Riding home on the bus from Hampi the phrase “character building” came to mind (while sweating, tired, and immobilized by rice pot and limbs of small children). I was reminded of how often I thought this phrase in my teens and early twenties, as I always was trying to prove something to myself. (I can climb up this mountain. I can survive in this difficult place. I can get an A on this paper without any sleep.) Ambryn and I have spoken a lot about our lack of necessity to prove something to ourselves on this trip. I think our time in Koppal was our test.
Shortly after returning from Hampi, the girls’ mothers began to arrive. From the wedding hall that would be home for the next two days, we could see them walking down the street, streams of colorful sarees. They each clutched one small bag. Some of the girls were ecstatic. Some were apprehensive. Some stood by themselves and told us, “Aunty, Mommy, no.” We knew of some girls whose mothers had recently died, and we knew that some were not sure if their mother would come. Bittersweet. Soon there were circles of women all over the floor. The girls weaved in and out of them, introducing friends, talking to mothers of their friends, translating. Ambryn and I made some appearances in some circles and at one point were called upon to sing a song. (Thankfully we had been practicing because we knew this day would come. Because we both have sung “Closer to Fine” about a million times, it’s our best hope.) Around 11:00 we trekked home with our Visthar companions, over the railroad tracks and through very some muddy roads. (Ambryn received a reprimand from our Indian friends because to avoid mud she stepped into the rice patty…filled with snakes.)
Our alarms were set for 6:00 the next morning and we woke up absolutely exhausted. We peeled our tired bodies off the floor and tried (unsuccessfully) to muster up some celebratory feelings. Thankfully, Radha, the Kannada teacher, was there to get us into our sarees (purchased for this very day). With sleepy faces, sarees on, and borrowed gold chains around our necks (an absolute must to complete the outfit, we’ve been told) we stepped into our sandals and again took off down the muddy road. Upon arrival at the hall we experienced the “celebrity status” our professor Doug cautioned us of in our 2001 trip. Our white skin was one thing, the saris another, and Ambryn’s eyebrow ring the final straw. It was beautiful to see the girls with their mothers…singing, dancing, drumming, speaking eloquently…and all the while it was absolutely exhausting to be surrounded by hundreds of people (many of whom wanted to touch us, stare at us, speak loudly to us in Kannada) in intense heat, wrapped in 5 meters of cloth. I literally did not know my body could produce so much sweat. Thankfully, due to my childhood lessons on the importance of natural, breathable fibers (instilled in me by my mother) I chose a (high-maintenance, that’s the trade-off) cotton sari. Still, it took so much energy just to keep ourselves hydrated. There wasn’t much left for explaining over and over our names, where we were from, if we were or were not students, and why we were not married.
It could have been due to the heat, but our emotions ran deep. I felt so much as I hugged the girls good-bye, or saw them with their mothers, or without their mothers…But I also felt such intense frustration at all of the attention that we were drawing. The days were (so) not about us, and we had no idea how to re-direct all that gawking, all of questions. I’d like to say that I was always gracious, but several times I just had to ignore the throngs (literally) of children jumping and screaming, “Aunty! Aunty!” (Not Bandhavi girls, but local children we did not know.) At one point I was trying to say good-bye and several of them had a firm grip on my arm and wouldn’t let me go. I was literally trapped on several occasions. Even though they were really cute little kids, my instincts kicked in. Being trapped is not a good feeling. Everything became a production. While waiting for the toilet I was surrounded and couldn’t even get into the bathroom. It was an awful feeling to lose the ability to have time to ourselves. We couldn’t walk down the streets without gangs of schoolchildren following us, or random adults stopping to stare and ask questions. At the hall we were always surrounded, no matter which corner we tried to find. I was bewildered at the predicament. I wanted to be able to blend in both because I wanted the attention on the girls and the mothers, but also because I just needed my space. Is this selfish? I don’t know.
The entire event culminated in a march to the government building and presenting a list of demands to the governor. Ambryn and I were encouraged to hop (aka be pulled) into the lorry and ride with the women. We pushed our way (literally…Sham was telling us, “Push! Push! Otherwise we’ll never get in!”) to the front to stand next to someone familiar, the theatre teacher, Shivashankar. He turned out to be an excellent rally leader and initiated call and response. Ambryn and I were invited in and soon Ambryn and I were shouting (to the non-English speakers):
Us: What do we want?!
Women and girls: Justice!
Us: When do we want it?!
Women and girls: Justice!
We decided that was pretty good. After arriving safely and jumping out of the lorry (and the requisite waiting for who-knows-what for about half an hour in the sun) we began our march. All of my frustrations from the days began to fall away. It felt so good to be engaged in something meaningful with these women. Here was something we could actually DO. We could march with them in solidarity. We could try our best to repeat the Kannada calls for justice while they giggled at our butchering attempts. On the steps of the government building we were met with a group of men with arms crossed at their chests, and police officers on either side. Ambryn and I were ushered to the front by some of the NGO workers from Koppal, even though we really wanted to be in the back. The women continued singing, then one woman read the demands. Next, the (arrogant) government official told the crowd that the NGOs were exploiting them and representing them in ways they don’t understand (most of the women are illiterate). Unfortunately, the male NGO employees from Koppal became very defensive: standing up, and shouting. Ambryn and I continually muttered, “Let the women speak.” We grew uncomfortable as tensions escaled, and I re-located myself to the back of the crowd. Eventually some of the women stood up and set the man straight. Sham, dear benevolent Sham, approached the officer gently and demanded he apologize. Eventually he did, and he walked away. Then, it was all over. The women began to walk away. I stood, stunned. I found Mercy to try to get some sort of a translation and analysis of what just happened. She told me there was some speculation that the government officials thought Ambryn and I were from a donor agency and therefore the NGOs were trying to impress us. This news hit hard. The thought that our presence could have taken away from this event was almost too much to bear. However, this is only speculation (this is what I’m holding on to) and Mercy (a tireless activist) told us she actually thinks it’s a good thing that the government official was oppositional, because it adds fuel to the women’s fire. This is my hope.
This is the lorry that transported we protestors to the government building:
Here we are in it:
p.s. The events made the local paper both days. On the second day one photos is of Ambryn and me, which is kind of interesting.
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