They're a group of seven women labourers, clearing undergrowth and digging flowerbeds in the park where I walk. Heads covered, they chatter as they work, fully decked up, as good Bihari rural women ought to be. Every now and then, they stop digging to adjust a recalcitrant pallu or wrap themselves better in the shawls that keep slipping off their shoulders. On their ankles are jingling anklets, and multiple toe rings adorn their feet. While the effect is quite pretty, such attire must be quite unsuitable in their line of work, I surmise.
I ask them where they're from and two of the younger ones come forward. They're all from the same village near Muzaffarpur and have come to Delhi with their husbands to work as a group. "Why as a group?" I ask. They tell me that Delhi is a dangerous city for women like them. "We've all had a hard time working alone and being harassed by all sorts of men," says the eldest among them, Ganga. She tells me how earlier, when her husband and she worked alone as construction labourers, not a day went by when she did not feel threatened. Returning to the safety of the village isn't an economically viable option either. "Since there's safety in numbers, we decided we'd only work together, even though it has limited our scope for employment a little," she explains.
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Meanwhile, one of the younger women drops the load on her head trying to ensure it stays covered. Why do they wear their traditional garb while doing manual labour, I ask. It must be tough to work while managing their ghunghat, anklets and toe rings. The younger ones giggle, while the older ladies glare at them repressively. "In our culture, these garments represent our virtuous nature and our status as married women," says Ganga. Their attire, she says, is their best defence against sexual predators. "When I left the village, I swore to my mother-in-law that I'd always keep my head covered," says Ritu, the giggler who'd dropped her load. "She said that if men couldn't even see my face, they'd find some bare-headed women to cast their dirty eyes on!" "With this one garment, we ensure that strange men never look at us. This is our protection and I've found that since we've started taking jobs together, we have not been harassed so often," says Ganga.
Ritu says that initially when she had just arrived in Delhi, she used to chafe against the restriction of her traditional attire. "Moreover, people would look at me and know at once that I'd come from a backward village," she says. But she changed her mind after the Delhi gang rape case. "Honour is everything for us. I decided that if being in a group and wearing my veil, glass bangles and toe rings protect me, then so be it!" she says.
I leave them to their work and get on with my walk, wondering again, how the same incident can polarise the apathetic middle class into becoming more politicised and demanding action from the government - and convince some others that the only recourse they have against sexual predators is to hide themselves behind the veils of tradition.