Dilli ki Sita, Banaras ke Ram
About the Story: A tale of a time, when the patriarchal society of Banaras feels punched by the upsurge in the dominant political seats in Dilli by women. Set during a train journey in a state with a strong political history, the story follows Ramavtar — a bank manager in his late forties, who believes he has the best solutions to all the problems in the country and no-one can manage India better than a Hindu-Male prodigy. Proud of his conservative thoughts, Ramavtar has a constant need for flattery and validation from his chain of followers to prove him right.
Baffled by the unconventional turns in the politics of Dilli, Ramavtar offers solutions during a train journey from his home in Bhagwanpur to his office in Varanasi Cantt. Offended by an oppressing mindset, a group of independent working women decides to understand the mindset of Ramavtar and initiate a conversation.
Let’s hear how the story unveils the two-hour journey from the ghats of Banaras, revealing the contrasting mindsets.
It’s 6 in the morning, the cycle bells of the newspaper vendors on the roads of Banaras, rhymes with the chirping of birds, welcoming the spring.
“Morning Lakshman Ji, I will see you in the evening. Yes, Yes! I have applied for promotion. Don’t worry, the next manager will not be a woman. I will handle that.” — Ramavtar said hastily, accelerating his scooter, realizing he’s late enough to make it to the 6:15 express on time, to reach his office in Varanasi Cantt. The Railway station was as usual brimming with daily passengers creating a commotion, hoping to get a seat so that they can open the newspaper, sip the hot kulhad tea and start the morning by discussing how the country should ‘actually’ be run.
The train approached the station, Ramavtar very cleverly pushed the frail - looking woman beside him, grabbed the window seat, opened the newspaper and started skimming through his rimless glasses balanced at the tip of his nose. As soon as he had made himself comfortable raising both his feet on the opposite seat, he cleared his throat… it was his way of announcing that he was ready to share his wisdom with his followers, well, co-passengers. “But how can a WOMAN, who had studied from Oxford know the Indian Education system? We cannot accept those values here. India already has a lot of firangi-invaders, we cannot welcome more. Also, this BAP party thinks they can win election by relying on a woman’s work? What confidence, huh?!”
The other men in the compartment nodded in assent. The low self-esteemed bootlickers would wait for Ramavtar to comment, so they could sheepishly join in for offensive remarks, intended to shame women. They believed that condoning this behavior would confirm their progressions at work since Ramavtar was their immediate boss who was soon due to become the branch manager.
“Haha! you are one witty man, Sir. How can someone who’s born to work indoors, take the reins of the country? It will be a complete failure. I am telling you; the future of Dilli is at stake”, added the boot-licker.
This is how the entire journey would pass. Ramavtar critiquing the well-educated women ministers which according to him eroded the system and the male-followers sitting beside would nod and comment in unison.
Everyday there would be a group of 4–5 working - women, who would board the train with Ramavtar and get off at the next station. Standing closely, they shared a discomfiting silence through their eyes.
“Enough is enough! Pooja, don’t you think we should have a word with them and make them aware of how things across the world are changing, how women in large numbers are joining hands to make this world a better place?”
“Sahi boli tum! (Well said). I think it’s really important to make them understand to let go of this toxic mentality. Aise to ye log kabhi aage hi nahi badh payenge (In this way, these people will never be able to be let go of these regressive thoughts).”
Even as the women planned a quiet resistance, barrels of laughter flowed from the followers of Ramavtar.
“Areyy bhaiya, par ee angrezi maidam ke aane se kya chamki hai Dilli, nahi? Party kya safed dikhne lagi hai? (Isn’t Dilli shining a bit more after the arrival of this western woman)” — exclaimed a man in a khaki shirt, while putting tobacco in his lower lip.
Lighting the beedi, the one next to him, joined in — “ BAP party Banaras mein bhi aaye to bhaiya hum to har roz maidam ko dekhne jayenge (If this BAP party starts working in Banaras, I’ll get a chance to look at her every day).”
The air suddenly became heavy, and no, this time it was not the smoke of the burning tobacco…the chuckles and banters made it suffocating for the women around. While all the earlier debates related to how the government can boost the economy, how Muslims should not be a part of India, how the Prime Minister is representative of a strong male-Hindu identity. This one had gone too far. Unable to control the primitive and poisonous chain of thoughts, Pooja decided to intervene.
“Why is it bad to have an education that is relevant to become an Education minister?” Pooja tried to be calm, or as calm as she could be in this situation. “Don’t you think its helpful that we have someone with a global exposure to form policies in the best interest of the people. So, you are arguing that a candidate with minimal education is the most suited candidate to form policies for the education of your children?”
“Arre madamji why are you getting into politics? Ladies log have been made Prime minister of the household and kitchen, please govern there only. Also, you talking about politics, dressed in jeans is all the more reason to ignore you. Kyun bhailog…” — Ramavtar replied followed by clutters of laughter.
“Bas fatt fatt bolna chalu (All they can do is speak out of turn), this is what education does to a woman”, a man shouted from the crowd.
This sudden personal attack tormented Pooja. Before she could come up with a reply, the train took a halt and there it was, her time to de-board.
The next morning, Ramavtar decided to leave a bit early. Sparkling in the glory of his petty- win the previous day, with a new-suit, handling the briefcase little more firmly, he boarded the train. Seeing Ramavtar entering the coach, one of his boot-lickers sitting near the window, offered him seat.
“Sir, you must be tired of standing at the station. Here, you deserve this!” — sheepishly said the boot-licker, while cleaning the seat for his boss.
Yet again, it was his turn to demean women. Since it boosted his ego and brought him glory the previous day, he came in all guns ablaze. “Bhailog, I thought very deeply about yesterday’s news and realised to kya hua (so what) if one or two women join hands with big parties? After all they might have paid a huge amount to gain this opportunity and in turn make the parties look glamorous. Also, don’t worry! Just these upper-caste urban women with resources will enter, our poor and rural women are not that attractive.” A roll of hoots and claps followed for the “righteous” beliefs he muttered.
As the day of the announcement of Ramavtar’s promotion drew near, the focus of the conversations shifted from politics in Dilli to apprehensions about the next Branch manager.
“Par Sirji, what if the next manager after you, turns out to be a woman? Hum sab ko sabzi kaatna nahi, kaam karna seekhna hai mard ki tarah (We want to learn how to work like a man, not how to chop vegetables)”, smirked the middle-aged man.
Outraged by the crass remarks, Sita, a young woman from the group, left her seat and approached the chauvinist gang.
“Chota kaam hota hai naa sabzi kaatna? Itne saalon se ye tiffing tangaaye laa rahe hain, isse bhi lajja aani chahiye phir to? Aurat ke haath ka bana hai naa. (Chopping vegetable is a menial work, right? Then you might as well be ashamed of the tiffins you have been carrying for years, since these are prepared by Women) .
Also, Indira Gandhi, Sushma Swaraj, Sheila Dixit, Mayawati. What do you think, all of them belong to the upper-caste glamorous world? They created their niche, in a world damped with men.”
“Husband se lad kar aayi hain kya, Madam? (Did you fight with your husband?).” The whole compartment erupted in laughter.
Ramavtar who never left his seat in the past 5 years, jumped off and argued, “But cannot you see who owned it always? “Okay, look at the compartment itself madam ji, it’s men and only men. Do you want to make it to the Parliament? Only 14% of you belong there, there must be some reason, right?
“Sir, if you remember the 15th lok sabha elections, 59 women were members of the Parliament, the highest since independence. And the rise of Indian women as panchayat leaders, in recent years, is a spectacular achievement, given that India has one of the worst records for the way it treats the female sex”, Sita reasoned.
“Bas, bas Madam, you belong to the women’s coach, not here with us. Kindly leave. Don’t preach to us, unless you plan to fight an election.”
Sita came closer to the person who commented, looked him in the eye and replied — “Women in India participate in voting, run for public offices and political parties at lower levels, more than men. Activism and voting are the strongest areas of women’s political participation.”
Ramavtar shushed everyone and signaled to let him handle. Rolled up his sleeves and said, “Areyy Madam, stop showing- off your education. Why are you interfering in the matters you won’t be able to handle? You are a woman, after all. Yesterday, that friend of yours tried to interrupt… could not handle, right? It’s almost your station, please deboard and focus on your household.”
This outraged Sita.
“Even if 10% of women want to take their careers forward, it’s still a million women…. A million women are aspiring to contest the election…. The problem is that they don’t get the tickets. The problem is men, like you”, she added, pointing a finger at Ramavtar.
Ramavtar bubbling with rage looked around, hoping for support from his mute gang. With everyone stunned he muttered, “tujh jaisi aurat ko sambhalna aata hai mujhe (I know how to handle a woman like you)”.
“Ramavtar Ji, aurat hu. Par kamzor nahi. (Even though I am a woman, but don’t mistake me for a weaker gender)”. Sita gathered her luggage and deboarded.
The next day, the train had an unconventional commotion. People murmuring, giving Sita distant glances, gesturing, pointing her out. A pamphlet was thrown at her face, as she gathered, held and started reading. The pamphlet had her picture, questioning her name “Sita Balmiki”?! Stating how she’s 35 and unmarried, questioning how the jeans she wears is the reflection of her character, stating she’s of “other” caste.
The chauvinist group looked at her and commented — “Madam pehle batati aapka naam Sita hai, Jungle chorh aate aapko” (If we’d known your name is Sita, we could’ve dropped you to the jungle)
Sita did not utter a word and deboarded the train at the next station.
Days passed, the 6:15 am express is flooded with the same discussions but now without any counter from anyone.
Sita was nowhere to be seen.
Ramavtar and his spectators boasted about their win and declared that only “men” belong to their compartment. Ramavtar, leaving behind his legacy of having owned the window seat for all these years, gets promoted at his job, and is relocated at Dilli.
It’s the first day of his new office. As soon as he entered the office, his grin disappeared. There was something odd about his Dilli office…he had not expected so many women at the headquarters. “But so what, I would rule them all”, Ramavtar thought to himself and smiled. With his chin up, he walks towards his supervisor’s room. As Ramavtar knocks, he hears a firm voice, “Come in”.
“Good Morning, Si…”, Ramavtar stopped in his tracks.
Perplexed and confused, he couldn’t believe his eyes. To be assured, he looked around frantically. The name plate on the table left nothing to surmise…on the glass surface the name came alive: SITA BALMIKI, Director.
There stands Sita Balmiki, in an office filled with women, with their chins to the sky.
About the Author:
Tanvi Bhatti is a former Big 4 employee, who wanted to break free from the MBA lineage and pave a way of her own. Hence, she ended up at the Young India Fellowship. With a fervor of Rajma-Chawal and Butter Chicken, she is a theatre artist, who loves to travel.
