EXPRESSION: Newspaper

The male vice-principal of a woman's college in Gwalior physically assaults fellow female faculty members and students by grabbing them and throwing them against walls. Kalpana Saxena, 37, publishes accounts of women affected by his behavior and he is immediately transferred, ensuring that he will never work in a woman's college again.

A six-year-old girl playing in an empty field is raped by a local dhobi, and eventually dies as a result of her injuries. Sandhya Kaushik, 26, chances upon her story and finds that even months later, the rapist still walks free. She writes about the details of the case and the girl's family is able to renew their fight for justice, this time with the media on their side.

An unknown man comes to a small village and collects money from poor villagers by promising them new ration cards. Hundreds of villagers are conned, and thousands of Rupees lost when the man never reappears. Laxmi Baghel, 35, prints the details of the incident, and when he finally turns up at the Nagar Nigam, the police are already there waiting for him.

These are just some of the successes that the people behind Mahila Paksh, a weekly Hindi newspaper published from Gwalior, have witnessed over the past three years.

Mahila Paksh is more than just a newspaper. It is a social organization run by women for women. The readers aren't customers, they're members. And the reporters aren't professionally-trained journalists with the latest gadgetry, but local women with stories to share.

India's first women-only newspaper, Mahila Paksh is surprisingly, the brainchild of a man. Rupesh Srivastava, 51, had spent many years working in politics and later in media, and had seen countless injustices first-hand. In 2003, he found himself wondering what he could do that would make a difference at the ground level. He came up with the idea for this newspaper, and after lengthy discussions with his wife Asha Lata, 46, and daughter Samanvay Kumar, 20, decided to start publishing Mahila Paksh.

The three together chalked out a plan for the newspaper that would not only inform women, but motivate them to fight for themselves. They would give women a platform to air their grievances, while also teaching them how to individually and collectively tackle those grievances. They decided they didn’t want to represent women. They wanted to make women capable enough to represent themselves.

The newspaper has had a domino effect, with details of the paper spreading through word of mouth. Women shared this wonderful opportunity to write and report, encouraging each other to get involved. Today, Mahila Paksh is a network of almost 100 correspondents from around India, 60 of them in Gwalior alone.

The newspaper has not been without its share of struggles. Money has always been tight, and there have been weeks when publishing the next edition has seemed impossible. "This paper has taught us that if you continue to do your work with peace, patience and dignity, people will automatically come to you," says Rupesh. "And so far it has always somehow worked out. Even during the difficulties we've been in, due to threats from people we've exposed or the problems with bureaucracy, we've never once become so desperate to think about shutting down the paper. We've always thought, okay, we've learned something from this, and this is how we'll handle it next time."

One woman whose life has been completely transformed due to the paper is Laxmi Baghel, a woman who lives below the poverty line, was once a domestic worker washing dishes for a living, and now proudly wears the badge of reporter. Laxmi and her family were thrown into a deep financial crisis when a man they'd borrowed money from fraudulently increased the interest rate many times over. Each month, he'd show up at her husband's place of work and demand his entire salary in the name of this interest.

Broke and desperate, Laxmi approached Mahila Paksh and wrote her story for the paper. When the story broke, there was a huge uproar in her husband's office. The man who had cheated them sought them out and apologized, promising to never bother them again.

That was Laxmi's first published story and her first realization of the fact that the solution to her problems wasn't in an outside force. It has been within her all along.

Other stories that Laxmi has covered include exposing nurses who extorted money from mothers of newborn children to hand over the babies, reports on doctors who've conned patients of government aid, and a detailed analysis on the recent outbreak of Chikungunya. Laxmi has become so popular in her village that women now come to her seeking justice. She personally accompanies each one to the nearest police station to file a complaint, a copy of Mahila Paksh in one hand, should trouble start brewing.

"I'm such a poor woman, and I never thought I could achieve so much," says Laxmi. "Now when I go to the Collector's office, he treats me with such respect, and even if I take a woman's case to him, he doesn't make me wait. He immediately gets to it."

Laxmi personally hand-delivers the newspapers to her readers each week. Along with distributing papers to the women in her neighborhood, she drops by the offices of the Collector and the Commissioner to give them the latest copy.

If the woman she's written about is illiterate, Laxmi, who just a few years ago could barely read and write herself, sits down with the woman and reads it out to her.

Like Laxmi, other reporters for the paper have also experienced tremendous growth in their personalities. Instead of being hesitant and subdued, now they find that they're more inspired to fight injustice whenever and wherever they see it.

Most of the women who work at the paper hold other jobs, and the paper doesn't in fact, have any full-time reporting staff. Stories are delivered each week in person by these freelance correspondents scattered around the country.

Their families, too, take an active interest in the functioning of the paper. It's not uncommon for these women to cook dinner or do household chores while their husbands read the latest stories out to them.

The sense of belonging the women experience is one of the major reasons for this paper's success. But more than anything, it's the common belief that in helping others, they're also really helping themselves.

 

SELF-SUFFICIENCY: Petrol Pump

From where she sits, Vatsala Mital sees three women, one talking to a customer, another pumping fuel into a car, and yet another processing a credit card payment. But from where she sits, Vatsala Mital sees three women, one who no longer has to depend on someone else to be her provider, another whose desperate hunt for an income led to an unexpected career choice, and yet another who cast away voices of dissent and went after her heart's desire.

Vatsala Mital, a 42-year-old mother-of-two, is the manager of India's first women-only petrol station. The women are Sareena, Mamta and Neetu, three of the almost thirty women who have donned shirts and pants and entered fearlessly into what has so far been considered a man's domain.

But here, where cars come and cars go, where the cacophony of sounds is followed by deathly silence, where drivers tap their fingers impatiently on their steering wheels and backseat passengers chat lazily on their mobile phones, conviction and tenacity aren't jut buzzwords. They are the foundations of these women's lives. They are palpable qualities in each woman. They make up the fabric of the entire environment.

This petrol station in a swanky neighborhood of New Delhi, even today, remains the only one of this magnitude that employs women almost exclusively. Bharat Petroleum, the company that owns and operates the station has always had female employees among its staff, but started this project as a way of empowering women and giving them access to a world that has always been predominantly male. Operational since 2002, the station continues to pull in regular patrons, and several new ones each week who're surprised by an all-women staff.

Sareena is 24, has a 7-year-old son, a supportive family, and a very infectious laugh. She has been working at the station for many months and has found a new sense of self since she joined here. "I never feel like I'm a woman in a man's job," she says. "Our manager is always so supportive and attentive to our needs that we've hardly ever felt like there's any difference between this job and other more conventional jobs."

Indeed, Mital is clearly more than a boss to her employees. She's a role model, a friend, a confidante. The other women mirror her confidence, her precision and her dedication, applying it to every task they do.

The women handle all kinds of responsibilities, from pumping fuel, cleaning windscreens, cash collection and sometimes opening up car bonnets for minor repairs. Their main responsibility though, is to make sure that a customer who comes once, comes again. For this reason, the quality of service takes on the utmost importance, with the women greeting each customer warmly and finishing each task with clockwork efficiency.

And judging by customer reactions, they're doing a good job. One female visitor to the station often loves to jokingly tell the attendants, "Give me pants and a shirt. I want to pump in my own fuel, too!"

Jobs here are scarce, but the number of women vying for the spots, plentiful. 22-year-old Mamta was just a few years ago unemployed, in financial difficulty and desperate for work. She found herself at another petrol pump in West Delhi one afternoon, where she saw a woman attendant. "I really liked that she was doing this kind of work," she says. "I figured if she's doing it, maybe I could try, too." For a while, Mamta worked at another station where she was the only female employee. Soon after, she learned of an opportunity here and applied for the job.

The hours on the job can stretch on till late into the night, so an armed guard is always present in to ensure the women are constantly under protection. But the brains behind the project realized that there's no better defense than self-defense. For this reason, the ladies are given two weeks of martial arts training by the Delhi Police's Crime Against Women Cell as soon as they join. This gives them a much greater sense of confidence and self-esteem, and they unanimously feel they can defend themselves should the need ever arise.

By the time they've spent a few months at the station, the women's personalities have shown an all-round development. They're much more confident of their abilities and their self-worth, and are ready to tackle the problems of their personal and professional lives on their own. While some families do give them grief over their independence and earning capabilities, most are extremely supportive of their decision to work here.

Neetu, a shy 25-year-old, who has been working at this station for over six months, was initially very reluctant to join for fear of what other people would say. Her father-in-law insisted she stop caring about others' perceptions, focus on herself and become who she wanted to be. "Earlier, I was hesitant to put on what seemed like a man's uniform, but my husband and in-laws encouraged me to give it a chance."

The uniforms, which have been specifically designed for the women at this station, are one of their favorite perks of the job. "No one thinks we work at a petrol station," says Mamta. "To most people, we're pizza delivery girls, courier-women, even air hostesses! Only the logo on the cap gives us away." A few of them admit to wearing their formal attire even when they're at home.

From where she sits, Vatsala Mital sees three women, each who's come a long way from the woman she once was. But from where she sits, Vatsala Mital sees three women, each who carries within her, a piece of the woman looking through the window.

COURAGE: UN Peacekeeping Mission

If you happened to spot her in a tracksuit on the way to her tennis game one evening, it would come as no surprise that this attractive woman likes dressing up, playing the harmonium and listening to soft ghazals by Jagjit Singh. What may surprise you though, is that this graceful mother-of-two can also shoot five bulls-eyes in five seconds, has been trained to expertly handle AK-47s and can break bones as easily as she can score break points.

Which is why Commandant Seema Dhundia, 39, has been chosen to lead the world's first all-women UN Peacekeeping Mission into Liberia.

A small nation on the western coast of Africa, Liberia has been a hotbed of violence due to almost two decades of civil wars. The conflict, which ended in 2003, killed over 250,000 people and displaced thousands more, leaving the country in social and economic turmoil. Even now, continuing problems of illiteracy, unemployment, corruption, and most alarmingly, the presence of thousands of child soldiers leave the country in a volatile situation.

The United Nations Mission in Liberia (UNMIL) was established in 2003 to help the nation with recovery and rebuilding. There are currently some 15,000 soldiers stationed by the UN in Liberia, and it is reportedly the organization's most expensive peacekeeping operation. Now the UN has sought the services of Indian policewomen to help with their efforts in the strife-torn region.

This 125-member all-women team station in the capital Monrovia has been picked from the country's paramilitary Central Reserve Police Force (CRPF). The candidates have served in some of the most dangerous of India's conflict zones, from Kashmir to the North-East, and some even in international territories like Sri Lanka.

The all-women team was a deliberate measure by the UN. Dhundia feels that the women will be able to reach a larger part of the vulnerable population while also serving as role models for the female population. The stage has already been set with the election of Liberia's president Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf, who is Africa's first elected female leader. Now these courageous ladies hope to go in and inspire Liberian women by showing them that women at every level can achieve great things.

It is a clear blue morning in late September and in a dusty field in New Delhi, in groups of ten, women line up for their firearms training. On order, they march up to a table kept in the middle of the field. On order, they take out their pistols. On order, they put them on the table, blindfold themselves with a black piece of cloth, empty the pistols and then load them back again. On order, they open their blindfolds and put the pistols back in the cases. On order, they turn around and march back.

After a few minutes, the officers march to the table again. A new weapon—AK-47s this time. New orders. They load. They aim. They fire. They aim again. They fire. They listen for the orders and aim and fire in several different positions. Lying position. Sitting position. Standing position. Then they march back.

Next comes the unarmed combat practice—martial arts. Two dozen women in blue uniforms and hair tightly pulled back in buns move their arms and legs expertly in the air with the precision and coordination of skilled dancers.

Standing in a corner observing them acutely is Poonam Gupta. The 32-year-old Deputy Commandant is a fiercely independent and quick-witted officer who commands obvious authority without moving a lip. She's trained as a black cat commando, and her short black hair, khaki uniform and black cap complete the official look. You can be pretty sure you wouldn't want to mess with her.

A job in the police force is not what she does. It's who she is. Is she tough, you wonder, because she's in the CRPF, or is she in the CRPF because she's tough?

With fellow officers, her guard is let down, and so emerges a jovial woman, who has plenty of smiles hidden behind the tough exterior and who doesn't miss the opportunity to tease. Watching her laugh you realize that you wouldn't mind messing with her at all.

The pride she has in her troops is something you notice almost immediately. But she's quick and careful not to let them see it.

During the training, one woman takes slightly more time than the others loading her pistol. It doesn't go unnoticed. "Keep a watch on her," Gupta instructs an officer nearby. "Give her more practice." Later, another woman makes a mistake in the unarmed combat. Gupta is talking to a colleague, but she stops mid-sentence for a brief moment to look up. The error has been spotted and registered.

Gupta is hypercritical because she has to be. There is little room for mistakes in a job that involves life and death. The training provided to these women is of utmost importance. They're given refresher courses in baton wielding, lobbing teargas shells, martial arts and handling weapons.

While in Liberia, they'll be required to ensure law and order, control violent mobs and deal with riot-prone situations. They may also be needed to train the Liberian police force and provide them with feedback and support. But one of their most important roles will be in dealing with child soldiers and armed women. The task of helping them return to normal lives can be much more daunting than it sounds. "With adults, you can expect what they'll do and what can go wrong," Gupta explains. "But with a child, you can't predict, and have to be extremely careful. It's a challenge."

This makes indoor classes absolutely essential for the women. Mob psychology, human behavior, human rights, UN policies, Liberia's history, social and political climate and culture are all part of the curriculum. The women are also learning about prevention and medical care for the diseases that are prevalent in the area, as well as getting refresher training in First Aid and CPR.

But all the grueling learning modules don't stop the women from having fun. After hours, they can be found playing musical instruments, watching movies and making long-distance phone calls to friends and family. While in Liberia, they'll be participating in inter-contingent sports tournaments and presenting cultural shows to the people, especially on days that functions are organized for Indian national holidays. And in this exchange of cultures and identities, they will become more than just Indian policewomen.

In a dusty field in North Delhi, 125 women have been training from morning till evening every day for the past thirty days. And in this dusty field of North Delhi, these 125 women have ceased to become protectors of just one nation; they're now protectors of the world.

PERSONAL SPACE: Restaurant

Inside the walls of the Cleopatra restaurant, the atmosphere is serene. Soft music plays in the background while laughter comes in spurts from the tables across the room. Women talk over empty cups of tea and half-eaten sandwiches, and apart from a mobile phone that rings in a woman's purse, which she scrambles to find and answer, there is peace.

The sign on the door reads: "No Male Entry."

India's first women-only restaurant—Cleopatra—is located in a suburban locality of Ahmedabad, and has been in operation for almost six months. Men are allowed inside only after 7.30 p.m. and then too, only by invitation from a female member. In fact, the owner himself, Ajay Thakkar, 42, is restricted from the premises during the day.

Ajay, who is primarily a diamond merchant, started this restaurant with his wife, Anita, 35, after he realized that her skills and abilities were going waste just looking after the house and family. He encouraged her to open and manage this restaurant. Within weeks of coming up with the idea, Ajay and Anita, had finalized the space, researched other restaurants in the area, and created an informal business plan.

They then came up with a name for the restaurant and a theme for the décor. Since the concept was to have a unique space for women, the thought of naming it after a beautiful and independent woman struck immediately. They chose Cleopatra to be the representation of this space where women could feel free to be themselves without the additional roles of daughters, wives and mothers.

"Not all men can propel their wives forward without having their egos stand in the way," says Anita. "But my husband is hugely responsible for my success. Not only has he encouraged me to find my way, but appreciates that I have a place of work that I can call my own."

The theme for the restaurant is Egyptian and the bright reds, yellows and blues have been chosen specifically after extensive research on the Macedonian culture. For six days, local fine arts students sat with Anita and Ajay, printed out pictures and researched aspects of the culture, finally blending it in with the owners' personalities. The result is a space that is a beautiful mix of Egyptian culture with Indian sensibilities.

The term "restaurant" however, maybe a vast under-representation of all that Cleopatra has come to offer. Inside the premises now lie a beauty parlor, a boutique and even a small counter to buy cosmetics and jewelry.

"Initially, we started off as a restaurant," explains Ajay. "But the more we thought about it, the more we discovered that we could make it an all-in-one space where women could come and relax—eat, shop and even get beauty treatments and health advice." Although Cleopatra is still primarily a restaurant, in the future it will include a gymnasium, a yoga centre and maybe even an in-house doctor who will hand out prescriptions over cups of coffee. Franchises are planned in other cities of India, and possibly even in the USA and UK.

Even without the additional facilities, Cleopatra has become a favorite hang-out for many women in the city. It's inexpensive, it's convenient, and there is no requirement to spend any money.

Pinki Kothari, a 27-year-old housewife, says she comes here at least once a fortnight. "In other restaurants, you sit, you eat, and you leave," she says. "Here, it's more informal. You can come here and just hang out, maybe run into someone you know, or even join other women in conversation. In fact, I've met several new people here and made friends that way."

Anita has a one-on-one relationship with almost all her regular customers. She doesn't treat them like paying patrons, but as guests in her home, greeting each of them as they arrive. She asks them about their families, talks about their health problems, and often gives them advice. Sometimes, when she has a few minutes to spare, she'll sit down and have tea with them. On the house.

Come in a group. Come alone. Have a sandwich. Read a book. At the Cleopatra restaurant, you will always be welcome. The only condition: check your guy at the door.

EQUALITY: The 'Ladies Special' Train

5.49 p.m.: The local Western Railway train pulls up at the Churchgate station in Mumbai. People on various platforms rush from one corner to the other, preoccupied with getting to their next destination on time. I'm possibly the only person who's taken a moment to stand and look around at the swarm of fleeting bodies around me. I board the train.

5.52 p.m.: The train is an assault on the senses. Bodies bump into each other as sweat mingles with perfume, and the rush to enter increases. Chatter fills the compartment and women who study together, work together or know each other through this common commute share stories of the day. A young girl in dark blue jeans and a pale blue kurta walks through the open door and smiles. She takes note of her surroundings, occupies the seat opposite mine, nods and looks out the window.

5.54 p.m.: The compartment is now almost full, and not only is there no space to sit, there is very little to stand. An announcement over the speaker by a man with a hoarse voice advises men to remember that this train is for women only and men will not be allowed to board. No one seems to need a reminder though. In the several years that this Ladies Special has been running, the train has lost its novelty and become a way of life for commuters in Mumbai.

5.55 p.m.: The train moves with a jolt. In stark contrast to just minutes ago, life stands still inside the compartment and the train runs at high speed. Many women nestle comfortably in their seats and close their eyes. Others read magazines, look outside or make small talk with the others.

The Mumbai Suburban Railway is the oldest in Asia. With a length of 303 kilometers, it claims to have the highest passenger density of any urban railway system in the world with an average of 6.1 million commuters each day. In fact, it constitutes more than half of the total daily passenger capacity of the Indian Railways itself.

These suburban trains are commonly known as locals, and they run from around 4 a.m. till 1 a.m. Mumbaikers are often fond of saying that you haven't experienced Mumbai until you've been on one of its local trains.

But the local train network, while the lifeline of the commuters of this city, is also one of its biggest embarrassments. The trains are jam-packed at any hour of the day, and even standing in the crowd, hoping to get pushed in won't get you anywhere. If you want to get in a general bogey, no matter whether you're male or female, the only way is to grab anything, anyone, and push yourself through.

It gets worse. Women cannot travel from one station to the next without having their bottoms pinched, their bodies being grabbed or pushed against, of if they're lucky, just being leered at.

The Ladies Special is a welcome relief. Introduced in 1992, the trains run on Mumbai's Western and Central Railway lines and while there are ladies-only compartments in other trains as well, these trains are exclusively for female travelers. The Churchgate to Virar Ladies Special was the first to run the line and was the first of its kind in India.

Mansi, a 16-year-old student and regular commuter is not too impressed. "It's just another train," she says. "And when it comes down to it, women push and shove just as much."

Poonam, 21, an executive in a multinational company and also a regular commuter on the train, disagrees. "It's more comfortable in a ladies-only train," she says. "You can travel safely even when it's crowded and don't have to worry about men finding excuses to touch you."

Had the Ladies Special been the first train I'd taken this evening, I'd be unimpressed, too. But only a few hours ago, I'd boarded the general compartment of a local train, where in the span of half an hour, one man had nodded off on my shoulder, and another conveniently pushed against me, even though there seemed to be plenty of space behind him.

Here however, I sit without being pinched or grabbed. Or feeling like some part of my clothing is about to be left behind in the hands of a guy who for some reason thinks it's okay to stick his hands on my butt. In the Ladies Special, instead of the physical harassment, I get warm conversation, and tips on the best places to find great South Indian food in the city.

I'm not alone. Women all over the compartment seem to be relaxed. The train is crowded, and several women are cramped together in tiny spaces, but there are no signs of grappling.

At the door, a woman in a black tank top holds the bar in the middle, talks on her mobile phone and lets the wind blow her hair out of her face. Not too far from her stands a woman in a burkha, clearly at ease. In the corner seat, a woman in a business suit listens to music on her MP3 player and next to her a group of college students discuss a project.

Opposite to them is a woman in a green sari. Her complexion is dusky, her smile warm. Her middle parting is filled with sindoor, and she repeatedly tells her eight-year-old son to get his hands inside the window.

"This is a ladies train," one woman says jovially trying to distract the boy. "What are you doing here? Don't you know—men are not allowed?" The boy turns to look at his smiling mother, then to the woman and gives a goofy grin. "I'm allowed," he whispers meekly as he looks down and creates circles on the floor with his toe. "I'm not a man."

In another corner, a woman sleeps.

The one hour and forty-five minute journey is eventful at times, uneventful at others. Vendors hawk goods to a woman-only audience—items such as bindis and make-up, food and snacks. And women who have never before in their lives seen each other and likely never will again, become comfortable sharing the stories of their lives.

The ladies-only train is a unique space. It is a market and a restaurant. It is the counselor's leather sofa. It is the movie without the ticket, the therapy without the bill. Women from all walks of life—the rich and the poor, the religious and the atheist, the burkha-clad housewife and the skirt-wearing college student—share the feeling of security in this women's-only space.

"What's the difference?" asks the student and rightly so. After all, aren't we creating divisions rather than removing them? But as one woman puts it, "When there is true equality in the rest of the world, these women-only spaces will cease to have any meaning. Until then, I'm taking the ladies train."