I am talking to Kalubhai, sitting on a bench outside of my small mud kitchen, and trying to get him to taste the daal I made. His eyes take the sunlight and split it into a thousand pieces, sparkling as he laughs a true, free, unrestrained laugh. I do not put enough chili, into anything I cook. According to Kalu, according to everyone in the village. My foreigner’s aversion to mouthfire spice is his reason for laughter now.
Two hands appear from behind Kalu and cover his eyes. They are jingly-jangly hands, adorned with bangles whose sparkle sounds replace Kalu’s sparkling eyes. Attached to the jingly-jangly hands is a smiling woman, clearly amused by her own subtle creation of mischief in our small corner of the world. Kalu’s hands shoot up, reading the bangles like the books he has taught himself to decipher. Glass or lacquer? How many? What size? Who is she? I know he will figure it out. The men here have become expert at recognizing women by the saris they wear, the bangles, the toe rings. How else will they know? The women’s faces are constantly veiled by their saris—a punishment hidden in the open, a daily toll paid, for being born a girl in a man’s society.
Here, today, on the campus of Hum Kisan Sangathan (Our Farmers’ Collective)—the organization that has become a part of me after eight months of working in Rajasthan—jingly-jangly Basantibai wears no veil. She smiles silently but wholly, for her voice will give away the mystery. A true, free, unrestrained smile. Kalu guesses her name, and pulls her hands off as she steps closer to me, revealing her identity. The silent smile becomes a giggle. They are not husband and wife, not family. They are friends, and here only can they express it. Away from the village’s low, sometimes suffocating ceiling of social norms, written by traditions with origins that no longer hold any significance, yet sneak into every crevice of life like an invisible, inescapable fog. It is as if the gate leading into the Sangathan’s campus (always alive and singing with the sounds of handlooms and school children), serves as a magical barrier to that fog. Here, the ceiling is lifted and everyone, once they walk though that gate, truly acts differently. Here, the soulsparkle can peek through eyes and bangles, unashamed.
From the rocky Rajasthani soil, from mere bricks and branches, a space has been created in this campus that not only protects freedom of expression, but encourages it. For me, this is the most amazing accomplishment achieved by Devendra, the founder of and unfaltering believer in Hum Kisan Sangathan. This campus has become a space with the power to completely free people. I work with the members of the handloom cooperative founded by the Sangathan, and everyday I see how their interactions with each other change in this space—especially those between men and women. There is more laughter, more silliness. Smiles sparkle all day long. This is true with the children who attend the Sangathan’s school as well. During the months leading up to their exams, nearly all of standards eight and ten spent day and night on this campus. Most of the time their noses were in books, breathing in every detail in preparation for their exams. When they had a free hour or two though, they would slip off their shoes and do cartwheels in the library, or sit in teenage circles and whisper things my twenty three-year-old ears were not allowed to hear. These things do not happen in the village, but they happen here.
How long did it take for these magical powers to settle themselves into the walls of the campus, into its trees and water? I imagine it was gradual, like vines creeping, or leaky faucets dripping. Thousands of years of traditions mold the Way of Life in the village, and the mold is hard to break. It must be softened first, and then remolded by a thousand willing hands before a new shape will take place, a slightly different, more tolerant and understanding Way of Life. Over the past thirty years, Devendra and the Sangathan have been the reshapers, and have sewn new Ways into the campus atmosphere. If these freeing powers are only growing stronger, might they break beyond the campus gate? Beyond our village itself? Small changes already have. Acceptance brings change brings possibility. Create a space for people to let their laughter bubble up from the bottom, for them to speak openly to whomever they want, for them to build their confidence, and amazing things will happen. Jingly-jangly, sparkly things that will change lives.
No comments:
Post a Comment