Selling body to keep soul By R. Akhileshwari 'Papi pet ka sawal hai’ has been a line used ad nauseam in Hindi films. Yet that is precisely the line that is on the lips of sex workers their dependents and caste members of Eluru in West Godavari district of Andhra Pradesh. In fact, that is the harsh reality of every sex worker who has to earn through this means to support her family. While the media expresses horror at the recently-exposed trade in women sex workers in West Godavari district, the government orders investigations, and NGOs get active, everything grows quiet with the lapse of time. Public memory is short; shorter still the newsworthiness and therefore, the ‘life’ of the event in the media. The NGOs find the problem too vast to handle or solve single-handedly. Without active government involvement, the issue seems to have defeated everybody. And so, the sex trade goes on; women continue to leave their homes to work for a livelihood in cities; they remain in the clutches of middlemen or ‘contractors;’ they suffer ill-health and are in constant danger of contracting and spreading the dreaded AIDS disease. As the demand for sex grows and as employment opportunities for women, especially for those with little education and no skills, are non-existent, prostitution has turned into big business. It was precisely the violation of this business’ unwritten rules that exposed the trade and the issue made a splash in Parliament last week. Simple business The way the ‘business’ is conducted is fairly simple: girls, mostly from two communities, Bogam and Dommara, are ‘contracted’ for a period of time, mostly for a year. The amount is negotiated and paid up to the ‘recruit’ family. The girls are taken by the ‘contractor’ to a city, mostly Hyderabad and Mumbai where she ‘works’ in a brothel or a red-light area. The contractor takes care of her boarding and lodging but she has to pay her medical bills, bail or bribes if caught by the police. She gets to keep 40-60 per cent of her earnings according to the agreement. While a middle-aged woman fetches Rs.5,000 for three months, a teenager can command as much as Rs.25,000 a month. The two Godavari districts have traditionally been a ‘supply centre’ for girls and according to an estimate more than a 1,000 girls from these areas are to be found in Mumbai’s red-light areas. At the end of the contract period she returns home, takes a break and waits for another or the same contractor to come forward with yet another contract. The district administration and police have denied that women were ‘sold’ or ‘auctioned’ as reported by a newspaper, nor was anyone forced into the profession. The event that provoked the report was the holding of a ‘caste panchayat’ of the Dommara caste to punish the violater of the contract system. A fellow Dommara man took four girls to Mumbai but after the ex piry of the contract period, the girls did not return. Scouts sent to Mumbai returned empty-handed. One of the girls managed to inform the police through one of her customers that they were being held against their wishes. They were rescued and sent home where the girls revealed they had been ‘sold’ by the contractor to a brothel owner. The culprit was pulled up by the caste panchayat and imposed a fine. Official denial While denying any ‘sale’ of the girls officials hide the fact that an auction took place along with the caste panchayat. According to the Progressive Organisation of Women, a women's activist group which led a fact-finding team to Eluru, the services of four girls were auctioned, and the bidding started from Rs 1,000. Both the girls and their mothers have denied that any ‘sale’ took place. As soon as the news broke out, three girls who were on their way to Mumbai were brought back fearing police action. The mothers of the girls maintain they were forced to send their daughters to faraway places like Mumbai and Calcutta because the local police had intensified their raids making it difficult for the families to make a living. However, police say that the main attraction in cities was higher earnings, relative ‘safety’ from the police and to some extent, ‘protection’ from the stigma of being a sex worker. There are big bucks in this business as evident by the prosperity of the contractors and their financiers. Like all businesses, the business too is supported by financiers who lend money to the contractors and the few individual sex workers at an interest rate ranging from 20-40 per cent. According to an estimate, there are about 200 financiers in the two Godavari districts. If sources are to be believed about Rs 50 crore is invested in this business and the daily turnover is as much as Rs 10 lakh. There are no written agreements or surety or a guarantor; mutual trust is the key-stone of the business. According to police sources, each financier makes a profit of not less than Rs.50,000 a month. Disgraceful The President of the Progressive Organisation of Women Sandhya said that auctioning of women's services based on their age and look was a disgrace but she said this was a natural corollary to women being ‘commodified’ in every aspect of today's commercialised ethos. “How is the auction of women's services any different from today's beauty contests and fashion shows?” she asked. The only difference, she pointed out was that sex workers did it for a living as they had no other alternative while women of middle and upper classes take part in beauty shows for fun and to earn money to be spent on themselves. The most important thing is that the educated, middle class and city-based women have society's acceptance for showing off their physical assets and making a living from it whether by modelling or participating in fashion and beauty shows. “Both are inhuman, both degrade women; both violate the dignity of women. The only thing is that the auction is crude while fashion parades are organised in a sophisticated manner,” said Sandhya. Unless the society changes its attitude towards women, unless more employment opportunities are created for women, and unless we give up our double-standards, Eluru will continue to happen. Eluru is as outrageous as the experience of several women in cities and towns. As they wait at bus stops or cross-roads, for transport, or even while walking in certain areas, how many times has not a car stopped and a door opened invitingly? At times men in the car even show notes hoping to tempt the women. Sociologists also point out that the problem is that also of social acceptability of prostitution by all classes. Women from the middle classes practise it in posh hotels or big houses in respectable localities catering to an even more respectable and rich clientele. Such social scourges can certainly be lessened if not eradicated provided the government takes up its welfare role more seriously, women's organisations are supported by society and registered NGOs take up issues based on the need to rid society of evils rather than availability of fund. Published in Deccan Herald, 13-12-1998 |
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Selling body to keep soul
ROTTWEILER, WHO?
IF THE SIGN BOARD IS MEANT TO BE A THREAT, DOES THE HOUSE-BREAKER
READ ENGLISH?
By R Akhileshwari
Social scientists expound to us the various methods of communication, the how and why of it, theories to explain the finer aspects and importantly, how some of it is effective and some not so effective.
Then there is non communication, according to me. Can we call that an exercise in futility? For instance, a sign on the gate of a house announces 'Rottweiler inside.' As information, we accept it with awe. But as a threat for whom it is meant, namely guys who break into houses, is it effective? Does he know what is a Rottweiler? More basically, does he read English?
Then there is this leading resort in Hyderabad which has given exotic names to its different ventures like P.Heights and P.Valley. The only problem is that 'heights' is flat land and valley is hilly land! In our neighbourhood, a cramped apartment complex is called Rolling Meadows! Sure, it is evocative but may be names should also be less ambitious? An equally ambitious name given to yet another (better built, admittedly) apartment building in the neighbourhood is Vineyard Cedar. Sadly, there is not even a blade of grass growing anywhere in the vicinity, forget a majestic cedar!
The best is this sign that is not a sign really. It is a statement. A funny statement at that. It says, "Forget the dog, beware of the owner." Those who communicate have hit upon this brilliant idea of putting up 'no parking' signboards with the name of the institution or product. So every gate in the neighbourhood, of an apartment complex or an independent house, has stuck to it this commandment, the 11th, I believe, that thou shalt not park in front of the entrance.
I regularly pull out the signboards put on my gate by obliging salesmen or what ever these gentlemen are called and dump them in the garbage. Not because I want all and sundry to park in front of my house but I find it a futile exercise. If we can and often do park right under the no parking sign with the fine amount specified put up by the cops on the busiest of roads (at least in Hyderabad), nothing will deter a determined car driver/owner from parking where he pretty much wants to! I found a soulmate the other day. His sign said "Kindly do not park here." Now, that sounds much nicer than the shout, no parking!
It is certainly more respectful. But is it effective? Don't know but mate, I am moving on.
Published in Deccan Herald
Friday, April 13, 2012
The Curse of being the youngest
The Curse of being the youngest
By R. Akhileshwari
The sum total of a personality is arrived at after a highly complicated process of accretion of experiences, involvement in simple and complex circumstances, the mistakes committed as one lives and lessons learnt from those experiences. I firmly believe we are born with certain inherent advantages or disadvantages by which I don’t mean the socio-economic or the pre-determined genetic inheritances. The most deciding factor of what you become depends on your rank in the family. The woes of being the eldest of are different. Worse, I think, are those of the youngest. The thesis I propose is that the first borns become the autocrats of this world and the youngest the democrats. At least in our society where hierarchy--familial, social and economic---is most pronounced and implemented fanatically.
Being the youngest in a family of eight children, I should know. The unwritten rules governing behaviour in a family are inherently unjust and followed implicitly. All rebellion is promptly crushed, nipped in whatever stage it is: in the bud, after it has flowered or in full-fledged adulthood. The curse of being the youngest haunts you to your last days.
The youngest fetches and carries all that can be fetched and carried for the older siblings, from shoes and socks to a glass of water. If salt has to be fetched from the kitchen when the family has begun its dinner at the table who should get up to get it but the youngest? And should the elder forget to take the towel to the bathroom who should rush to the rescue of the dripping older sibling? The youngest, of course. And is there is a word of thanks? A gracious smile for the pains taken? You must be joking.
The youngest is often an object of experimentation for the older siblings. Your older brother has learnt to ride a bicycle. He sweetly offers you a ride and you fall for the generosity. The next moment you have fallen on the ground and as you yell the loudest yell of your life it is gratifying to see the autocrat begging you to lower your voice so that the Pater or Mater don’t turn up at the scene and give him what he dishes out regularly to the lesser of his siblings. My experiences on the pillion of the cycle are all at once horrifying and painful. At one time, my foot got entangled in the rear wheel of the cycle ridden by an older sister. At another time, I narrowly missed being trampled over by a herd of cattle as an older sibling, a learner on the bike, lost his nerve on seeing the herd looming ahead and crashed into it headlong. The bicycle became such an object of terror that I never even tried getting on to it and as a result, have had to suffer the ignominy of admitting that I couldn’t bicycle. I got on to one only when I was nearing 30 years of age, and that too only to learn “balancing” to be able to ride a scooter.
The youngest or younger ones are always given the tasks nobody else wants to do. These include borrowing sugar or milk or even Rs.100 or whatever amount is needed to tide over the month end, from a neighbour, or getting some urgently needed stuff from your neighbourhood kirana store whose bill has been overdue by several weeks.
The younger ones are victimized in many ways. I recall I was once walking my older sister to the bus stop. I was in high school and she in the university and since it was a holiday and I wanted to do a good deed, I accompanied her to the bus stop. As we were rushing at great speed to make it to the bus stop before the bus did, I heard a horrified shriek. My sister stopped in her tracks and seemed paralysed. As I followed her stare, I was equally horrified. She had worn a blue slipper in her left leg and a yellow one in the right. Those were the days of matching slippers and we had a collection of slippers of rainbow colours. You can guess how this tragedy ended. She cajoled me, begged and made extravagant promises. I had to give in; there was hardly any choice. As she walked away triumphantly in my pair of slippers, the saree hardly showing her feet, I in my short skirt, walked a marathon race, head bowed, heart-beating with shame of people noticing my feet dressed in two starkly different coloured slippers. You will get my point if you picture the scene with the roles reversed. Would elder sister have suffered humiliation for her younger sister’s sake? Or would she have ordered her to go home change her slippers, take the next bus, and assign the special class to hell? And then top off with a lecture that she needed to learn to manage her time better, that this was an appropriate lesson for her not to repeat such stupidity again?
The past was recalled with vengeance when Amulya, my younger daughter contradicted her Didi’s contention during a gossip session with a friend that she did not believe in riding roughshod over the younger sibling as some other elder sisters did. “Oh-ho, don’t tell all lies,” said the 10 year old Amulya who was a quiet audience till then. “I don’t tell lies,” retorted 17 year old Dipa with the superiority of an older sibling. Stung to the quick, Amulya shot back:“You think I have forgotten what you did the other day? I have not.” Amulya has the memory of an elephant (in true tradition of the youngest). “You stood outside and made me go into the meat shop to buy kheema. And I saw a dead goat there. Its eyes were open,” said Amulya, ever perceptive, shuddering at the recollection. Poor Amulya. She has already learnt that the younger ones don’t have choices. At least not when ordered by the older ones.
Ends
On being a Reporter and a woman
By R Akhileshwari*
A woman professional encounters numerous problems including prejudice and sexual harassment in the course of her duty in a patriarchal society. A woman reporter is no different. The extent to which her functioning is affected depends how strong she is mentally, where she is located, that is, whether she is in a still-traditional Asia, Africa or fairly advanced (in terms of women’s status in society) Europe or USA and how committed she is to her job. Having been a reporter for a quarter century in India, as Deccan Herald’s foreign correspondent in Washington DC, USA and as one who has travelled across the world on reporting assignments, one has experienced the best and worst of being a journalist.
These recollections were set off by the horrific experience of Lara Logan, chief foreign correspondent of the American news network CBS, in Tahrir Square in Cairo, Egypt as she was covering the fall of President Hosni Mubarak following the uprising against his despotic rule. On February 11, 2011, as Lara was filming the unfolding events, she was attacked by a frenzied mob, separated from her team and rescued after 20-30 minutes by Egyptian soldiers and some women. Lara suffered injuries ( http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/02/15/lara-logan-suffered-bruta_n_823677.html ). Even as this incident (typically) was attempted to be suppressed by CBS, even as male reporters publicly (on Twitter) made insensitive and sexist comments about Lara wanting to beat a male colleague (of CNN) who had been earlier assaulted similarly by a mob (http://www.popeater.com/2011/02/15/cbs-lara-logan-hospitalized-after-brutal-sexual-assault-in-eg/), of having got her deserts for ‘war mongering’, women activists urged women journalists everywhere to share their experiences considering the harassment experienced is pushed under the carpet by the women themselves out of fear of either being called back or kept out from ‘risky’ assignments or of being seen as less capable than men in some situations (http://www.judithmatloff.com/correspondentsandsexualabuse.pdf).
My experiences have not been any different from those of women reporters elsewhere though fortunately they have not been as brutal as those of Lara Logan. I will share only one experience here that illustrates the problems women reporters face in the course of doing their job. If some men discourage us, there are others who support; if some men run us down, there are others who egg us on; if some men resent our achievements, there are others who recognize our talent and give us our due; if some refuse to co-operate, others go out of their way to help us.
Back in 1990, when I had returned to Deccan Herald as its Andhra Pradesh correspondent quitting a university teaching job, my editor K N Hari Kumar asked if I was game to cover Namibian independence and later, if visa came through, perhaps even go to South Africa that was in throes of delirious joy on having dismantled apartheid and the release of the iconic Nelson Mandela from two-decade long incarceration. I didn’t think twice before saying yes even though two daughters, two and seven years old had to be taken care of.
At that point, an average Indian knew just two things about South Africa: apartheid and Nelson Mandela. Only a few were aware of the fact that South Africa has a sizable population of Indian descent. And they knew even less about Namibia.
Therefore, when I announced my editor’s decision to depute me to Namibia (to cover its independence on March 21, 1990) and South Africa, friends and relatives were horrified. They tried to dissuade me: “Why Africa, for God’s sake? Ask your editor to send you to the US or Europe.” Stereotypes of backward, tribal Africa and the prestige associated with a ‘developed’ USA and Europe were not scarce.
But any journalist would barter her or his soul to be in Namibia and South Africa and witness history in the making, I argued. Namibia was getting independence from South Africa after 75 years of subjugation by the white ruling elites and South Africa itself was on the threshold of a new era of equity and justice and assertion of Black South African. With the release of Nelson Mandela, it had initiated the process of sharing power with the blacks and dismantling the horrors of apartheid.
Ironically, even those who were familiar with these two countries gave no encouragement. A senior journalist and an expert on Namibia told a colleague of mine in Delhi that there was utter chaos in Namibia with every nerve being strained to accommodate VIPs and their entourages from about 147 countries and 20 heads of states. Besides hordes of journalists and TV crew from across the world had descended upon the country which was then the last country to throw off the colonial yoke. “And to top it all, you are sending a woman,” he told my colleague.
My colleague however was confident of my ability to survive. He insisted that we meet this leading journalist-expert on African affairs notwithstanding his misplaced fears, to get a background briefing on Namibian and South African affairs. When we met, the expert was even more blunt. “Don’t go,” he advised me. All accommodation in the capital Windhoek
“You will be lucky if you can get even that,” said the sceptic expert. “Carry a rucksack. You will need it,” he said giving up the battle to din some sense in me. This advice came from a much travelled, much experienced journalist as my colleague and I stopped at his house hours before I left for the airport. Such was his insensitivity that his fears seeped into me, shaking my resolve. In the taxi, I confessed my fears to my senior who was accompanying me to see me off on my first trip abroad. He dismissed his friend’s dire predictions and assured me that I was made of sterner stuff and that his friend did not have the benefit of knowing me as my colleague did. I was assured, but only just. The butterflies in the tummy continued to flutter agitatedly.
A sample of the problems ahead was given at the Indira Gandhi international airport in Delhi Windhoek Windhoek Namibia South Africa
A short lesson on the recent political developments, of South Africa relinquishing its rule over Namibia, of its forthcoming independence and the fact that I was a reporter assigned to cover the event convinced him of Namibia’s status. But, he insisted, I needed a visa even to pass through Johannesburg in South Africa enroute to Windhoek. I repeated what my travel agent told me, namely, a visa was not needed for a transit halt of one hour in Jo’burg. He was not convinced. I kept a tight leash on my temper. “Please clarify from your boss,” I suggested sweetly. “The computer is my boss,” he responded without blinking.
The human boss whom I insisted on seeing was no less rigid. Either I sign an indemnity bond saying that I would bear all expenses in case I was sent back from Johannesburg for not possessing a visa or I won’t be allowed onto the plane, he informed. I signed pronto. I was not going to miss out, despite ill-informed computers and airline staff, the biggest event of the decade, the dawn of independence on Namibia.
Yet my 10-day stay in Namibia
On landing in Windhoek, I went to the only quality hotel in the town in search of Indian embassy officials, the first stop of help to travelling journos, to help me out. At the hotel I did not find any Embassy officials (considering India did not have diplomatic relations with South Africa in pursuance of its policy of boycotting racist regimes) However, when I ran into fellow Indians and discovered that they belonged to the Indian Overseas Communications who had arrived ahead of the PM’s contingent to take care of communications of the entourage, I poured out my woes of having no accommodation. Two officials offered their room (and eats) to me for a few hours to freshen up as they would not be using their room for they were busy setting up the communications logistics for the Prime Minister’s party and Indian journalists contingent accompanying the PM. That helped me to relax up enough to scout around for accommodation. It was available—a white Namibian agreed to accommodate me as his paying guest after great hesitation and opposition from his wife and son. I was a ‘black,’ but for the money he was getting from me, he was willing to suffer my ‘blackness’.
When I announced my triumph to the newly made friends of IOCs (who had earlier pleaded inability to help) they were scandalized at my naivety and even willingness to be exploited. They offered to put me up in their room provided I did not mind having to share a room with two men. I was game. Something is better than nothing. But there was a hitch. The room would be available only with the arrival of the Prime Minister and his party which was two nights away. That did not resolve my problem of having no place to spend two nights (even if the days were spent in filing news stories)
Another helpful official offered to shift into his friend’s room in the majestic Kalahari Sands Hotel and offered his room for the two nights. But there were two conditionalities: the fact that I would sleep in the room gave me no claim over it beyond one night, and that I would raise no protests on being asked to vacate the next morning. I instantly agreed to write off all my non-existent rights to his accommodation for one night. Two, I will not order any room service. He did not want to be left to deal with unpaid bills for services he did not use. My friend-in-need was apologetic that he could offer me only one night’s accommodation and that he himself, along with other officials, would be shelterless from the next day since the Namibian Government had commandeered all hotel rooms for its guests and the Indian mission officials had been given marching orders.
The next day was hectic—I tried to get familiar with Windhoek, the media centres (Namibian and Indian). I got lost in the process. But managed to file a curtain-raiser and amazingly, ran into a Telugu-speaking journalist. Telugu never sounded sweeter and Telugu men were never so good to be with! He shared the info that the South African media was throwing a party for the foreign media persons at the prestigious Namibian press centre and the Namibian President-designate Sam Nujoma (pronounced nuyoma) was expected to drop in later in the evening. The reporter who was with a news agency had just committed a cardinal journalistic sin, of sharing and cooperating with a competitor. But the joy of finding one’s own on foreign shores has the strength of melting away petty professional rules.
Another culture shock was the fact that there was no public transport system in Windhoek. The poor who lived in areas designated for blacks under the apartheid system, about 15-20 km away from Windhoek (a “whites only”), travelled to their workplace in the city in taxis which are run by blacks. These taxis are nearest to a public transport system. They were cheap and frequent.
Apparently, the poor and the underprivileged, almost all being blacks, never figured in the scheme of things of the racist colonial government. Facilities were created to serve the specific purpose of the rulers and not for the benefit of the local people. For instance, the highways in Namibia were very wide and in perfect condition, not merely to facilitate traffic but also to double up as landing places for helicopters and smaller planes in the rocky land of Namibia in the eventuality of a rebellion by the blacks or an attack from a hostile neighbour.
Windhoek went dead by 6 p.m when business came to a halt. With shops closing down, the black workers stream out of the city and head for Katatura and Khomasdal, the black townships. The whites retire to their well-fenced and protected homes. The few restaurants are crowded, exclusively by whites. The only places that are open after 6 pm are the bars and take-away joints, which are frequented by blacks.
Alcoholism, gambling and other vices were rampant among black men—because there is no entertainment worth the name and because, of the widespread unemployment of 35-40 per cent. Then, there were very few movie houses and TV undeveloped in content. In any case, it was too costly a luxury which very few blacks could afford. The “people entertainment” comprised soccer and music.
The evening in Namibian Press Centre was a boon. A team of Indian officials had arrived to oversee the facilities for the Indian media (which then comprised the newspapers, All India Radio and Doordarshan). On hearing of my homelessness, the top official decided that I too was eligible for the government-provided accommodation and other facilities. But the only hitch was the building that had been prepared for the Indian media contingent would be unoccupied since the party was arriving only the next day. Would I be brave enough to spend a night in a room all by myself in a building that would have no women and very few men? Beggars have no choice, so I agreed. At the end of the evening, I vacated from the hotel room and with great relief and not a small amount of trepidation checked into the media building. The room would have to be shared with another journalist, the official incharge informed me sheepishly. No issues, I assured him. It is a male, and he is with AIR, he said. No worries, I said. They would be checking sometime in the middle of the night, he said. As I went to bed looking forward to March 21 evening when the newest independent country would join the galaxy of free nations, I noticed two beautifully wrapped packages placed next to each bed. I ignored them as the day’s events had been too much and the comfort of an assured accommodation had chased out all other thoughts. I was woken up sometime in the night with the arrival of my fellow journalist. He asked if I would move out into another room considering that I might get disturbed by his work. He was from AIR and he would be filing his stories and updating them through the next two nights. I assured him that I had the ability to sleep through an earthquake too. The next morning he informed me that he was moving out to be closer to a fellow AIR colleague. Hooray! I had the room to myself and happily he hadn’t used the bathroom, bless him. Only later I realized that my gifts, left carelessly on the floor where they had been placed by the Indian official, had disappeared. The male journo had decided that a female journo had no use for a bottle of Scotch and a carton of Marlboro cigarettes!
The day was spent filing another story on Namibia and in evening, the authorities shepherded us into a bus to take us to the stadium where a free Namibia would be ushered into existence. The seniors were happy to sit in their rooms and watch the event on live TV but I wanted to live the event. The atmosphere was electrifying. I experienced what I had missed by accident of birth: August 15, 1947.
* Former Special Correspondent of Deccan Herald, presently, Head, Dept of Mass Communication, Loyola Academy, Secunderabad.
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