I was on field, observing a session where women gathered in their own little safe space and talked about periods. If there is something that I have learnt, it is that women have this amazing ability to create safe spaces for one another. And, it was a privilege for me to be allowed into that safe space (albeit from a distance) and listen to and watch their conversations (the shy smile, the secret glance in my direction, the nudging...communicating constantly).
This safe space was made possible by a colleague of mine, Sanjana. The ability to get into the communities, to get the women to get together and to sit down and have conversations around a topic that they would hardly ever do otherwise, is a herculean task in itself. However, to get the women to open up, to hold a menstrual cup (unintentional rhyme), to laugh about the mistakes made while sticking a pad on to the underwear is even more so. And every time I make a field visit with the 21 other Sanjanas that I work with, I am always left with a sense of deep gratitude and amazemen.
The session ended and we were walking out of the community. I struck up a conversation with Sanjana as I usually do, for a debrief of the session. In the middle of the conversation, Sanjana said, 'the women have asked me to bring sweets the next time I meet them.'
'Why?' I asked.
'It was my engagement,' was her reply. While I am not entirely sure about the tone in which it was said, I interpreted it, in my head, to be a cheerful one and immediately readjusted my tone to match hers and congratulated her. She then asked me if I had seen her fiance.
'No! Show me! Do you have a selfie!' I was doing a good job of sounding excited. She said she had no selfie, but pulled out a photo taken during the engagement. I looked at it and the immediate thought that I thought was that she could have done so much better. However, I also told myself that it was not my place to decide that. So, I gave her an appreciative nod. There was a short pause and then asked me, 'kaisa laga (what do you think?)'
'Bohot achha! (It's great!)' Generic response at its best.
'Mujhe pasand nahi aaya.' (I did not like him) I was shaken out of the generic response mode because the honesty in her response was not something that I was prepared for.
'Toh phir kyu haan bola?' (why did you say yes, then?)
Over the next two minutes, as we navigated through the streets, she went on to tell me how her parents want her married because there is her younger sister waiting in line. She also told me how she would have to relocate to a town that is far away from this town where she grew up. And finally, almost as an afterthought (although, as I write this, I think it was more from having to muster the courage to accept it by saying it out loud), she said, 'also, if we start looking for someone better, the dowry (she didn't use that specific word. She used broken words which was to be interpreted to be dowry) will start getting higher and we cannot afford it.
At that moment, I was hit by a sense of deep sadness. Here was a woman who went around trying to empower other women but was herself as powerless as an astronaut who's broken away from the space-station and is headed into the vast empty universe. How does one make peace with the decision to spend the rest of the life with someone that you don't want to, made on the basis of having to make room for your sibling and, AND, not having to give (more) money to someone to marry you. What hit me harder was that all of this was said with a deadpan face. I did not know if it was acceptance or resignation, but the lack of emotion in the confession was brutal.
What does it feel like, to be Sanjana? I will never know.
This safe space was made possible by a colleague of mine, Sanjana. The ability to get into the communities, to get the women to get together and to sit down and have conversations around a topic that they would hardly ever do otherwise, is a herculean task in itself. However, to get the women to open up, to hold a menstrual cup (unintentional rhyme), to laugh about the mistakes made while sticking a pad on to the underwear is even more so. And every time I make a field visit with the 21 other Sanjanas that I work with, I am always left with a sense of deep gratitude and amazemen.
The session ended and we were walking out of the community. I struck up a conversation with Sanjana as I usually do, for a debrief of the session. In the middle of the conversation, Sanjana said, 'the women have asked me to bring sweets the next time I meet them.'
'Why?' I asked.
'It was my engagement,' was her reply. While I am not entirely sure about the tone in which it was said, I interpreted it, in my head, to be a cheerful one and immediately readjusted my tone to match hers and congratulated her. She then asked me if I had seen her fiance.
'No! Show me! Do you have a selfie!' I was doing a good job of sounding excited. She said she had no selfie, but pulled out a photo taken during the engagement. I looked at it and the immediate thought that I thought was that she could have done so much better. However, I also told myself that it was not my place to decide that. So, I gave her an appreciative nod. There was a short pause and then asked me, 'kaisa laga (what do you think?)'
'Bohot achha! (It's great!)' Generic response at its best.
'Mujhe pasand nahi aaya.' (I did not like him) I was shaken out of the generic response mode because the honesty in her response was not something that I was prepared for.
'Toh phir kyu haan bola?' (why did you say yes, then?)
Over the next two minutes, as we navigated through the streets, she went on to tell me how her parents want her married because there is her younger sister waiting in line. She also told me how she would have to relocate to a town that is far away from this town where she grew up. And finally, almost as an afterthought (although, as I write this, I think it was more from having to muster the courage to accept it by saying it out loud), she said, 'also, if we start looking for someone better, the dowry (she didn't use that specific word. She used broken words which was to be interpreted to be dowry) will start getting higher and we cannot afford it.
At that moment, I was hit by a sense of deep sadness. Here was a woman who went around trying to empower other women but was herself as powerless as an astronaut who's broken away from the space-station and is headed into the vast empty universe. How does one make peace with the decision to spend the rest of the life with someone that you don't want to, made on the basis of having to make room for your sibling and, AND, not having to give (more) money to someone to marry you. What hit me harder was that all of this was said with a deadpan face. I did not know if it was acceptance or resignation, but the lack of emotion in the confession was brutal.
What does it feel like, to be Sanjana? I will never know.
👍👍
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