and the meanings given to them by the users of those spaces, apart from the social construction of drought. Water shortage is not always equivalent to physical scarcity in this region but is also a result of the social system that restricts certain groups from gaining access to water, and discriminates between people of different castes, classes and genders in withdrawal of water. In a way, this constructs and underlines drought. This scenario of differential access amid apparent scarcity typically originates from a number of social processes that mirror conflicts in the society and social order of the study area.

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The response of the women was studied to understand how their experiences in water scarcity situations varied in six villages of Gujarat. In addition, we were interested in examining how their lived spaces were gendered and experienced differently. The economic condition of people deteriorates from the Eastern to Western districts of Gujarat, oscillating between the very rich households of Mehsana to the very poor households of Kachchh. The physical, social and economic conditions differ across the region, but in each of these villages, the role of women in the household is more or less similar, and so are the spaces identified as gendered (Bandyopadhyay and Saha 2015). In the course of our research, we did not come across any space which could be termed gender neutral. This chapter thus introduces a woman-centered perspective of the drought experience, based particularly on the narratives of women living in the villages of North Gujarat and Kachchh (Bandyopadhyay et al. 2015). Following the idea of regional genderscapes (Datta 2011), we attempt to theorize the influence of topography and agro-climatic factors on the construction of gender roles in the study area and establish the relationship of women with water and its scarcity. Our study explores the meaning women give to different kinds of spaces and how their experiences in these spaces is deeply rooted in a traditional patriarchal set up within a drought-prone region characterized by intense water scarcity.

Study villages Six villages were chosen for this study, all located in the drought-prone region of Gujarat, comprising the North and Northwestern districts of Sabarkantha, Mehsana and Kachchh, where temperature and rainfall are major factors contributing to regular occurrences of drought and depleting the underground water table (Bandyopadhyay and Saha 2015). These North Gujarat districts are hit by drought every three to five years out of a ten-year period (Mudrakartha 2007). In addition to being drought prone, Kachchh District in the West also reports problems arising out of salinization. Though both North Gujarat and Kachchh are drought prone due to their location in an arid climatic zone, the frequency, intensity and types of droughts experienced are different, leading to varied perceptions, activities and responses. The six study villages are located in different talukas (sub districts) in the selected districts. The villages were selected on the basis of information collected during a reconnaissance survey, supplemented with secondary sources such as newspaper reports about drought. All the study villages have very similar agroclimatic factors, with summer temperatures reaching above forty degrees and rainfall ranging from two hundred to five hundred millimeters on average. In the following paragraphs, a brief profile of the villages is presented.

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Sabarkantha District The two villages selected in this district are Nana Kantahriya and Laxmanpura, both in Bhiloda Taluka. Nana Kanthariya is a small village with a total of 196 families residing here at the time of the study. The average sex ratio of Nana Kanthariya village was 950 while the child sex ratio for the Nana Kanthariya, per the census in 2011, was 774. The literacy rate of Nana Kanthariya village was 80.76 percent, compared to 78.03 percent in Gujarat. Most of the village population here are tribal, belonging to the Scheduled Tribe (ST) category, with the Dungri Garasia Adivasi Bhils being the most prevalent ethnic group. Laxmanpura is the second village in Bhiloda Taluka chosen for the study. It has 200 families residing in it. The average sex ratio of Lakshmanpura village is 998, while the child sex ratio, per the census, is 845. In 2011 (Census of India 2011), the literacy rate of Lakshmanpura village was 80.73  percent. In this village, too, most of the population is from the ST category, which constitutes 95.08 percent, while Scheduled Castes (SC) comprise only 1.13 percent of the total population of the village. Here, too, the Bhils comprise the main community of the village. Mehsana District Kothasana Mota is a small village located in Satlasana Taluka in the Mahesana District, with a total of 419 households. The average sex ratio of Kothasana Mota village is 1,022, and the child sex ratio, according to the 2011 census, is 868, while the literacy rate is 76.47 percent. SC members constitute 6.84 percent of total population in this village with no ST population. The dominant castes in the village are the Chauhand and Patels. Banaskantha District Idhata is another small village located in Tharad Taluka in Banaskantha District, Gujarat, with a total of 570 families residing there. The average sex ratio of Idhata village is 906, whereas the child sex ratio for Idhata, per the 2011 census, is 855. The literacy rate of Idhata village is 62.23 percent (Census 2011). SC members constitute 6.14 percent of the population, while ST members are 2.23 percent of total population of the village. The people belong mostly to the Darbar, Rabari and Koli communities. Lodrani is the second village chosen from Banaskantha District, and it is located in Vav Taluka. The village had a total of 253 families residing in it at the time of study. The average sex ratio of Lodrani village is 837, whereas the child sex ratio is 907. In 2011, the literacy rate of Lodrani village was 64.97  percent. Lodrani village also has a substantial population of SC

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members, approximately 27.96 percent, with no ST population. It mainly consists of people the from Rabari, Thakore and Rajput communities. Kachchh District Berdo is a small village located in Bhuj Taluka of Kachchh District, Gujarat, with a total of 121 families residing there. The average sex ratio of Berdo village is 1,080, according to census 2011, whereas the child sex ratio, per the census, is 953. This may be mostly due to out-migration of male members from these regions. Berdo village mainly consists of Muslim households, where we observed that there was more than one wife per household. In 2011, the literacy rate of Berdo village was 38.89  percent, compared to 78.03  percent in Gujarat. The dominant population here is the Kutch Muslim community known as the Maldhari Muslims, who are traditionally pastoral nomads.

Interviews Interviews and focus group discussions (FGD) for this study were carried out in March 2014. A total of 80 women were interviewed. These belonged to households selected through random sampling techniques. Since the women spoke only in their mother tongues, we used an interpreter who translated from Gujarati to Hindi during interviews and discussions. We found that women were more responsive when they were interviewed in groups. Hence, interviews and discussions were conducted in groups consisting of 15 to 20 members. The interviews were on the principles of confidentiality and anonymity, and only one interpreter was present. Later, the transcripts were translated to English for analysis. The focus group participants were between 12 and 75 years old. This included children who had accompanied their mothers and spontaneously joined the discussion. Participants were informed about the purpose of the survey, and the discussions were held at a variety of sites, including water collection points, such as village wells and agricultural fields, and the local school where they come to drop off their children. The women of all the study villages follow purdah, or the custom of wearing veils to cover the face. This veiling practice extended to gender- and age-based segregation as well. For instance, women from the Thakur community in Bhiloda and women from the Darbar community in Satlasana are discouraged from interacting with elder males and are not allowed to sit with male members. They usually sit on the other side of the room with their veils on. Owing to this, a joint group discussion could not be carried out. Whenever the women were asked a question, the men present said, “What will they know about it; you ask us,” thus robbing women of voice

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and marginalizing them. However, the women gave us interesting replies regarding their ideas about how water can be saved and what methods can be practiced to conserve water during a drought situation. Apart from the focus group participants, we also interviewed women farmers in their individual houses. The names used in this study were anonymized in order to maintain confidentiality.

Women’s watercentric roles In the case of this region of Gujarat, the construction of gender roles can be understood by analyzing factors that explain the social and material conditions of women. Due to lack of water and abnormally high temperatures over the last decade or so, the life of a rural woman in North Gujarat, Kutch and Saurashtra has become sheer drudgery (Pandya 2002), and the lack of education makes them more vulnerable and dependent on male family members. Men within the family not only take an upper hand in taking most of the decisions regarding their lives, but also do not involve themselves in the collection of water for household tasks, even though they freely and unrestrictedly use the water that the women bring from far-off places. In the course of the study, through our FGD, interviews and also informal exchanges with women and men, we observed that owing to the scarcity of water for agriculture, animal husbandry forms an important occupation of most drought-hit households, and women are involved in looking after the livestock. In general, and during a drought in particular, men are involved in agricultural and labour activities and often migrate to other regions, shifting the responsibility of animal husbandry to women. In this context, the presence of a girl child at home is required for looking after siblings and completing household chores. This could be the reason for the lower participation of girl children in schools that we noted during fieldwork. Other reasons girl children left school included the fear of social ostracization of the family by the community. Family honour is linked to the women’s bodies, and thus sending young girls to school after they reached the age of puberty was viewed as endangering the family’s honour through possible violations of her body. Being inscribed within home spaces, we observed that women are not only the primary water carriers but also end users and managers. Along with the task of fetching water from distant places, they are also responsible for washing clothes and cleaning utensils at the nearby tap water point or inside their houses if they have a pipeline connection. As they spend five to six hours daily in collecting water, they not only rationally use the water but also prevent others from misusing or polluting it. We observed that in order to conserve water, women even modify the way they use it for household chores. In Kachchh, a very dry region, one

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of our respondents, an elderly woman, was washing utensils using a wet piece of cloth. “We don’t have the luxury of cleaning utensils with a lot of water. Sometimes we wash clothes once in a month. The water supply is very irregular here and it is saline,” she rued. Thus, women’s watercentric roles within the household rendered them both water carriers and conservers. Also, we noted how, though they did not seem formally organized, they were collectively managing the water scarcity. In one of the study villages where women were seen washing clothes and utensils in the scorching sun, they said, “We get very nervous when there is no water in the tap. We can’t do any other work and suffer from a lot of mental stress at the sheer thought of how to arrange water.” When asked whether they reuse the water used for cleaning purposes, they said when washing things at home, they throw the water on the small plants near the well that they grow for vegetables. Others said that though they don’t pay much attention to reusing the water, they don’t let others misuse it. “If we see water leaking from any household or someone throwing dirty water outside, we scold and boycott them. We also tell the men to use as minimum water as possible,” one of the women said. She lamented that the men tell them, “You have to go fetch water as many times as you will need to for the household. They don’t understand how painful it is.” A young girl added, “If my brother says something like this, I tell him to go and get his own water, but my mother can’t say this to my father. She will go without complaining.” These narratives underline male privilege and unequal power between women and men in the household. From the accounts of the women, it emerged that men in their society assume a superior position, where they have to be attended to for their smallest of needs, while the work of the women, including fetching and conserving water, is belittled and believed to be “inferior” to men’s work. These accounts underline the unequal division of labour and point to the ways in which women’s work is being devalued.

Gendered and watercentric spaces In distinguishing private spaces from public spaces, Madanipour points out that “distinction between public and private is everywhere around us, from our daily routines of living and passing through different shades of private and public spaces, to patterns of behavior which we perform in accordance with the character of these spaces” (Madanipour 2003, p. 47). Smith and Low write that “public” has a vague definition, but it is “traditionally differentiated from private space in terms of the rules of accesses, the source and nature of control over entry to a space, individual and collective behavior sanctioned in specific spaces and rules of use” (Smith and Low 2006, p. 4).

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From a firsthand account of the experiences of women in day-to-day activities in the study villages located in drought-prone regions of Gujarat, certain spaces emerged which can be marked as gendered. In each of these spaces, women, through their work, rituals and other activities, assign particular meanings which surfaced during the course of the interviews. Collective or joint creation of these spaces is not only specific to physical and spatial aspects, but also considers the emotional dimension of work, where they interact and bond with their children and other members of the village. The observations helped in understanding how particular spaces become inclusive, at times even empowering women, while others turn exclusionary, affecting them in a manner that interferes with their health, diet, relationships and construction of multiple identities as women, mother and daughter. The typical Gujarati household in the study region has two sections: the inner courtyard and the outer courtyard. While the outer courtyard is restricted to males, the inner one is where the family lives, having separate spaces for women to feed their children and take rest. The poorer households have only one room which is compartmentalized with the help of sarees (traditional garment comprising six yards of fabric) used as curtains. While describing their personal space, one woman from Kothasanamota village in Mehsana said, It is our space. We clean it every day with the water that we fetch from the nearby well, feed the babies, watch television together and take rest after a hard day’s work. When the men come, they sit outside, have food and come inside only during the night. Another woman added that “when they try to come inside to watch cricket match telecasts, we fight with them and drive them away, since we watch our daily soaps.” Similarly, the space of the kitchen inside the house is a space that holds different meanings for different individuals, though it is an example of a gendered space. The kitchen is a place inside the house where the male members of the family are conspicuous by their absence. It is that space where the women of the household undertake activities associated with cooking. When asked if their husbands come inside the kitchen, one of the participants from Mehsana replied, “Husbands after returning home from work will ask for food. They don’t come to even fetch a glass of water in the kitchen.” According to another participant, “My daughter helps me in the kitchen; she helps in cooking, prepares food for her brother. We don’t let men come inside.” As no other space in the house belongs exclusively to them, they seemed naturally excited to talk about their daily chores in the kitchen. The women seemed totally at ease in their dimly lit kitchens,

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as they welcomed our female colleague inside to click pictures of their “favourite” place. We observed that the women derive a kind of power and pride from their almost-exclusive association with the kitchen but at times feel excluded in the same space during menstruation when they are barred entry, and their sisters-in-law or mothers-in-law take control. According to Paster (1993), the leaky female body associated with disorderly extrusions of urine, menstrual blood and other fluids, challenges the idea of the clean proper body, with defined boundaries. A married lady in a different village Nanakantharia also said that her mother-in-law assists her in the kitchen, and they don’t need the help of men. “If I fall sick, my girl helps me.” Here “falling sick” refers to menstruation, a time when the womenfolk are barred from entering their kitchens, as it is believed that cooking while menstruating makes food impure. According to an elderly participant from village Laxmanpura, “Women don’t cook; they are not allowed in the kitchen and the temple when they are menstruating. We are there to do the daily chores, while they are only assigned lighter work like washing and cleaning, but not cooking.” It is through these periodic exclusions of the younger women from the kitchen space that the elder women get a grip back on kitchen activities, thus possibly constructing the work that their daughters-in-law do at this time, e.g. the washing and cleaning, as lighter than cooking. Younger respondents however do not share pride in being associated with kitchen tasks and kitchen spaces. Seema, a young participant from Kachchh said, I don’t like cooking all day in the kitchen. I like to study, but my mother wants me to look after my siblings, and as she goes to tend to the cattle, I have to cook the whole day and also at night. They [parents] also made me quit school. Reshma, another participant, while showing a new set of utensils and a mixer, said, “Fetching water and storing it in the kitchen is all I  do. My brother doesn’t help me; he studies, and my father goes for work outside the village.” With a sigh, she added, “I studied till class eight, now I help my mother in the kitchen.” Both narratives echo perspectives related to women’s water-related tasks within a deeply patriarchal milieu. As these narratives show, women and girls may become increasingly confined to home and homebound tasks, especially in water scarce areas. Moving on to describe gendered watercentric public spaces, we noted that all the households in the six villages that we surveyed, except in Kachchh, have a water pipeline, but due to infrequent electricity supply, they don’t receive water most of the time. Hence, the women of the village have to walk at least a kilometer to the nearest water source, which may be a well, a

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tube well or a tap in the nearby village or road intersection. Surveying these places, it was observed that it is only the women of the household who go there to fetch water, sometimes bringing their children along to help them. By and large, these places are characterized by the absence of men. The women identified the summer months of May and June as being really tough for them. One of them said, We have to come here in the morning, afternoon, evening: whenever there is no water at home in this heat, after walking for at least a kilometer. We experience pain in the legs and headache as we have to carry two kalas [water pots] placed one over the other in one trip. From a roadside water collection point in Veratola near Mehsana, it was found that the women collect water from a tank that is exclusively for buffaloes. When asked, a woman in the queue said that though they have pipelines, it’s mismanagement that forces them to come here for water. “The Panchayat does not switch on the pump when they are supposed to, and we have to come to collect the water as many times as required,” she said. Another woman from Nanakantharia commented that there are only wells in the village, and they have to lift the water pots with the help of ropes, resulting in severe pain in the hands and shoulders. After carrying the water home, they have to do other household chores. “We chat and gossip there while we lift the water, but it gets really painful at times to stand in long queues in the summer months.” In a group discussion at Idata village in Tharad, the group echoed, “The well side spaces were a little space of relief, but when we don’t have to travel all the way there in the scorching summer heat, we prefer being at home a lot more.” In contrast to the women’s accounts of hardship and pain, a man commented, “The women have a fun time, gossiping about their sisters-in-law and mothers-in-law. They travel on the pretext of fetching water whenever they need a break from work.” He also added, “This walking for kilometers makes them stay healthy.” The outrageous comment irked the women, who vehemently protested that there was not an iota of truth in what he said. “It’s not true; it’s what the men think of us and what we do,” they said, almost in unison. Again, in the man’s comments, the unequal power dynamics and the way women’s efforts at collecting water in the drought-prone area are constantly trivialized were brought to the fore. Reshma, a girl of 12 in the village of Kachchh, was seen carrying two pots of water on her head and one in her hand from a tube well. When asked, she said that she only helps her mother by coming here and fetching water once in the morning and once in the evening. The little girl has been barred from going to school as she is a “grown-up girl” now, and only her brothers

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can avail themselves of that privilege. “I like math, I like science, and I also want to go to school like my brother, but my mother doesn’t let me as I have to look after my siblings and fetch water for the household.” According to the participants, people have been drawing a lot of underground water with the help of electric pumps, due to delayed monsoons and lack of rainfall. This resulted in the hand pumps drying up, along with lowering the water table in the wells. This has substantially increased the time that women in the village spend fetching water. One of the women said, Most of our time is spent in bringing water from the well. We have other works, like tending to the cattle or the buffaloes, giving them fodder and water at the right time, because they are the ones who save us during a drought. But we have little time to do these, and our husbands are also busy in the fields.

Concluding remarks This chapter provides a small window to enable further research and initiate debate about gendered spaces, in particular agro-climatic terrains that constitute specific genderscapes. We observe that place identity plays a major role in shaping the self-identity of a society, reflecting the environment and its social and personal meanings (Buchecker 2005; Korpela 1989; TwiggerRoss and Uzzell 1996; Proshansky et  al. 1983). Place otherwise becomes either location or a set of generic relations and thereby loses much of its significance for human action if it’s only viewed as a spatial entity. Place, then, has meaning only in relation to an individual’s or group’s goals and concerns (Merrifield 1993). Examining the varied experiences of women and their relationship to water in the study area provides opportunities to explore how cooking, fetching water, maintaining livestock, agriculture and social interaction create gender-inclusive or gender-exclusive spaces, giving them certain meanings. Our observations also showed that the caste composition in a particular village determines the power relations that women experience over the withdrawal of water. Tribal women belonging to the ST community, though comprising a higher number, usually get access to water from a well only after the upper castes finish their turn. In our study, we observe how water crisis affects not only women, but young girls too. Along with the women of the household, the young girls spend a considerable amount of time in fetching water, cleaning and washing, which results in drop-outs in large numbers from schools. They have to sacrifice the time that is important for their education and all-round development. Moreover, their health and self-esteem get adversely affected, burdened with excessive work pressure in rural patriarchal societies. Unfortunately, their mothers have no option other than to involve girls in helping them in the household chores and looking after the siblings. Absence 130

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of education and poverty form a vicious circle in which the women of the household are kept in the shadow of male dominance. In certain spaces, they resist tradition and patriarchy, but in most others, they have to surrender in conformity with societal norms of classic patriarchy. In some cases, though, women feel that there is an inequality in water collection and the rules imposed on them regarding the usage of certain spaces. But due to the prevailing norms and their upbringing in these strong patriarchal households, they assume doxically and through their habitus (Bourdieu 1972, trans 1977; see Chapter 1 of this volume for a fuller explanation) that following existing rules is their duty as good wives and obedient daughters. This doxic acceptance of unequal roles and responsibilities is fairly common in different socio-cultural regions (see for example, Chapter 2 on Assamese middle-class women in this volume). We found that men usually had complete control over women’s activities. According to some, it is a way of dividing the work in which the place of the women is in the “home,” and the place of the men is in the “fields.” These spaces often get blurred when the man engages the wife in agricultural work to minimize the cost of labour. Women feel they have no option but to give in to such hardships, and lack of education or other skills makes them vulnerable, affecting their health and overall well-being. The scarcity of water within this agro-ecological region of India thus scripts to a large extent the gendered watercentric roles and division of labour between women and men, as well as the way household spaces come to acquire gendered meanings for women. Water, or its lack, shapes gendered tasks, roles and responsibilities in particular ways in these droughtprone villages of Gujarat.

Acknowledgement We are indebted to the officials of the government of Gujarat for their support and cooperation during the fieldwork.

References Bandyopadhyay, Nairwita, Chandrashekhar Bhuiyan, and Ashis K. Saha. “Temperature Extremes, Moisture Deficiency and Their Impacts on Dryland Agriculture in Gujarat, India.” In Drought: Research and Science-Policy Interfacing, edited by Joaquin Andreu, Abel Solera, Javier Paredes-Arquiola, David Haro-Monteagudo, and Henny van Lanen, 119–24. Balkema: CRC Press, 2015. Bandyopadhyay, Nairwita, and Ashis K. Saha. “Mapping Gender and Gendered Spaces in Drought-Prone Areas of Gujarat.” In Proceedings of International Conference on Re Orienting Gender: Geographies of Resistance, Agency, Violence and Desire in Asia, edited by Anindita Datta, 127–37. New Delhi: R.K. Books, 2015.

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Bourdieu, Pierre. Esquisse d’une théorie de la pratique, précédé de trois études d’ethnologie kabyle, (1972), Eng. Outline of a Theory of Practice. Translated by Richard Nice. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977. Buchecker, Matthias. “Public Place as a Resource of Social Interaction.” In Space, Spatiality and Technology, edited by Phil Turner and Elisabeth Davenport. Dordrecht: Kluwer, 2005. Census of India, 2011. Accessed on 6th July 2015. www.census.gov.in. Datta, Anindita. “Natural Landscapes and Regional Constructs of Gender: Theorising Linkages in the Indian Context.” Gender Technology and Development, Special Issue on Gender and Space: Themes from Asia 15, no. 3 (2011): 345–62. Korpela, Kalevi Mikael. “Place-identity as a Product of Environmental Self-regulation.” Journal of Environmental Psychology 9, no. 3 (1989): 241–56. Madanipour, Ali. Public and Private Places of the City. New York: Routledge, 2003. Merrifield, Andrew. “Place and Space: A Lefebvrian Reconciliation.” Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers, New Series 18, no. 4 (1993): 516–31. Mudrakartha, Srinivas. To Adapt or Not to Adapt: The Dilemma Between Long Term Resource Management and Short Term Livelihoods. Colombo: IWMI, 2007. Pandya, Rameshwari. “Role of Home Scientists in Water Management.” Kurukshrtra 50, no. 2 (September 2002). Paster, Gail Kern. The Body Embarrassed: Drama and the Disciplines of Shame in Early Modern England. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1993. Proshansky, Harold M., Abbe K. Fabian, and Robert Kaminoff. “Place-identity: Physical World Socialization of the Self.” Journal of Environmental Psychology 3, no. 1 (1983): 57–83. Shiva, Vandana, and Kunwar Jalees, eds. Water & Women: A Report by Research Foundation for Science, Technology, and Ecology for National Commission for Women. New Delhi: Navdanya/Research Foundation for Science, Technology, and Ecology, 2005. Smith, Neil, and Setha Low. “Introduction: The Imperative of Public Space.” In The Politics of Public Space, edited by Setha Low and Neil Smith, 1–16. New York and London: Routledge, 2006. Soni, Jayasri. “Gender Dimensions of Water Scarcity Result of a Study: Result of a Study in ‘No-source’ Villages of Four Districts in Gujarat.” IWMI Working Papers H029654. Colombo: IWMI, 2002. Twigger-Ross, Clare L., and David L. Uzzell. “Place and Identity Processes.” Journal of Environmental Psychology 16, no. 3 (1996): 205–20.

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10 NUMBERS, BODIES, LOVE AND BABIES Gender and territory in Ladakh Sara Smith

In erstwhile Jammu and Kashmir’s Leh District, the tenuous geopolitical context of the India-Pakistan partition and the gradual politicization of religious identity over the course of the 20th century have rendered intimate decisions about love and babies political. In this chapter, I draw on survey data, interviews and a participatory oral history project in order to unravel how women in Leh tell the stories of their lives when their life choices become a political battleground in contested spaces. Extracting from a larger study, my intention was to open up questions about how we might explore intimacy and reproduction as sites of geopolitical practice by engaging with the body as itself an instrument of territory making. I argue that by doing so we might trouble masculinist and patriarchal views of territory and the body. This chapter explores how geopolitical conflicts co-opt women’s bodies and their intimate choices in Leh as instruments of territory making.

Intimate territories Whom we love and how many children (if any) we would like to bear are among the most intimate choices we make. Simultaneously, these decisions determine demographic trends and thus shape territories. In this chapter, I would like to suggest that the practice of gender is profoundly affected by territorial concerns. While space in a broader sense is profoundly gendered, in this chapter my focus is on space as territory  – that is, space claimed and bounded in reference to political control. In post-partition South Asia, Veena Das and Urvashi Butalia (Das 1995; Butalia 2000), among others, have observed the ways that women’s bodies become symbols for the nation. The gendered potential of women’s bodies, embedded in their capacity to give birth to citizens, soldiers and voters, and the ways that this capacity

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is discursively deployed, render women’s bodies a contested territory and provides the potential for both dissent and resistance, as well as the risk of violence. Gender is thus inflected by understandings of space and bodies as territory and power. In Leh, Buddhist-Muslim conflict is articulated through restrictions on interaction between those of different religions, and geopolitical strategies impinge on personal decisions. Incrementally, over the past century, religious identity has taken on political meaning in Leh. During an earlier period of fieldwork in 2004, when the district was part of the border state of Jammu and Kashmir, I  was startled to find that when I  asked questions about politics in Leh, I routinely got answers about marriage and babies. When I interviewed Paljor and Fatima, a Buddhist-Muslim couple who had given up family support in order to marry one another, for example, they explained to me patiently the connections between love and politics and why their parents, government officials and neighbors were doing all in their power to keep them apart. Within a few months of that interview, they were divorced, and Fatima had undergone an abortion. That same summer, two middle-aged Buddhist women expressed to me sorrow and regret that they had used family planning to limit their family size as they had recently heard this was sinful and that it would negatively impact the future of Ladakh. My research became the story of why couples like Paljor and Fatima cannot marry in Leh and how women in Leh deal with the politicization of their family-planning choices. Over the course of my fieldwork, I came to understand this as a territorial struggle that is simultaneously about geopolitical territory and the territory of the body. The body is crucial to state projects in the act of reproduction – states are built and territories are made through birth. This renders the reproductive body an irresistible target for political strategies of all kinds: states seek to produce the workforce, soldiers, citizens and voters through interventions at the site of the mother’s body. These strategies, however, are endlessly complicated and sometimes thwarted by the very potentialities they seek to utilize; the intimate decisions and practices upon which they depend are susceptible to unruly desires and visceral fears. To get at this nexus of the international and the intimate, I  used a multi-method approach to examine how political narratives and changing conceptions of identity affected decisions about love and babies. This entailed an extensive survey of women’s marriage and fertility choices, in-depth life history interviews and a participatory oral history project with Ladakhi youth. These methods elicited data on marriage and reproductive choices being made today (surveys), how individuals interpret those choices (interviews) and how discourses of Buddhist-Muslim interrelatedness and difference are produced and contested (participatory oral histories).

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Pursuing these questions over the course of 11 months of fieldwork brought me to an understanding of the body and bodies as fundamental to geopolitical practice but left me with questions about how to develop a feminist methodology for the geopolitics of bodies. It is these questions that the next section addresses.

Feminist geopolitics The 1990s saw a resurgence of interest in geopolitics as theorists expanded its scope from a narrowly defined relationship between space and political strategy to incorporate political economy and critical approaches (Agnew and Corbridge 1995; Ó Tuathail and Dalby 1998). Building on this reconfiguration of geopolitics, scholars have sought to balance representations of geopolitics with embodied practices in order to understand their constitutive power (Dodds 1998; Newman and Paasi 1998; Sharp 2000; Sparke 1994). A feminist approach to geopolitics calls attention to embodied practices that are the daily manifestation of international conflict (Desbiens et  al. 2004; Hyndman 2001, 2004, 2007; Dowler and Sharp 2001; Kofman and Peake 1990; Long 2006; Marston 2003; Secor 2001; Staeheli 2001; Yuval-Davis 1991). Feminist and everyday approaches to the state share an ontological underpinning that rejects the privileging of macro logics over micro processes. The importance of this openness is borne out by the case of geopolitical practice in Leh. As political and territorial sites, bodies participate in endless repetition through the inscribing of religion onto territory and onto bodies. This occurs mostly when residents invoke narratives of political-religious difference and invoke these differences to cease eating/sharing food and marrying one another. On occasion, however, the bodily imperatives (desire or defense of the body from harm) compel that potentiality to refuse – in that moment, the geopolitical work of making bodies into territories is undone: that is, men and women disrupt the geopolitical marshaling of their bodies into political blocks by crossing embodied religious borders. In this research, I worked to mediate reified notions of geopolitics as a macro by exploring how individuals reflect on, produce and resist micro geopolitics (e.g. by affirming or negating political-religious boundaries through marriage or childbearing). This is the feminist methodology for geopolitics that this chapter adopts. In previous research, I  observed that individual life histories intersected with, or were told through the lens of, geopolitics, as when a Muslim woman drew a contrast between the time in her life when there was war between India and Pakistan and the time in her life when there was conflict between Buddhists and Muslims. Building on this observation, my research traced how the changing geopolitical context has been constituted on the ground.

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In her work on Palestinians in the Galilee, Kanaaneh (2002, p. 1) argues that “Family planning is now part of the social processes . . . in which gender is configured, communities are imagined, and boundaries of the modern are drawn.” Kanaaneh found that for Palestinians, gender and decisions about birth control were mediated through conversations about the future of Palestine as a nation. In a similar vein, when Muslim Ladakhis are imagined to maximize fertility through having more children, will Buddhists shift their family planning practices? When registrars at the courthouse will not register the marriage licenses of Buddhist-Muslim couples, compelling them to leave Ladakh, what are the repercussions? When neighbors’ religious identity suddenly has new meaning, how does the signification and surveillance of bodies change?

Love, babies, lines of control Jammu, Kashmir and Ladakh were incorporated into India in 1947. The Ladakh region was split into two districts in 1979: Kargil (with a Shia Muslim majority) and Leh (with a Buddhist majority). At the time of conducting fieldwork, Leh District was the single Buddhist-majority area in India and it resided within a Muslim-majority state. Subsequently, in 2019, the state of Jammu and Kashmir was reconstituted into two Union Territories – Jammu and Kashmir and Ladakh – under the provisions of the Jammu and Kashmir Reorganization Act, 2019. Leh is presently a district of the Union Territory of Ladakh. In a political framework in which claims for rights and sovereignty are often made on the basis of difference, religious identity has become increasingly politicized. The recent politicization of religion originated in the late 1980s, when Buddhist activists drew attention to their cause (greater autonomy for the district) by “boycotting” local Muslims: that is, enforcing sanctions on Buddhist-Muslim interaction of any kind. Although the boycott ended in 1992, political discussion continues to be framed in terms of religious identity. In Leh, Buddhist politicians had sought legislative autonomy for the district by portraying it as a disadvantaged Buddhist area discriminated against by the Muslim-run state government (van Beek 1996, 1997, 2001). Some of the autonomy movement’s key strategies had been focused intensely on the regulation of bodily interaction between Buddhists and Muslims. This intensity is exaggerated by the region’s geopolitical vulnerability around disputed borders with Pakistan and China. Geopolitical anxiety also haunts political conversations. In an electoral democracy in which politicians often rely on religion to mobilize blocs of voters, numerical advantage is crucial, and therein we find a complicated connection between women’s fertility and the state. In a 2007 interview with a senior member of the Ladakh

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Buddhist Association (LBA), I was told their top priority is keeping the district Buddhist – that is, promoting population growth by discouraging Buddhist women from using family planning. Both Buddhists and Muslims have become increasingly invested in bodily boundary making, with a 1995 ban on interreligious marriage and increased attention to dress, food consumption and other bodily practices. Local Muslim associations (the Anjuman moin-ul Islam and the Anjumam-e-Imamia) support the informal agreement between Buddhists and Muslims to prevent intermarriage. There has been excellent work on the genealogy of these tensions and their public performance (Aggarwal 2004; van Beek 1996; Bertelsen 1996, 1997; Gutschow 2006; Srinivas 1998); we have yet to develop, however, an account that traces out the ways these tensions are normalized in everyday practice, particularly with respect to bodily regulation. My interviews indicate that this is in fact one of the primary ways people experience and engage with the politics of religious identity. Recent developments suggest that this aspect is, in fact, the central stage on which the conflict is playing out. Although the district had the lowest fertility of any district in India (Guilmoto and Rajan 2013), those Buddhists who once enthusiastically embraced family planning are now discouraging their daughters and daughters-in-law from using it. Despite the preponderance of Buddhists in the district, women of childbearing age are being told that Buddhists will “die off,” and Buddhist leaders threaten that family planning will have dire consequences for the cycle of reincarnation. While Buddhists have a solid majority here, they perceive Ladakh as a whole to be losing its Buddhist majority. While Muslim women do not reiterate demographic fears, their religious leaders have also told them that family planning is a sin. If it continues, this politicization of reproductive health could have profound repercussions for Ladakhis’ lives as they may be pressured into reproductive health decisions with serious economic, physical and family consequences.

Truth and numbers: who counts for what? How do individuals make sense of their lives and of their positions within the collectivities that aggregated census data seeks to measure and represent? Reading in the newspaper that the population of Ladakh (Leh and Kargil Districts at the time of fieldwork) is 237,000, how might a resident of Leh conceive of themselves in a country of more than one billion? Hearing rumors that Ladakhi Muslims are having more children than Buddhists, how might an individual feel when they fall in love with someone of the “wrong” religion? Hearing these rumors, do individuals think “This has nothing to do with me,” or do they begin to see their own lives caught up in

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aggregates that produce the future of their district, their region, their state and our world? In my research on the geopolitics of fertility, an engagement with quantitative methods for measuring fertility has been a necessity. Seeking to intervene in the ways that fertility statistics have been used to tell stories about groups of people, how could I not engage with the numbers that dominate such discussions? The use of numbers has been valuable in several ways that surprised me – for instance, when I interviewed politicians and the heads of organizations in the summer of 2008, I could ask them follow-up questions based on my data. When one Buddhist activist told me that Buddhist women should not use family planning, I told him that the women I spoke with felt it was a crucial necessity for modern life and that both Buddhist and Muslim women were using it enthusiastically because they wanted to send their children to private schools. This elicited a more thorough argument from him about the spatiality of high Muslim fertility (claiming it is only in very specific sites), as well as a class argument stating that rural women send their children to private schools only because it is a “fashion.” The quantitative data also allowed me to understand the extent to which there were interreligious marriages in the past and the extent to which these are frowned on today.

Methods and findings This research was conducted over 11 months in Leh and surrounding villages in two phases  – mid-June to mid-August  2007 and mid-December  2007 to mid-September 2008. During this time, I conducted a survey on reproductive decisions, choices around marriage and opinions about religion and religious conflict. I surveyed a sample of 192 women, stratified by age and religion. I engaged approximately 65 of these women in longer semi-structured interviews about their lives and how their experiences relate to political events in Leh district, and, when feasible, I  discussed some of the same questions with men in the villages or neighborhoods. These comprised ten additional interviews. In Leh, I interviewed 13 political, religious and association leaders, including the heads of religious organizations, women’s organizations and active politicians. I  also did two participatory oral history projects. I conducted all interviews and survey interviews myself but was often accompanied by my insightful and enthusiastic research assistant, Hasina Bano. Hasina accompanied me on approximately half the interviews. She helped me make contacts, particularly in villages in which I had not spent time before, and helped me greatly by suggesting follow-up questions and engaging me in discussion between interviews and buoyed my spirits by expressing surprise and delight at our findings.

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The survey was intended to develop a broad sense of the logic of fertility choices in Leh. In the survey, I asked what kinds of factors are taken into account when making marriage and fertility choices and what the desired family size was, as well as questions to determine the degree to which individuals’ families crossed religious lines. As per the discussions mentioned earlier, I  did not expect these surveys to reveal “the truth” about fertility practices and marriage; however, I  do believe they were an important component of a partial knowledge of the complexity of factors implicit in these choices, as well as a strategically useful tool for grounding ideas about what it means to be Ladakhi in a broader context. For example, I suspected, based on my previous interviews, that there was a significant degree of interrelationship between Buddhists and Muslims in Leh; the survey has been invaluable in eliciting this kind of contextual data to destabilize the idea that there are two Ladakhi communities. While surveys provided a broad overview of fertility practices, they could not answer the question of what fertility and marriage decisions mean to individuals in a politically charged context. To get at the intersections between individual lived experience and the political and cultural material of everyday life, I engaged in oral histories, with questions targeted at these specific issues. These questions included asking what kinds of discussions happen around family planning and marriage decisions and what cultural and political factors come into play in these discussions. For instance, my interviews probed how individuals feel about having children. Do they see their own lives in a different light than those of their parents? What kinds of pressures do they face or imagine in relationship to their religious identities, if any? These interviews, which were less structured than the surveys, also allowed me to pursue lines of questioning particular to a specific interviewee – for instance, those who had witnessed events such as the burning of Muslim homes in 1989 or the flooding in Phyang in 2006. These potential lines of questioning were only evident once the interview was in process, e.g. when a woman in Leh volunteered the burning of her father-in-law’s home as an example of Buddhist-Muslim conflict and its ties to the female body (saying that the reason for such acts was Muslim marriage to Buddhist women). Similarly, it was only once an interview was underway that Hasina and I might learn that a woman had been born into a Buddhist family and converted later to Islam. The open nature of semi-structured interviewing allowed me to request further details in those cases. In the interview process, I have not found a way to get around the coproduction of knowledge, nor would I  want to; I  think that, ethically, it is imperative to be open about the meaning of my questions, the intent of my work and my own position in Ladakh. Leh is a small town, and it is common for people to recognize me and identify me as part of a Buddhist

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family – this made it all the more important for the interview to be a twoway process in which information was exchanged and not just extracted. In particular, I  faced the problem of being interpreted as “Buddhist” in ways that either dismantle or arm individuals’ defense mechanisms; to make my research ethical (and productive), I had to explain the purpose of my research clearly and find ways to destabilize expectations of me. I did this by visiting Muslim areas where I did not have prior contacts with my Muslim research assistant, Hasina, or by expressing sympathy and affirmation when respondents asked me what I thought about their situations. Views on marriage, fertility and family choices are inflected with current political narratives. That is, individuals do make reference to political strategies when talking about the personal choices of themselves or others. Some aspects of family decision-making are being shaped or determined by emerging political-religious identity practices. Interviewees report less engagement with friends and relatives of different religions, and they point to the 1989 social boycott as the breaking point. These changes are framed as part of an inevitable shift towards “modernity,” the result of increased wealth and competition, or the product of politics and politicians’ need to rely on voting blocks. Tensions between Buddhists and Muslims are often attributed to politics but are described in terms of interpersonal relationships (eating together, fistfights, marriages). Young people – both the students who participated in the oral history project and others I interviewed – expressed both anxieties and hopes for the future as they relate to conflict between religious groups. Thus, one young Shia university student told me that her Buddhist friend “has no future” because she is having an affair with a Muslim, and several oral history participants reported that their fears were for future communal conflict. It’s common for Ladakhis to proclaim that today “everyone” has love marriages. Table 10.1 shows the responses to the question, “Did you have an arranged marriage or a love marriage?” Here, Skuste refers to a runaway marriage in which the parents’ consent is obtained after the couple is married. From the table, it is clear that, if anything, young women today claim to prefer arranged marriage over love marriage. They cite risk as the chief reason for this preference  – informing me repeatedly that if you choose your own spouse, you will not be well-enough informed about their family and background and that, furthermore, if your family chooses your spouse and there are problems, your family will support you or invite you back home. The overwhelming majority of Ladakhi Buddhists and Muslims are against intermarriage between Buddhists and Muslims; however, their family histories suggest that these kinds of marriages were not prevented in the very recent past. I spoke with four women who had married someone of the other religion and converted, but I did not meet anyone who had successfully married across the religious line since the end of the social boycott. 140

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Table 10.1  Marriage choices and perceptions Age Category

Marriage type as defined by participant

Up to age 39

Current religion Buddhist Sunni Shia Total Age 40 and above Current religion Buddhist Sunni Shia Total

Arranged

Love Skuste Total

8 9 8 25 9 12 15 36

3 7 6 16 6 1 2 9

1 0 3 4

12 16 17 45 15 13 17 45

Source: Fieldwork by the author in 2007 and 2008

Every woman I  spoke with was aware of religious restrictions on family planning. Most had heard pro-natal arguments based on both religious claims (i.e. that family planning is a sin) and, for Buddhists, territorial claims (i.e. that use of family planning cedes territory to an expanding Muslim population). That said, it was rare for women to state that they did not use family planning for religious reasons (in my interviews, only three women in total said this – one Buddhist and two Shia Muslims). More often, they listed reasons why family planning was problematic but then went on to describe that they had not known about its sinful nature during their reproductive years or to state that the prohibition on family planning should only be applied to those women who were healthier or wealthier. This was true across economic classes – unemployed women whose husbands did poorly paid manual labor told me about their struggles to pay for private school for their children and said that those families in which the parents had steady jobs should have more children. Within those families in which both parents did have steady jobs, women told me that if they had fewer children, they could send them to better private schools in large Indian cities. This research indicates that women will pursue family planning to the extent that it is available. It is possible, however, that the methods used to limit family size may change. Several women suggested that they would not use sterilization because it is permanent and thus more politically sanctioned but that instead they would use an IUD to limit their fertility.

Conclusions With this research, my intent was to negotiate the analytical distance between nation-state tensions and every day practices by demonstrating that geopolitics is simultaneously micro and macro in its manifestations. This 141

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formulation builds on feminist political theory and nascent feminist geopolitics by introducing the body, fertility and intimacy as territorialized and territorializing sites. My hope was to humanize and materialize the abstract study of geopolitics by foregrounding the ordinary actors who are consistently left out of political and geopolitical analysis. A theoretical shift from critiquing representations of geopolitics to an engagement with embodied geopolitical practices requires a shift in methodology – but this is not an easy proposition. Critical geopolitics can begin from easily accessible published texts or the ubiquitous rhetoric of powerful politicians; by arguing that geopolitics is likewise constituted in the intimacies of falling in love (or not), having children (or not) and dinner table discussions, I set for myself a rather difficult path. Yet, I believe this is ultimately a hopeful one, in that it foregrounds the humanity and effectiveness of the subjects/agents of geopolitical practice. Moving from the war room to the bedroom raises difficult questions of truth, power and ethics. When it comes to our phenomenological lives, what kinds of truths can be produced and to what purposes? Individuals may subscribe to geopolitical narratives about marriage, but that may not prevent them from falling in love with the wrong person. They may participate in pro-natal geopolitical talk, but fears about their own bodily integrity may discourage them from having babies for a political project. As these tensions play out, they dislodge distinctions between micro and macro scales: the most intimate link – between two lovers – becomes the center of the geopolitical map. For territories to be mapped, they must be populated. For boundaries to have meaning, bodies must be marked with difference. If individuals refuse that difference, the map becomes meaningless. This research is informed by state theory and feminist geopolitics, seeking to approach the power of the state and political factors through lived and embodied practices, and seeks to demonstrate that geopolitical territorialization – the very production and defense of territory – is enacted and refused in the most intimate of practices. Turning to such practices is one among many ways that we might disrupt masculinist views of the body as a passive territory and animate the abstract concept of space as territory with the lives and hopes of the women and men who populate it.

References Aggarwal, Ravina. Beyond Lines of Control: Performance and Politics on the Disputed Borders of Ladakh, India. Durham: Duke University, 2004. Agnew, J., and S. Corbridge. Mastering Space: Hegemony, Territory and International Political Economy. New York: Routledge, 1995. Original edition, 1962. Bertelsen, Kristoffer Brix. Our Communalized Future: Sustainable Development, Social Identification, and the Politics of Representation in Ladakh. Aarhus, Denmark: Department of Ethnography and Social Anthropology, Aarhus University, 1996.

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Bertelsen, Kristoffer Brix. “Early Modern Buddhism in Ladakh: On the Construction of Buddhist Ladakhi Identity, and Its Consequences.” In Recent Research on Ladakh 7: Proceedings of the 7th Colloquium of the International Association for Ladakh Studies, edited by T. Dodin and H. Rather. Bonn: Universitat Bonn, 1997. Butalia, Urvashi. The Other Side of Silence: Voices from the Partition of India. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2000. Das, Veena. Critical Events: An Anthropological Perspective on Contemporary India. New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1995. Desbiens, S., A. Mountz, and M. Walton-Roberts. “Reconceptualizing the State from the Margins of Political Geography.” Political Geography 23, no. 3 (2004): 241–3. Dodds, K. “Enframing Bosnia: The Geopolitical Iconography of Steve Bell.” In Rethinking Geopolitics, edited by G. O’Tuathail and S. Dalby. London: Routledge, 1998. Dowler, L., and J. Sharp. “A Feminist Geopolitics?” Space & Polity 5, no. 3 (2001): 165–76. Guilmoto, C. Z., and S. I. Rajan. “Fertility at the District Level in India: Lessons from the 2011 Census.” Economic and Political Weekly (2013): 59–70. Gutschow, Kim. “The Politics of Being Buddhist in Zangskar: Partition and Today.” India Review 5, nos. 3–4 (2006): 470–98. Hyndman, J. “Towards a Feminist Geopolitics.” The Canadian Geographer 45 (2001): 210–22. Hyndman, J. “Mind the Gap: Bridging Feminist and Political Geography Through Geopolitics.” Political Geography 23, no. 3 (2004): 307–22. Hyndman, J. “Feminist Geopolitics Revisited: Body Counts in Iraq.” Professional Geographer 59, no. 1 (2007): 35–46. Kanaaneh, R. Birthing the Nation: Strategies of Palestinian Women in Israel. London: University of California Press, 2002. Kofman, E., and L. Peake. “Into the 1990s: A Gendered Agenda for Political Geography.” Political Geography 9, no. 4 (1990): 313–36. Long, J. C. “Border Anxiety in Palestine-Israel.” Antipode 38, no. 1 (2006): 107–27. Marston, Sallie A. “Political Geography in Question.” Political Geography 22 (2003): 633–6. Newman, D., and A. Paasi. “Fences and Neighbours in the Postmodern World: Boundary Narratives in Political Geography.” Progress in Human Geography 22 (1998): 186–207. Ó Tuathail, G., and S. Dalby, eds. Rethinking Geopolitics. London: Routledge, 1998. Secor, Anna J. “Toward a Feminist Counter-geopolitics: Gender, Space and Islamist Politics in Istanbul.” Space & Polity 5, no. 3 (2001): 191–211. Sharp, J. “Remasculinising Geo-politics? Comments on Gearoid O. Tuathail’s Critical Geopolitics.” Political Geography 19 (2000): 361–4. Sparke, Matthew. “Writing on Patriarchal Missiles: The Chauvinism of the Gulf War and the Limits of Critique.” Environment and Planning A 26 (1994): 1061–89. Srinivas, Smriti. The Mouths of People, the Voice of God: Buddhists and Muslims in a Frontier Community of Ladakh. New York: Oxford University Press, 1998. Staeheli, L. A. “Of Possibilities, Probabilities and Political Geography.” Space  & Polity 5 (2001): 177–89.

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van Beek, Martijn. Identity Fetishism and the Art of Representation. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University, 1996. van Beek, Martijn. The Importance of Being Tribal. Or: The Impossibility of Being Ladakhis. In Recent Research on Ladakh 7: Proceedings of the 7th Colloquium of the International Association for Ladakh Studies. Bonn: Universitat Bonn, 1997. van Beek, Martijn. “Public Secrets, Conscious Amnesia, and the Celebration of Autonomy for Ladakh.” In States of Imagination: Ethnographic Explorations of the Postcolonial State. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2001. Yuval-Davis, Nira. “The Citizenship Debate: Women, Ethnic Processes and the state.” Feminist Review 39, no. 1 (1991): 58–68.

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11 REINTERPRETING RESISTANCE AND AGENCY Excavating feminist counterspaces within indigenous feminisms Anindita Datta

Feminism is largely understood as a “theory and/or movement concerned with advancing the position of women through such means as achievement of political, legal, or economic rights equal to those granted to men” (Offen 1988, p. 123). Within academic discourse, the different strands of radical feminism, socialist feminism and liberal feminism are now well known and extensively documented. These strands of feminism differ in their approach to the question of women’s subjugation and, hence, their amelioration strategies, yet they remain committed to the idea of women’s equality and empowerment. (See, for example, Nes and Iadicola 1989; Lis et al. 2000; Hoffman 2001, among others.) However, criticisms of feminism as a project of white Western ideologies that has largely excluded or devalued the experiences of non-white women have been repeatedly voiced. These early criticisms emerged from black feminisms, notably the work of bell hooks (hooks 1981, 1984), Anzaldua and Moraga (1984), Audre Lorde (1984), Ortega (2006) and others. These works pointed to the hegemony of white feminism and the way in which it continually erased the struggles and experiences of black women. These early mandates found resonances among women of colour and calls to make feminism more inclusive rapidly gained ground. Mohanty, in her seminal essay “Under Western Eyes,” noted the tendency of Western feminisms to constantly produce “third-world women” as a “singular monolithic subject” in their discourses (Mohanty 1988, p. 61). She argued that this “colonizes and appropriates the pluralities of the simultaneous location of different groups of women in social class and ethnic frameworks” and that this “ultimately robs them of their historical and political agency” (p.  79). More recently, Chattopadhyay, in her work on Adivasi women in the Narmada Valley, echoed Mohanty’s views that

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Western feminist self-presentation and representation of “third world women” yields a universal that is constructed from adding a “third world difference” to sexual difference. . . . Only through a vantage point of the western is it possible to define the “third world” as underdeveloped and economically dependent. (Chattopadhyay 2013, p. 142) Rejecting these monolithic and decontextualized constructions, the case studies in this volume have underscored the location of subjects within diverse contexts by situating their narratives within the framework of regional genderscapes. Pushing further, in this chapter, I  make the case for a new ontology of agential space by proposing the concept of a “feminist counterspace.” I maintain here that such feminist counterspaces are liminal spaces within which agency is negotiated through resistance, resilience or even by deploying silences and compliance. Despite their abstract nature, these spaces are anchored in real spaces (or physical spaces) and hence embedded within the regional genderscape. They might exist at different geographical scales in a continuum from the individual body, household, neighbourhood or public spaces in the city. Such feminist counterspaces remain essentially gendered and are to be read as spaces of resistance through which individual or collective agency may be negotiated. Excavating these feminist counterspaces involves recognizing the individual and collective agency of women within what can be termed “indigenous feminisms” in societies such as India, where classic patriarchy is deeply rooted. In the sections that follow, I  first locate indigenous feminisms, arguing for the need for alternate ways of conceptualizing feminism and resistances within non-Western contexts. Following from this, an attempt is made at conceptualizing feminist counterspaces which are seen as a product of such indigenous feminisms. This is followed by a discussion of feminist counterspaces created through these indigenous feminisms. Finally, a discussion of the deployment and implications of feminist counterspaces follows. Each of the chapters included in this study are then revisited to visibilize the counterspaces of resistance, resilience and agency within the case studies.

Locating indigenous feminisms Following Mohanty’s critique of the construction of non-Western women in opposition to the self-construction of white Western feminists described as “educated, modern, as having control over their own bodies and sexualities, and the freedom to make their own decisions” (Mohanty 1984, p.  334), Basu has commented on the tendency of Western feminism to assume the commonality of women’s oppression and also to see non-Western feminist

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movements  – i.e. those located in the third world  – as the byproducts of developments and modernization (Basu 1995). Their tacit assumption appears to be that development automatically leads to greater gender equality. Similarly Kuumba notes that the dominant Western discourse does not acknowledge the interventions of coloured women and hence calls upon women of colour to look for feminism in unlikely places (Kuumba 2001). Sarkar, in her 2004 paper, raises the same question and has questioned whether resistance displayed by women of colour needs to be christened feminist for it to be deemed significant and made visible in academic discourse (Sarkar 2004). It is against this background that I have attempted to define indigenous feminisms in order to describe the resistance of women within classic patriarchy, especially within Indian contexts. The aims of this are twofold. First, I hope to provide a theoretical frame within which our often-invisible resistance and resilience, usually glossed over and overlooked, can be brought into the ambit of feminism. This would enlarge the scope of feminism to make it inclusive of the experiences of Southern women, particularly those from South Asian contexts. Second, and flowing from the first, is that theorizing indigenous feminisms is an exercise in ascribing agency to women located within the genderscapes of classic patriarchy. Additionally, theorizing indigenous feminisms also has the potential to lead to a new ontology of agential space. As argued earlier, part of the initiative in theorizing indigenous feminisms comes from the tendency in Western discourse to portray gender issues in non-Western contexts as problems of development. In such a narrative, movements for women’s emancipation are products of modernization and hence possible only in modernized societies, where democracy and capitalism free women from the controls of patriarchal families. Implicit and even explicit in these arguments is the belief that individualistic consumerist identities are empowering, while kin- or family-based collective identities are not (Basu 1995). hooks has similarly argued that Western and Eurocentric discourses on feminism and rights tend to be biased against other feminisms, labeling them “backward,” “ignorant” or “irrelevant” (hooks 1981, 1984). In all such accounts, victimhood is repeatedly reemphasized while accounts of power and agency are either obscured or scarce. This hegemonic discourse, which continues privileging formal education over (situated) knowledge and wisdom, paid work over emotional and physical labour and participation in formal politics over daily decision-making, almost automatically renders the non-white, non-Western woman as poor, powerless, ignorant and underprivileged. A dismantling of the same, in terms of presenting an alterity, is now long overdue and in line with Mohanty’s by now well-known stance to simultaneously deconstruct and dismantle and build up and construct (Mohanty

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1988, 1991). Needless to say, this necessitates reinterpreting power and agency in other informal and less visible domains. Nancy Hiemstra, a feminist political geographer, has advanced the term “periscoping” to refer to a methodological strategy to uncover hitherto invisible or unseen power relationships in everyday spaces. This strategy is deliberately feminist, political and activist, addressing also the issues of epistemic violence that ensue from “not seeing” and hence invisibilizing. She advocates periscoping as a strategy that may be used at every stage of research, beginning with its conceptualization. According to Hiemstra, The peri-scope, because of its association with military and covert activities, alludes to inherent power relations by beginning with the premise that certain topics have been barricaded from view due to actions of the powerful. . . . [P]eriscoping should be understood as an activist methodology in step with long-standing feminist goals, an intentionally political strategy that seeks to interrogate power relations and disrupt epistemic violence. . . . Periscoping thus aims to reveal systems, processes, and experiences typically out of view, that have previously been left uninterrogated due to lack of access or awareness. (Hiemstra 2017, p. 332) It is this exercise of periscoping that is invoked here in an attempt to theorize indigenous feminisms and outline feminist counterspaces. Placing this chapter at the end of the volume is also a form of strategic periscoping. In this, it enables the reader to perceive agency not just in resistance but also in resilience, observe agency as a product of interventions or, in the face of activism, notice agency within compliance to tradition or articulated through fast-paced change. Crucially, it allows for the recognition that such agency is ultimately rooted in the everyday lives and everyday spaces of gendered subjects.

Theorizing indigenous feminisms The term “indigenous feminisms” has been used previously to refer mostly to the feminisms of non-white women in the Western world. These initial usages refer to the feminisms of aboriginal women, or women of the First Nations, and to their experiences of violence and oppression related to colonization and racialization of the indigenous subject. The violence of colonization includes damage to indigenous ecosystems, severing of traditional ties with the land and destruction of traditional knowledges and livelihoods. The importance of indigenous lives and a strong anti-colonial narrative make these indigenous feminisms innately incompatible with white

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feminisms. (See, for example, Cannella and Manuelito 2008; Barker 2015, among others). I have attempted to extend the usage of this term to encompass the everyday acts of resistance performed by women within the classic patriarchy in Asian societies. These resistances are used in varying measures to negotiate a degree of personal agency within the patrilocal household. I would like to argue here that a repertoire of banal acts, rooted in the everyday, is routinely deployed by women to cull out “feminist counterspaces.” The idea of such feminist counterspaces and the role they have in providing a modicum of agency, even transitorily, within traditional patriarchal societies such as India are the main focus of this concluding chapter. The paragraphs that follow discuss the concept of indigenous feminisms rooted in everyday life within the patriarchal household. This is followed by a description of feminist counterspaces later in the chapter. The existence of indirect, often invisible, power wielded by Asian women outside the formal and visible public domain as well as the intricacies of their manoeuvring have been discussed earlier by various scholars (Babb 1984 ; Ong 1988; Van Esterik 1996; Secor 1999; Schaffer and Xianlin 2007; Eto Mikiko 2008). Typically, such power is accessed through a compliance with, rather than opposition to, the traditional gender roles of wives and mothers and the use of femininity as agency, often at odds with western notions of feminism (Lyons 1991, 2000). The productive aspects of patriarchy glorifying and rewarding the traditional roles of wife and mother have also been noted (Geetha 2007). At the same time, Saud Joseph has pointed to the existence of kinship contracts in West Asian societies that allow men in family or kin groups to restrict women’s mobility and assert male authority over women by emphasizing these reproductive roles and curtailing women’s access to public spaces and paid work (Joseph 1994, 1996. Similar versions of kinship contract are also seen in the Indian case (Geetha 2007). Further, despite the existence of a robust legal framework and rapid gains made through the rights-based feminist movement, the penetration and implementation of such legal recourse into home spaces is uneven. It is within these peculiar contexts that women must find their “breathing spaces.” Quite commonly, this is achieved through enacting indigenous feminisms and creating feminist counterspaces to negotiate even a small measure of agency within the household. Such indigenous feminisms thus are rooted in the everyday spaces and everyday lives of women in patrilocal households. They most often invoke personal and kin-based networks but do not overtly challenge the unequal distribution of power within households. Rather, they might be simply bargaining strategies rather than full-fledged protests. In her paper on the Cabrera sisters’ life histories, Novio describes such feminism as emerging organically through life experiences within the family and not as one that

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has been taught or imposed through outside influences (Novio 2013). Similarly, Radha Kumar, in her seminal work The History of Doing, shows how women are able to extract various small concessions through traditional practices within the family. This affords them a momentary advantage (Kumar 1993, p. 146). Kandiyoti, in her widely known essay “Bargaining with Patriarchy,” notes that women under classic patriarchy are more likely to “adopt interpersonal strategies that maximize their security through manipulation of the affections of their sons and husband” and that “Even though these individual power tactics, do little to alter the structurally unfavourable terms of the overall patriarchal script, women become experts in maximizing their own life chances” (Kandiyoti 1988, p. 280). Abu-Lughod, in her study of Bedouin women, notes women’s resistance in “the sexually segregated women’s world where women daily enact all sorts of minor defiances of the restrictions enforced by elder men in the community. Women use secrets and silences to their advantage. They often collude to hide knowledge from men” (Abu-Lughod 1990, p. 43). Mahanta and Bhardwaj also note that “Everyday acts of resilience of ordinary women do not necessarily aim to overthrow existing hierarchies and gendered oppressions” and conclude that “resistance therefore is also to be located much like power, in micro sites at the level of the individual and her everyday” (Mahanta and Bhardwaj 2019). Most crucially, in the aforementioned studies, it is emphasized that the tactics of indigenous feminisms are not formal and overt. Rather, women enact their resistance by relying on interpersonal strategies. Such resistance is often invisible and very transitory. It needs to be deployed time and again to permit a measure of individual agency. Indigenous feminisms not only achieve temporary and transient agency, but also allow for enactment of resistance. Thus, these indigenous feminisms are synonymous with the traditionally used modes of protest or resistance as well as the spontaneous everyday resistance of women in Asian societies. In this, indigenous feminisms encompass and intersect with everyday feminisms. Finally, in consonance with Butler, the resistance of indigenous feminisms indict the traditional vulnerability of women within the patrilocal family. Here, the resistance of indigenous feminisms is conceived as resistance “drawing from vulnerability” (Butler et al. 2016, p. 1), and, as in the Foucauldian thesis, are located within the micro sites of the everyday in the very sites of power itself (Foucault 1980, p. 39).

Conceptualizing feminist counterspaces within indigenous feminisms Feminist counterspaces are part and parcel of the indigenous feminisms described above. In this section I attempt to frame a new ontology of agential and feminist space using previous theorizations advanced by Lefebvre, 150

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Soja and Foucault. In addition, the concept of “tactics and strategies” proposed by de Certeau (1984) proves equally useful. Crucial to the idea of feminist counterspaces is the notion of “thirdspace.” Building on Lefebvre’s concept of representational space, Soja refers to thirdspace as a lived space. Thirdspace provides a way out of imagining space in the binaries of first and second space and is at the same time both real and imagined, subjective and objective, and constitutes the lived spaces. Thirdspaces or lived spaces are the experiential spaces of “inhabitants” and “users” and, according to Lefebvre, “embraces the loci of passion, of action, and of lived situations” (Lefebvre 1991, p. 42) and hence can become spaces of celebration as well as resistance (see Lefebvre 1991; Soja 1996 for the original discussion). Writing in the context of urban spaces and “right to the city,” Lefebvre also outlines the notion of a counterspace. Such counterspaces represent a reappropriation of space from below: i.e. from the grassroots. Applying Lefebvre’s concept of counterspace to the power dynamics and spaces within the patriarchal household yields the notion of feminist counterspaces. Feminist counterspaces are lived spaces within which an inversion of power takes place temporarily. This temporary and transient reappropriation is facilitated through the performance of indigenous feminisms described earlier in this chapter. Based on these, I argue that feminist counterspaces are usually (but not always) women-only spaces that are used simultaneously as spaces of resistance and resilience. They effect a temporary subversion of patriarchy to provide a space for rest, recuperation and resistance through culturally familiar registers. In accordance with Foucault’s concept of heterotopias, these feminist counterspaces are non-hegemonic, operating against the grain of hegemonic spaces, and multilayered, existing both in physical and experiential terms. Similarly, according to the Lefebvrian view, they are counterspaces, or differential spaces, as they operate outside the control of the established order (in this case, patriarchy). Again, such counterspaces represent a temporary subversion and are created by women within classic patriarchy through the deployment of banal everyday acts within the household to register covert forms of resistance. In accordance with de Certeau’s idea of “tactics,” they represent ways in which women (and other marginalized groups) have been successful in appropriating rituals and spaces to mark resistance and subvert or recoup from hegemonic or patriarchal power. In this, feminist counterspaces represent the smaller, momentary spaces of agency created by women using the tactics of indigenous feminisms within the larger structures and strategies of patriarchy.

Excavating resistance, resilience and agency within feminist counterspaces Drawing on the work of Scott and de Certeau proves useful in visibilizing and contextualizing indigenous feminisms and the feminist counterspaces. 151

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Citing everyday practices such as false compliance, foot dragging, feigned ignorance, rumour, dissimulation and direct resistance through disguised registers, among others, as the “weapons of the weak,” Scott has pointed out that the small, subversive practices of everyday resistance, employed as strategies by the subjugated, have immense potential to disrupt and undermine (Scott 1985). These practices of everyday dissent and resistance are similar to de Certeau’s “tactics” of everyday life (de Certeau 1984) making up a “bricolage” of dissent through the deployment of banal, everyday acts rooted in daily life. Bleiker has similarly noted that such “dissent can work more slowly, more insidiously. . . . It is possible to observe manifold discursive practices” (Bleiker 2000, p. 256). Terming the range of such resistances “infrapolitics” due to their invisibility, Scott notes that the resistances grouped under infrapolitics are usually confined to informal networks of relatives, neighbours and friends and are well adapted to thwart surveillance and careful to avoid any direct confrontation with authority – choosing instead to subvert the latter through indirect means. Further, such everyday resistances are long drawn out and invoked almost constantly, in contrast to the open style of confrontation and resistance which is comparatively short lived, easier to thwart and more open to surveillance and censure. Similarly, indigenous feminisms and resistances are often masked within ritual, embedded in traditional gender roles and tied to the productive aspects of patriarchy; are not explicit; and, hence, are often unrecognized or, as pointed out earlier, may even be delegitimized by the dominant discourse. Crucial to the performance of these indigenous feminisms and resistances is the use of the body as a tool for resistance together with the simultaneous creation of a feminist counterspace. Scholars such as Butler (1990), Turner and Brownhill (2004), Alexandre (2006) and O Keefe (2014) have written about the body as a tool and site of resistance. Drawing on these and also the work of Nagar (2000), Oldenburg (1992) and Kannabiran and Menon (2007), I argue that such resistances are sited both within and through supportive and often (but not always) women-only exclusionary spaces. It is these spaces that I term “feminist counterspaces.” The performance of overt and covert resistance and the simultaneous creation of these feminist counterspaces cannot be so easily separated. Rather, the performance of indigenous feminisms and the creation of feminist counterspaces are byproducts of each other. Traditionally, some of these feminist counterspaces may be read as spaces where dissent is marked in disguised registers, sanctioned by ritual and tradition. Highly mobile and created and dismantled through ritual, these women-only exclusionary spaces are traditionally used during menstruation, to prepare for marriage, during pregnancy, in the puerperal period after childbirth and during festivals celebrating traditional gender roles – the latter especially very significant as they derive from the productive aspect 152

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of patriarchy (see Chowdhury 2007 for a few examples). Mobility, liminality and subversive potential thus mark out these indigenous feminisms and feminist counterspaces. As spaces of homosociality, perhaps also homoeroticism, these feminist counterspaces offer a rich scope for at least a temporary subversion of patriarchy through masquerade, mime, mimicry and venting. In fact, following McRobbie, such feminist counterspaces could also be described as elaborate feminine masquerades to avert male anxiety where “the masquerade functions to reassure male structures of power by diffusing the presence and aggressive competitive actions of women as they come to inhabit positions of authority” (McRobbie 2009, p. 68). While the rights-based feminist movements work to empower women in the public space or public life, indigenous feminisms operate within private spaces. They work subtly to create spaces of power and subversion within the domain of family life. For the bulk of women who remain firmly inscribed within the family, without the wherewithal to negotiate power through formal means or legal recourse for themselves, such tactics become all the more relevant in obtaining some measure of agency. The subversive potential of these feminist strategies outside the household and on a larger canvas, however, cannot be undermined. Some of the most glaring examples are of the Indian freedom movement, in which the non-cooperation movement and satyagraha incorporated the principles of such feminism into the project of shaking off colonial power. The idea of ahimsa, or nonviolence, was central to this resistance. The nonthreatening and nonconfrontational idea of ahimsa, common to the religious traditions of Buddhism, Jainism and Hinduism on the subcontinent, was effectively transformed into a tool for social action and political activism by Gandhi (see Nanda 2002). In post-independence India, a well-documented example of radical feminist resistance based on indigenous feminisms include the naked protests of the Meira Paibi in Manipur (see Gaikwad 2009; Bhonsle 2016a; Zehol 2010). To provide a background, the Meira Paibi literally meaning “women with the torch”, is a woman’s social movement protesting a range of social evils from alcoholism and domestic violence to the imposition of the Armed Forces Special Powers Act in Manipur (see Zehol 2010; Devi 2017). In July 2004, 12 middle-aged mothers staged a naked protest in front of the Assam Rifles Headquarters at Kangla fort in Imphal, Manipur. They were protesting the rape and murder of activist Thangjam Manorama Devi. The Meira Paibi, calling themselves Manorama’s mothers, stood naked before the soldiers carrying banners saying “Indian Army Rape Us.” Anubha Bhonsle describes the disrobing of the Meira Paibis in the following way: The mothers had left their hair loose, a mark of mourning. Some wore slippers. Others were barefoot. All were on a fast and had prayed in the morning before they embarked on this Nupi Lan, 153

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this women’s war. Their nakedness, old, haggard, was indescribably sacred. (Bhonsle 2016b, emphasis added) In an interview, Soibom Momon Leima, one of the protesting mothers, mentioned, “They had their weapons, we only had our body. . . . Together the mothers gave a war cry” (Sabarish 2017). Other instances of indigenous feminisms being deployed using the body as a site and tool of protest include the 16-year-long hunger strike by antiAFSPA activist Irom Shormila (see Mehrotra 2010; Kakoty 2019, among others), as well as environmental activist Medha Patkar’s hunger strikes and call for jal samadhi (protest by immersion) in the rising waters of the Narmada during protests against the Sardar Sarovar project. In each of these instances, the mode of resistance has referenced either women’s traditional roles in society (as mothers in the case of the Maira Paibis) or traditionally known means of registering protest, such as abstinence from food (as in Irom’s case) or samadhi (literally meaning prayer and intense meditation and also a traditional way of eschewing the material world). The countrywide sit-in protests of women against the National Register of Citizenship and the Citizenship Amendment Act are the most recent example. In these protests, initiated by the Muslim women of Shaheen Bagh, a Muslim middle-class locality in Delhi, a significant number of old women initially took to the streets to protest the new law. The protestors are often described as the dabang daadis (fearless grandmothers). At the protest site, nonviolence and peaceful resistance by deploying poetry, satire, humour, song, dance and art, as well as solidarity, sisterhood and care, mark out the spaces of these women-led resistances as feminist counterspaces.

Periscoping gender space and agency within regional genderscapes The use of periscoping as a feminist methodology allows for the recognition and visibility of indigenous feminisms and the feminist counterspaces they operate within. As argued at the outset, such an ontological exercise is now long overdue. In the absence of this exercise, non-Western feminisms cannot be understood in their full measure and hence run the risk of being seen as weak, fractured and fragile. This is because the more explicit rights-based feminisms enacted over public spaces have a history of being woven into the fabrics of other social movements in India. In these overt resistances, the question of women’s autonomy and power is not always central, but more likely to be subsumed within other questions of which it emerges as a corollary. But taken together with the resilience and resistance of everyday life, periscoping allows us to see that women are constantly resisting

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through apparent compliance, marking dissent through disguised registers and actively creating an unseen subculture that effectively thwarts surveillance. It is this methodological and interpretative strategy, therefore, that allows for the full measure of indigenous feminisms and the feminist counterspaces they operate in to be comprehended. Women and men from less advantaged positions within regional and local genderscapes must constantly try to identify spaces where they are affirmed and strengthened and can resist within and take recourse to for survival. Casting these spaces as feminist counterspaces, encompassing the traditional as well as the everyday, is thus a fruitful exercise. The case studies in this volume demonstrate that feminist counterspaces may simply serve as bubbles of refuge, rest, resilience or resistance within unequal structures of patriarchal power. Here, too, they are heterotopic and, interestingly, can coexist in the same spaces of powerlessness and exploitation: e.g. the patrilocal household within classic patriarchy. Training the periscope towards these cases in this concluding chapter enables us to recognize how feminist counterspaces of resistance and agency could as easily be assembled by women within the matrimonial or natal home by Assamese middle-class housewives pursuing higher education (Chapter 2) or be identified as a school, church or even cyberspace by participants in Kewer and Geores’s study (Chapter  3). Such feminist counterspaces might well be set up within the anonymity of slums and cities that provide refuge to women branded witches for claiming their property rights (Chapter  4). Similarly, the potential of decentralized political spaces in Gram Panchayats (Chapter  5) or the space of the Mahila Panchayats fighting domestic violence in Basu’s study (Chapter 6) can also be seen as spaces where power relations within patriarchy are for some time inverted. This happens through policy intervention in the case of Gram Panchayats and through local feminist activism within Mahila Panchayats. In the same vein, the refuge of her natal home for a widow in Gandhi’s study (Chapter 7) acts as a feminist counterspace to the economic hardships and constraints faced in her sasural, or matrimonial home. Similarly, the performances of migrant masculinity by the migrant men derisively called Ghati described in Bailey’s study (Chapter  8) are empowering acts of such placemaking too. The women-only water spots or kitchens in Bandyopadhyay and Saha’s study (Chapter 9) provide a similar example of co-creating spaces of refuge and personal agency. Finally, Smith’s study can be re-read to show how such feminist counterspaces may also be positioned through the disruption of territory making as a result of interreligious marriages (Chapter 10). In each case, the potential for deploying these feminist counterspaces as spaces of power and agency, however transient, exists in the very spaces of powerlessness and lack of agency.

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Finally, I would like to say that placing the case studies within this volume between an exposition of regional genderscapes and a discussion of indigenous feminisms over feminist counterspaces is deliberate and strategic. In this, decontextualized accounts are challenged, diversity of contexts highlighted and the complexity within which agency is framed and negotiated, equally through interventions, activism, resilience and resistance, is underlined. To conclude, I  return to the opening argument of the book. Space and gender are not innocent of each other, but intimately intertwined, constantly cocreating complex and multilayered spaces of agency. It only requires an adjustment of onto-epistemological lenses to visibilize and view such spaces and agency.

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INDEX

Note: Page numbers followed by ‘n’ denote notes. Abu-Lughod, Lila 150 Acker, Joan 11 Action India 79 advocacy 87 – 9 agency 1 – 11, 27, 35, 39, 43, 46, 48, 64 – 74, 77 – 90, 145 – 56; see also individual entries agrarian transformation 92 Aitken, Stuart 34 Ali, Syed 117 Aligarh district, Uttar Pradesh 83 Allen, John 27, 28 Anglo-Saxon world 1 Anzaldúa, Gloria 145 Armed Forces Special Powers Act 153 ASHA 56 Assam 15 – 29; regional genderscape of 17 Assamese culture 19 Assamese middle-class women: in higher education 15 – 29; interpretations 23 – 8; methodological issues 22 – 3 Banaskantha District 123 – 4 Bangalore 37 “Bargaining with Patriarchy” (Kandiyoti) 150 Basu, Srimanti 80 Beauvoir, Simone de 17 beedi 71 behen 87 Berdo 124 Bhardwaj, Gargi 150 Bhat, Mari 95 Bhiloda 124

Bhonsle, Anubha 153 – 4 Bhuria Committee 61 bitlaha 54 Bleiker, Roland 152 Bokaro 50 Bora village 58 Bourdieu, Pierre 3, 4, 15 – 29 Brahmaputra 16, 17 Buddhism 153 Buddhist-Muslim conflict 134 Bunt 3 Butalia, Urvashi 133 Butler, Judith 2, 107 Canales, M. K. 111 caste 6, 22, 28, 43, 48, 49, 52, 53, 66, 69 – 71, 78, 79, 81, 85 – 7, 92 – 3, 95 – 103, 121, 123, 130 Chaibasa 57, 59 Chakravarti, Uma 82 Chant, Sylvia 95 Charra 66, 69, 71, 72 Chattopadhyay, Sutapa 11, 145 Chen, Martha Alter 95, 96 Chota Nagpur plateau 49 class 93 classic patriarchy 3 – 5, 7, 10, 11, 16 – 17, 20, 35, 131, 146, 147, 149 – 51, 155 communication 15 community mobilization 72 – 3 Connolly, Paul 20 Constitutional (73rd Amendment) Act 1992 65, 68, 69 Constitutional Amendment Acts, 74th 68

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false consciousness 3, 8, 15 – 16, 19 – 22, 24, 27, 28 family planning 136, 139, 141 Fatehgarh Sahib 93 fear 57, 58, 60, 101, 114, 125, 134, 137, 140, 142, 154 female literacy rate 67 feminism 145, 147 feminist 1, 2, 4, 5, 7, 9, 10, 17 – 19, 49, 64, 77, 78, 84, 89, 90, 135, 142, 145 – 56 feminist counterspaces 4 – 5, 10, 145 – 56; resistance, resilience and agency 151 – 4 feminist geographers 64 feminist geography 1 feminist perceptions, mapping 17 – 19 feminist scholarship 18 feminist theories 2 – 5 Fernandes, Leela 22 field, concept 4 First Information Reports (FIR) 79 focus group discussions (FGDs) 50, 94, 103, 124 Forms of Capital (Bourdieu) 23 Foucauldian power analysis 81 Foucault, Michel 77, 151

contemporary realities 61 Cornwall, Andrea 64 Cotton College 22 councils, village level 68 counterspaces 4, 5, 7, 10, 27, 145 – 56 Couto, Maria Aurora 108 cultural capital 23 Damodar Valley 49 Darbar community 124 Das, Veena 133 Da Silva Gracias, Fatima 108 data collection 51 Datta, Anindita 92 Dayabhaga system 52 Debanandapur 66, 71, 72 Debanandapur Gram Panchayat 69, 70, 74 decentralization 9, 11, 64 – 9, 73, 74 de Certeau, M. 151, 152 decision-making process 73 Delhi 36, 39, 42; women’s courts (Mahila Panchayats) 78 – 80 Delhi Commission for Women 78, 79 desire 21, 115, 134, 135, 139 Dhanbad 50, 57 digital divide 44 Dixon, Deborah P. 34 domestic violence 80 domestic work 71 Dooars 39 doxa 3 – 4, 15 – 16, 21 doxic acceptance 21 Dreze, Jean 95 drought 7, 10, 11, 109, 120 – 31 drought-prone villages 120 – 31 Durey, Angela 21, 28 Durhirta village 58 economic prosperity 93 economic well-being 80 ecosystem 148 education, gender gap in 35; see also individual entries Ekal Nari Sangathan (ENS) 93 Elmhirst, Rebecca 107 employment opportunities 96 empowerment 5, 17, 21, 35, 65 – 72, 74, 79, 85, 98, 145 everyday spaces 148, 149 Ezhava 3

Ganga Valley 16 Garo 3 Gauhati Medical College 22 Geetha, V. 3 gender 2; Assamese middle-class women 15 – 29; interrogating, Jharkhand 48 – 62; social construction of 2, 5; value-ladenness of 19; see also individual entries gendered imbalances 5 gendered violence 56 – 61 gender gap 35 gender inequalities 28; feminist perceptions, mapping 17 – 19 gender politics 27 gender-related discrimination 17 gender relations 4 gender role 1, 3 – 5, 10, 19, 34, 64, 120, 122, 125, 149, 152 genderscape 1, 4 – 5, 7 – 10, 16, 17, 19, 28, 35, 37, 39, 42, 49, 54, 56, 64, 65, 73, 90, 100, 108, 117, 146 geopolitical anxiety 136 geopolitics 135, 138, 141, 142

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Ghati 112, 116, 155 Ghosh, H. 80 Giridih 50 girls’ education: agency 43; cultural spaces 43; cyberspace 44; dominant themes and enabling spaces 39 – 44; English proficiency 44; financial aid programs 44; friends and extended family 43; globalization 44; home spaces 40 – 1; identity 43; in India 34 – 47; mentors 43; participants, profile of 36 – 8; patriarchy 44; regional contexts 38 – 9; schooling environment 41 – 2; school space to workplace 44; self-identity 43; social and geographical challenges 42 – 3 Global Gender Gap Report 2012, The (Hausmann et al.) 35 global South 11 Goa Dourada (Portuguese Goa) 108 Goa, India: distinct social space 108 – 9; exclusionary spaces, masculinities 111 – 14; inclusionary spaces, masculinities 110 – 11; liminal spaces, masculinities 114 – 16; masculinity and performance 107 – 8; migrant masculinity in 106 – 18; migration and mobility, Karnataka 109 – 10 Goa Indica (Indian Goa) 108 governmentality 77 Gram Panchayats 65 – 9, 71, 72 Gram Pradhans 69, 70 Gram Sabha 69 Gram Sansad 65, 69, 70 Gram Sansad meetings 71, 73 Gramsci, Antonio 20 Green Revolution 92 Gujarat: drought-prone villages 120 – 31; gendered and watercentric spaces 126 – 30; interviews 124 – 5; study villages 122 – 4; watercentric roles 120 – 31; women’s spaces 120 – 31; women’s watercentric roles 125 – 6 Gumla 50, 57, 59 Gurudwara 94 habitus 20, 22, 23, 28, 75, 131 Hazaribagh 50 Healy, Julie 20 hegemony 20 Hiemstra, Nancy 148

Hindi 113 Hinduism 153 Hindu Succession Act (HSA) 52 History of Doing, The (Kumar) 150 hooks, bell 145 Hugli district 66, 70, 72 Humphries, Jane 95 Hyndman, Jennifer 95, 96 Idhata 123 illiteracy 57 indigenous feminisms 7, 10, 145 – 56; feminist counterspaces, conceptualizing 150 – 1; locating 146 – 8; theorizing 148 – 50 infrapolitics 152 in-laws 24, 26, 83, 87, 88, 97 – 9, 101 intermediate Panchayat Samiti 68 interviews, Mahila Panchayat members 85 – 7; aane-jaane ki sahuliat 86; advocacy 87 – 9; baat karne ki tameezh seekhi 86; dost mile 87; hamari izzat Hone Lagi 85; hum sab behne hain 86 – 7; strength of the group strengthens us 87; subtle subversions 87 – 9; support and backlash 87 – 9 intimate territories 133 – 5 Jainism 153 Jammu and Kashmir 134 Jammu and Kashmir Reorganization Act, 2019 136 Jathri 111 Jats 102, 103 Jenson, Robert T. 96 Jharkhand 36, 39, 42, 53, 54, 56, 61; gender interrogating 48 – 62; property rights 48 – 62; tribal women of 55; witches and loose women 56 – 61; witch-hunting 48 – 62; work and livelihood issues 54 – 6 Jimutvahana 52 Jodhka, S. 103 Jones, John P. III 34 Joseph, Saud 149 Jumla, Mir 16 jurisprudence 52, 77 Kachchh District 121, 124, 125, 129 Kanaaneh, R. 136 Kandiyoti, D. 3, 150

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Kannabiran, K. 152 Karnataka 3, 107, 109, 115 Karva Chauth 29n1 Kelkar, Govind 60 Kerala 3 Khasi 3 kin 3, 80, 95, 104, 147, 149 kinship 6, 53, 79, 101, 109 – 10, 149 Konkan 113 Kothasanamota 123, 127 Krais, Beate 19 – 20 Krishna, Sumi 5 Kumar, Radha 150 Ladakh: feminist geopolitics 135 – 6; gender and territory in 133 – 42; intimate territories 133 – 5; love, babies, lines of control 136 – 7; methods and findings 138 – 41; truth and numbers 137 – 8 Ladakh Buddhist Association (LBA) 136 – 7 land alienation 53 land ownership 51; patterns 50 land reform programmes 52 land rights 53 landscape 10, 28, 102, 104, 121 Laxmanpura 120, 123, 128 Lefebvre, Henri 150 legal spaces 87 Leh District 135, 136 liminality 114 – 17 liminal spaces 108 Lodrani 123 – 4 Lorde, Audre 145 love 10, 133 – 42 low-income urban neighbourhoods 77 – 90 Ludhiana District 93, 97 Magar, Veronica 80, 82 Mahanta, Upasana 150 Mahila Panchayats see women’s courts Majhabi (Dalit) Sikhs 102 mankis 61 Mansa 93 marriage 6, 17, 19, 21, 24 – 8, 37, 43, 78 – 80, 83, 84, 87, 98, 134 – 42, 152, 155 married women 25 masculinity 9, 17, 19, 23, 74, 106 – 18 Massey, Doreen 4, 11, 34

matriarchal 37 McDowell, Linda 64 McRobbie, Angela 153 Meghalaya 3 Mehsana District 123 Meira Paibi 153 Menon, R. 152 MGNREGA 103 migrant 7, 9, 10, 49, 106 – 18, 155 migrant masculinity 106 – 18 minor forest products (MFPs) 55 – 7 Mirchandani, Rekha 80 misrecognition 8, 15, 16, 19 – 22, 24, 27, 28 Mitakshara system 52 Mobile Help Line 79 modern families 15 modernity, in Indian context 21 Mohanty, Chandra Talapada 145 – 7 Moraga, Cherrie 145 mortality rates 96 mosque committee 110 Muslims 40, 70, 86, 95, 111, 113, 124, 134 – 41, 154 Muslim widows 95 Nagar, Richa 152 Nairs 3 Nanakanthariya 123 Nathan, Dev 60 National Capital Region (NCR) 39 natural resource management (NRM) 5 Nawatoli Palkot 59 Nehruvian model, socialist modernity 21 nongovernmental organization (NGO) 79, 89 Novio, Eunice Barbara C. 149 Nowahatu Gram Panchayat 69 Oldenburg, Veena T. 152 oppressive caste system 103 – 4 Ortega, Mariana 145 Osella, Caroline 117 Osella, Filippo 117 Otala village 98 Padia, C. 18 pahans 61 Palamau 50 panchayat 9, 61, 65 – 75, 77 – 90, 98, 103, 129, 155 Panchayati Raj 65

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INDEX

Panchayat Samiti 65, 67 paralegal workers 79, 83, 88 Participatory Rural Appraisal (PRA) method 50 Paschimi Singhbhum 50, 55, 58 Paster, Gail Kern 128 Patiala 93 patriarchal culture 35 patriarchal societies 70 patriarchal suppression 57 patriarchy 1 – 3, 5, 7, 9 – 11, 16 – 18, 20, 34 – 6, 44, 48, 79, 82, 131, 146, 147, 149 – 53, 155; cultural nuances of 3 performative gender 107 physical accessibility 89 physical violence 54, 57 placemaking 155 political decision-making 67, 68 political space 64 politics 7, 11, 17, 18, 27, 49, 68, 73, 74, 82, 111, 134, 137, 140, 147; of location 49 postcolonial India 15 power 2, 27, 28, 77; asymmetry 15 Premarital Counselling Cell 79 progressive modernity, Assamese society 17 property ownership 53 property rights 7, 8, 48 – 62, 71, 101, 155; exercise of 56 – 61; Jharkhand 48 – 62; non-tribal and tribal women 51 – 4 public distribution system (PDS) 103 Pune 37, 42 Punjab: abandonment and violence, of marital family 101; economic denial and violence 92 – 104; lack of employment opportunities for women 102 – 3; oppressive caste system 103 – 4; singleness and widowhood 94 – 6; “singleness” of widows 103 – 4; social evils from substance abuse 102; social security and livelihood support, single women 101; widowhood 92 – 104 purdah 124 Purulia District 66, 67, 69, 72 Rajasthan 121 RakshaBandhan 29n1 Ramsheela, Anupamlata 98 Ranchi Giridih 57

Rape Crisis Cell 79 Reddy, Adinarayana 95 regional genderscapes 1 – 11, 36, 39, 73, 77; of Assam 17; framing 5 – 7; gender space and agency, periscoping 154 – 6 religion 6, 17, 37, 43, 52, 53, 87, 93, 134 – 8, 140 resistance 5, 7, 9 – 11, 49, 57, 77, 80, 82, 89, 90, 134, 145 – 56; reinterpreting 145 – 56 Roof, Judith 19 Ruwanpura, Kanchana 95 Sabala Sangh 79 Sabarkantha District 123 Sahyogini 79 samas 50 sangathan 87, 93 Sankara Dev movement 16 Santhals 54 Saraitinna Gram Panchayat 69, 72 Sarkar, Mahua 146 Sarpanch 65, 67, 72, 98 sasndiris 50 Sati 16, 29n1, 57 Sati Prevention Act of 1987 29n1 Saurashtra 121 Scheduled Castes (SC) 123 Scheduled Tribes (ST) 123, 124, 130 Scott, James 151, 152 Scott, Joan Wallach 2 scripting agency 77 – 90 scripting gender 4 Second Sex, The (de Beauvoir) 17 self-governance 61 sexual harassment 57 singleness 93 – 6, 103 Sinhalese widows 95 Skuste 140 social constraints 42 social evils 93 socialization 20, 24 social networks 109, 110 social reform movements 17 social relations 50 social spaces 36 socio-cultural “counterspaces” 27 socio-cultural regions 6 socio-geographic factors 1 Soja, Edward 151 Soni, Jayasri 121

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INDEX

Vijnyaneswara 52 village selection 50 violence 2, 7 – 9, 15 – 28, 51, 54, 56 – 62, 77 – 82, 85, 86, 88 – 90, 92 – 104, 113, 115, 116, 134, 148, 153 – 5

spatiality 2, 9, 106 – 18, 138 Sri Lanka 95 subculture 29n3 subtle subversions 87 – 9 suicide widows 93 Sultana, Farhana 70 superstition 57 Suzuki, Tessa Morris 82 symbolic violence 7, 8, 15 – 29; and misrecognition 19 – 21, 27 Tamil Nadu 36, 37, 39, 42 Tarn Taran 93 Teez 29n1 temporally embedded process, social engagement 4 terrain 6, 10, 42, 53, 120, 130 terrain-based diversity 6 Thaipara 66, 71 Thakur community 124 Theorizing Patriarchy (Walby) 18 third-world woman 3 three-tier Panchayati Raj system 68 throwntogetherness 4 traditional administration system 61 transnational spaces 46 tribal community 53 tribal social space 42 tribes 36, 37, 48 – 9, 54, 55, 59, 66, 123 Turner, Victor 114 “Under Western Eyes” (Mohanty) 145 unemployment 109 UNIFEM Report 56 United States 35, 36, 43 Uparbatari 66, 67, 69, 71 Valentine, Gill 34 Van Gennep, Arnold 114

wage rates 54 Walby, Sylvia 2, 18 water 4, 7, 10, 38, 59, 60, 71, 92, 103, 120 – 2, 124 – 31, 155 watercentric 10, 120 – 31 welfare measures 100 West Bengal 36, 37, 39, 42; community mobilization 72 – 3; empowerment 67 – 9; gender and agency in 64 – 75; local governance, women’s participation 69 – 72; shifting spaces of power 69 – 72 West Bengal Panchayat (Amendment) Act 65, 68 Westlund, Andrea C. 81 West Singhbhum 58 widow 17, 92, 95, 97 – 101, 155 widowhood 9, 92 – 104 witchcraft-related crimes 56, 60 witch-hunting 60 women 2, 4; empowerment 5, 65; social hierarchy 49; witches and loose women 56 – 61; work and livelihood issues 54 – 6 women’s courts (Mahila Panchayats) 78 – 80; arbitration process 83 – 5; interviews, members 85 – 7; lowincome neighbourhood 80; multilayered alterations, household power dynamics 81 – 3; study 80 – 1 work force participation (WPR) rates 54 Zilla Parishads 65, 68

165