A railway station in India is not a place
where people choose to spend time. It seems to be an essentially
transitory space with a relentless march of anxious feet, tense bodies,
harassed minds through the day, a space from where any sense of harmony or
peace has exited forever. Beneath the veneer of a portal, however, lies a whole
self-sustaining universe. Peopled by those who never quite leave.
The porters, vendors, rag pickers, informal
hawkers, beggars, girls who are sex workers by night, boys who ran away from
possibly abusive homes, the addicts, the destitute, and those who turn the
threat of destitution into the possibility of survival every day, every
same-old new day.
It’s an alien insecure world for me – and it
doesn’t trust me either – but I make my way confidently through its unfamiliar
terrain because I feel safe following this little heroine, all of 5 feet high,
weighing some 45 kgs. For the last 2 years, 22-year-old Anu has made this her
workplace and more, her vocation.
I see it all through Anu’s eyes. The
platform is not really a platform but a ‘contact point’ for runaway, destitute
or trafficked kids. The vendor is not a purveyor of goods but a possible
‘stake-holder’. The little flat a couple of minutes down from the station is
‘the shelter’. And all of this is a backdrop to the essential business of
rescuing exploited children; physically and psychologically helping the
runaways to return home; counselling floundering adolescents; teaching young
sex workers about hygiene, disease, AIDS and contraception; offering some
shelter – a bed, a bath, some food – to all. Eventually, holding out hope and
practical options of schooling and perhaps more worthwhile employment.
Stay here and fight
Across a seemingly infinite wasteland of
“girls can’t”, girls shouldn’t”, “girls must not”, Anu walks towards us with
bleeding feet, grimly determined. She carries her own bandages and is her own
doctor. I have rarely seen anyone so courageous and strong-willed. Painstakingly
she has recreated herself – from a girl who was refused a bicycle to a working
woman who bought one with her first salary; from a child who couldn’t continue
studies after Class XII to a student-of-life who is paying for her own
graduation; from a person who was not schooled in English (and is still quite
unconfident about it) to a social activist who rattles off “liaisoning”, “stake
holders” and “informal education classes” with ease. Compliment her on any of
this and she credits the people who helped her and discusses how much more she
has to achieve. Anu: the work-in-progress.
Everyday she comes to the railway station,
having pedalled on the bicycle they said she couldn’t have, carrying a mobile
phone they don’t want her to possess, doing a job they don’t want her to do so
badly that her family has hardly spoken to her for quite some time.
The ‘they’ in Anu’s life is unfortunately
her immediate family. A lot of her growing up memories as a child have to do
with having her opinions not valued, her desires thwarted and her
independent-mindedness questioned. That bicycle she couldn’t have – another
threat of a girl becoming mobile, independent and potentially out-of-hand –
still rankles. Good at her studies, Anu wanted to study in a school affiliated
to the nationally well-respected CBSE board but was made to study in a
state-affiliated school. She was not able to take up the science stream because
the school that offered this was “too far”. When she chose the college of her
preference her brother opined that the reputation of the college was not good,
the boys there were indecent and the girls were ‘spoiled’. She gave plenty of
arguments, which seem admirably reasonable – “how does it matter what others
are like”? “I’m interested in studying, why would I necessarily become like
them”? “Shouldn’t you trust your sister”? And even, “At least let me get
admitted, and if you see any signs of my getting spoiled I will leave the college”
– but none of this worked.
In anger, Anu, with financial help from a
grandmother, obstinately joined the same institution for sewing classes. For
her class material, she used to take leftover scraps from the tailoring shop of
an acquaintance. But when the time came for her examination, she wasn’t able to
get the requisite money together for the form and fees. She also tried to do a
beautician’s course but couldn’t because the make up products were too
expensive and no help was forthcoming from home.
It wasn’t a good life, it in fact didn’t
feel like life at all, and Anu wondered if she should run away. She nearly took
the drastic step once, she says, relating the episode with a lot of unexpected
calmness and maturity. Ironically, it was at the railway station that is now
fast becoming home to her that she sat and thought hard about leaving home. She
stayed. “I’m really glad that I finally decided against it. At that stage,
uneducated and vulnerable, I could have fallen prey to anyone. And anyway, the
correct thing to do is to stay here and fight my battles from within.”
It turned out to be a good decision. One of
the steps Anu took in fighting her battle from within was to get in touch with
a friend whose relative worked for a local NGO. She joined them, underwent
training and became, in her parlance, a ‘street educator’ for them. Anu
recounts her early and unconfident days. “At my first workshop, I was literally
trembling like a leaf because I would have to give my introduction and so many
eyes would be looking at me. But with the help of my seniors and repeated
practice I was able to participate in workshops and programmes and articulate
whatever was necessary. I got over the shyness of stumbling over English words
and phrases, got over the embarrassment of discussing reproductive hygiene and
contraception in front of people, and with colleagues’ help I overcame family
opposition to travelling to other towns for work-related programmes”.
So is this job her fulltime concern now?
“Well, I have to get more skills and a graduation degree is very important in
the world.” And so Anu is paying her own way, with her NGO salary, through a
Bachelor’s degree in Social Work; a computer course (“it covers Microsoft Word,
Excel and Powerpoint”, she says confidently); and a course in spoken English.
There’s one more rather important thing that she has done with her salary. She
has bought her 10-year-old niece – with whom she clearly has a mutual adoration
society going – a bicycle. And as she tells me this, pure glee shining through
her overwhelming poise and gravitas, I glimpse the triumphant child who lives
on in the young woman. And I hear the voice that echoes in so many female
heads: “I won’t let this happen to my daughters”.
The sweeper children Anu works with, rendered anonymous at her request
Making of an expert
Anu is such a mine of information on the
station’s children that for a while I forget my role as an interlocutor and
simply become a fascinated student. I may never get such an opportunity to talk
to an expert on this subject, and expert she clearly is.
The children often run away because they
are scolded or beaten at home, they imagine having freedom away from home, and
are too young to know that how exploitative and brutalising the experiences
that await them in the world can be. Anu and colleagues also watch out for
trafficking. We can make them out, she says, because it’s usually a group of 5
or more children with only one or two adults supervising them. The language,
the body language… is a give away. In such cases, we get in touch with the
railway police and see that action is taken. The other day we found an infant
girl abandoned in the garbage. We had to follow her case through to the City
Magistrate who heads the child welfare committee. We then took her to the state
orphanage as he directed.
A big part of her work is getting the
station’s children – mostly boys – to engage with the shelter and start
envisaging possibilities of a different life. Any station child, anytime of the
day or night, is welcome to visit the shelter, have a talk, catch up on sleep
or take a bath. For a nominal sum they also get meals. “We have to charge
something for the food, otherwise these boys spend all their earnings on the
whitener they are all addicted to. (At the station she points out to me how the
boys soak a piece of cloth with the whitener used to correct typing errors and
sniff it’s pungent, mildly intoxicating odours through the day). It is
important that after a point they feel committed to the shelter”. Anu also
teaches them informally with the help of charts and pictures. The shelter has
paintings made by kids pasted all over the walls. The boys who become
interested in alternatives are encouraged to enrol in a school run by the NGO
on the outskirts of the town, well away from the station.
Anu spends a lot of her working day at the
station, talking to auto drivers, taxi drivers, local police, railway police,
hawkers, vendors, porters, station officials, TTEs and more. It’s an energetic
saga of making sure that as many people as possible know about the NGOs work,
are sensitised to the problem of these children and know that there is someone
to contact if the need arises. Much of her time is simply spent with the kids
in building rapport and making friends. “I have to be a friend, it doesn’t work
if I am judgemental. They are mostly good fun and become quite fond of me. One
of them said the other day protectively, ‘you should stop coming to the
station, it’s a bad place.’ Well, if it’s such a bad place, I said, you
stop coming here. I have to because of you. If you stop being here, I’ll have
no need to come either”.
A woman among men
So what is this work like, being in the
station all day, I ask. Surrounded by people so different from you? Do you get
scared? Are you harassed?
And out come tumbling the stories. Anu’s
narratives of work-related problems would have been very much like the
harassment that many working Indian women face through the day – stares,
gestures, innuendoes, comments, propositions, malign gossip, deliberate
misrepresentation… -- except for two factors. One, that the overall atmosphere
of the railway station netherworld can make the danger and insecurity much more
acute than usual. And two, that Anu has an approach to these situations that,
truth to tell, boggles the mind. She doesn’t give in to anger, frustration or a
sense of humiliation. Nor does she accept situations fatalistically (as in,
“what can be done, this is how things are”). She keeps her larger purpose of
helping the station’s children as some kind of beacon always in sight and
navigates her way through these shoals. “The railway police constables keep
asking me to come and have tea with them. It is important that they know about
our work; they are the ones we have to go to if we come across children being
trafficked or exploited in some way. So I don’t fight with them. I just
politely tell them that I don’t drink tea.”
“Once the sex worker girls told me, you
shouldn’t come here, people say bad things about you.” “Who says bad things and
what does he say,” asked Anu. ”Maybe I can talk to him and make him see things
the right way”. It was a vendor who had apparently sent a message that he would
pay Anu to sleep with him. “I made one of the girls take me to that vendor. I
didn’t say anything to the vendor that would make this girl feel bad – if I had
been outraged, as in ‘how dare you think of me as a sex worker’, she would have
felt humiliated. I told him he was mistaken, that I spent a lot of time on the
station and in company with these girls because that was the nature of my work.
I then told him all about my work. See, anybody can become a useful aid in
rescuing the children. One or two or even three people might ignore what I say
or be cynical about it or get annoyed, but at least the fourth will listen.”
I am slightly dumbstruck at this amalgam of
level-headedness, practicality, positiveness and engagement. Her sensitiveness
to the sex worker is remarkable and shows how beautifully she is living out the
politics and philosophy of her training. I may be appalled on her behave, but
she tells me wisely, “samaj hee bigadta hai, par samaj hee banayega.” (It is
from society, from the people around us, from the world that surrounds us that
our problems will come, but it is from the same society that our solutions will
also come). Anu is willing to give society a chance.
She narrates the time when she had to
harshly scold an older boy for the sexual abuse of a younger child and turn him
out of the shelter. Later, a colleague said that the boy was threatening to hit
Anu with a stone. She went looking for him, calmly walked up to him and said,
if it makes you happy and gives you peace, go ahead and hit me. I don’t mind.
But let’s get it out of your system and move on. Of course, he didn’t hit me,
she smiles. “Anyway I don’t feel all that unsafe here. These boys are quite
protective towards me”. She knows them all by name, knows their individual
histories, their quirks, their possibilities…
A homeless boy from the railway station sleeps at the shelter
Anu’s first will and testament
If all was ideal in the world, what would
you dream of for yourself? She considers:
I already have two sources of great
satisfaction and joy. One is when I come to the platform and the children come
running to me happily, calling me Didi. And the second is when I escort a child
home and his parents bless me and I feel this story has come to a satisfactory
conclusion.
I want to continue working in this field
and do better at it. I definitely do not want to stop working after marriage.
My family keeps getting prospective grooms to see me and they keep warning me,
“Don’t tell him you have a job.” But I can’t do it this way. When I get married
I will let the boy know clearly that I work and intend to keep working. That I
plan to finish my graduation. In fact, I don’t want to marry for another two
years till I get my degree. There is no way I am going to be dependent on the
goodwill and earnings of someone else, ever. I don’t want be wildly successful
or have enormous wealth. Just enough to satisfy my needs, not be dependent on
anyone, let my children have a future. And I want to be someone in my
field. To make a bit of name, gain a bit of recognition. So that all these
people who say today, ‘All this is impractical, come to your senses, we will
see how long your obstinacy lasts’… all of them have to acknowledge, ‘Yes, she
did something; yes, she became something. She is someone’.
[First published in Plan International’s Because I am a Girl – Voices of Change in India,
2011.]