WomensWorld

DON’T DISTURB THE BEEHIVE

Gujarati Writers’ Workshop

Valsad, Gujarat.
February 5-7, 2000

	A man from the courier service arrives with a packet from the organizers of this workshop on ‘Censorship and Women’s Writing’, to which I am invited.
	“Are you Rina Sharma or Rina Mehta?” he demands.
	I tell him that both are my names. He finds this difficult to accept … says that no one can have two surnames. My mother-in-law explains to him that I was a ‘Sharma’ earlier but since my marriage, I add ‘Mehta’ too.
	“Well, then you should use only Mehta,” he says sternly and cancels the ‘Sharma’ on the packet before handing it over to me.
	I stare at those bold strokes of ink through ‘Sharma’. It’s like being a trishanku … not belonging anywhere … Suddenly neither surname seems my own … and yet, am I not the same ‘me’ I always was?
	---- Rina Sharma Mehta

In a variety of ways, the search for an identity – symbolized by this trishanku state (where one is in limbo) – and a struggle to find their voices were to become recurrent themes in the Gujarati women writers’ workshop.

Sonal Shukla, in her brief introduction to the group, and putting Gujarati women’s writing in a historical perspective, observed: “We are in a trishanku state. As women writers we are ignored and our works are not considered important enough. We’re killed off in a number of ways and, often, we have to save to publish our own writing, specially when our writings are women-centred.”

It was in this context that Rina Sharma Mehta told the gathering of women writers how even a total stranger—a man delivering a couriered package—considered it his birthright to censor her very name!

The 19 women writers who came together at a peaceful little hotel in the small town of Valsad, Gujarat, in early February 2000 were primarily from the Hindu middle-class. Try as we did, we were unable to identify any dalit women writers. Nor—we were informed—were there any Muslim or Christian women writing in Gujarati. There was one Parsi among the participants, but she was a critic and academic rather than a creative writer. The group, however, ranged widely in age, in the genres they wrote in and their political ideology—from Gandhian to radical—making for lively and absorbing debates.

Initial discussions clarified that historically, Gujarati women began writing and publishing much later than did women in many other Indian languages, making for a certain “lack of self-confidence”. Many participants felt that it was this diffidence that allowed various kinds of censorship to impact their work. Having confronted this straightaway, the writers at the Gujarati workshop, unlike most of the others preceding it, did not dwell too long on whether or not women writers faced censorship. Rather, one of the first issues they examined was what it means to be a “woman writer”, and what exactly it meant to be feminist writer.

“I do not write as a feminist,” the youngest participant in the group, poet Manisha Joshi, stated quite categorically. Jaya Mehta—closer to the opposite end of the spectrum in age—also stressed that her writing is never done from a particularly “woman’s point of view” and so it may not be appropriate to label her a ‘woman writer’. Many others expressed similar sentiments, saying that when they write they are not conscious of writing either as women or as feminists. They write because they have to.

Saroop Dhruv went a step further and suggested that the reason women writers shy away from being regarded as ‘women’ or ‘feminist’ writers is because, “We are afraid of commitment.” In her own writings she has progressed to a stage where she can write without worrying. “To write without commitment is troubling,” she said. “We should not be afraid of any ‘ism’. We still are, unfortunately, and that is worrying.” She felt very strongly that women writers need to get together and talk boldly “of the many injustices meted out to us; of the many silences imposed upon us”.

Saroop’s comments led to more impassioned discussions on the “commitment” of women writers to break the silences that a patriarchal society has imposed on them. “Commitment is responsibility”, they concluded, and agreed that as creative writers they must learn to assume that responsibility.

Most agreed that as long as they toed the traditional line, their works were acceptable to both family and society. “We are expected to follow the rajmarg and be involved in concepts like sewa (selfless service), dharma (duty), kutumb bhavana (family feelings)—or write children’s stories and beautiful songs about the sunset,” said Ila Arab Mehta. When women writers follow these unwritten rules the family is proud of their ‘artistic’ achievements; the moment they venture onto the road less travelled, censorship begins.

Clearly, censorship is imposed at various levels when they deal with subjects that society and ‘culture’ consider taboo, namely sexuality and religion. “I know even as I pick up my pen that if I were to write on Gandhiji or Vinobaji or Lord Krishna, I will be accepted and complimented,” Ila said.

Like her, many others said that they would not dare to write on sexuality because of the repercussions it would have on their families. Ila has written a three-act play, Khajuraho, which is lying in her cupboard. It deals with a woman’s perception of sex and how it ultimately wrecks her marriage. But Ila confessed that she has been unable to find the courage to publish this work. “I say to myself, where is the need? Just continue to walk along the rajmarg. Write of ‘good things’ and people will respect you. All is fine as long as they do not know what’s going on in your mind, what you really feel …”

Participants said they were extremely wary of readers’ tendency to immediately equate the life of the woman writer with that of the characters in her book. They pointed out that this never happens with men writers.

“I am a woman, and therefore people look for my love-life in my writing,” said Bindu Bhatt, author of Meera Yagnik ni Diary, a novel that created waves because it broke all taboos and wrote about a lesbian relationship. “They look in my book for my husband, my ex-lovers, even for my skin condition! I was advised by a friend and guide to remove and change certain parts my novel because readers would inevitably draw parallels with my life.” Bindu’s novel was a huge success, but she remains intensely troubled by the fact that its success was attributed either to her having written about lesbianism, or to her husband being member of the Sahitya Akademi. Nobody spoke about the quality of her work.

Writers saw these double standards in judging writing as the basic difference in attitude towards men and women authors. “When men write their autobiographies and mock the women in their lives, no critic ever takes them to task,” said Vasuben. “But if a woman does this, all kinds of accusations are flung at her.” They noted that even when writers are interviewed, there is a distinct difference in the approach: women writers are asked about their personal life; male writers, serious questions about literature and their work.

All these factors prescribe and proscribe what women write about. And then, as one of them put it, echoing a theme in all the other workshops, “There is the censorship that love places on us, too.”

Not wanting to hurt the people close to you places constraints on the choice of subject for many a woman writer. Families often decide what you can write. One participant spoke of how her husband reads everything she writes “not to appreciate it but to censor it”, and questions her about various details. Once or twice he has also torn up her manuscripts, of which she does not even have copies. “I feel so suffocated that I think I’ll never be able to write again,” she said. “But then I pick myself up and go on ….”

The same writer also said that her husband failed to understand what she had to gain by attending this particular workshop. Instead, he wanted her to attend a garud puraan (a religious discourse) that was being held in Valsad at the same time as our meeting!

Another face of Love as Censor was shown when Vasuben spoke of how her stories, which were full of pathos, would cause great pain to her father. “The pen can write only what you feel inside,” she said. “Often, when I read my stories to him he would stop me midway because he couldn’t accept the fact that I had felt the pain I wrote about in my stories.” Because of this, she published a collection of stories “dealing only with the lighter side of life”.

Don’t disturb the beehive

Let us not see the purdah and the burkha simply as physical
things. Let us go beyond and look at the different ways in
which women are silenced.

---- Sonal Shukla

In a state like Gujarat, which in recent times has experienced some of the most horrific incidents of communal violence, why are women writers shying away from addressing issues like religious fundamentalism? This question came up for a great deal of discussion over the two days of the workshop. Plenty of examples were offered of what happens when women writers question existing ‘cultural’ and religious mores, or when they make an attempt to bring about positive change.

Jaya recalled the death threats she received when, in her critique, she appreciated a poem written by a woman looking at changing relationships within the modern family. Enraged letters accused her of trying to break up the traditional Hindu home.

Himanshi Shelat once wrote against the Jain diksha (a ritual that forces a little girl of five to renunciate). She too received anonymous threats. Asha said that it is far more difficult for her to write against oppressive Jain rituals because she belongs to that community. She recalled how, once, a group of women writers were very keen on exposing a particularly oppressive Jain custom; ultimately, however, anticipating the ire of community leaders they decided to play safe. “We simply kept quiet, and decided not to disturb the beehive,” she said.

The need to belong to a circle of litterateurs in itself exercises a kind of censorship. Wanting to be members of this club – which, as it exists today, is predominantly male – makes women writers wary, both of what they say in their writing and how they express it.

The Gujarati literary establishment is controlled by men – not just male writers but male critics as well. Participants expressed their annoyance at the manner in which women are altogether ignored in all Sahitya Parishad ceremonies. “There is never any mention made of us as novelists, short story writers, poets or essayists,” said Himanshi. “If at all we are mentioned it is an as afterthought, and always as part of a group – never as strong independent voices.” It was clear that the women felt the need for a group of their own that furthers and fosters their interests, instead of being mollified by periodic, lukewarm acknowledgement from the patriarchal establishment. This kind of notice, as one of them put it, “merely silences or neutralises our dissent”.

Conclusion

On the last day, participants spoke about their needs as Gujarati women writers. Among these were:

A newsletter about women writers and their work.
Workshops for writers (of different languages) with a view to translating one another’s work.
Some constructive activity whereby the works of contemporary Gujarati women writers could be critically reviewed in the media.
Interaction on a regular basis with writers from the neighbouring state of Maharashtra.
The formation of an association of Gujarati women writers which should meet at least once a year, to begin with. They felt this activity could be started immediately in those cities which already have a substantial number of women writers such as Ahmedabad, Bombay, Surat, Baroda and Valsad.

Gouri Salvi

Workshop Co-ordinator

Participants

1. Amrapali Desai, Short stories.

2. Arunika Daru (53) Poetry, short stories, essays, plays.

3. Asha Shah (51) Short stories, letters, journalistic and academic writing.

4. Bakulaben Ghaswala (47) Essays, diary, columnist, short stories.

5. Bindu Bhatt (45) Novels, short stories, essays.

6. Harsha Medh (69) Poetry, short stories, journalistic writings.

7. Harvilasben (70) Short stories, essays, academic writing.

8. Himanshi Shelat (54) Novels, essays, short stories, academic writing.

9. Ila Arab Mehta (51) Short stories, novels, plays.

10. Jaya Mehta (58) Poetry, essays, academic writing.

11. Manisha Joshi (29) Poetry.

12. Meera Bhatt (68) Diary, essays, journalistic writing, academic writing.

13. Naina Jani (49) Poetry.

14. Reena Sharma Mehta, Short stories, poetry

15. Saroop Dhruv (54) Poetry, play, literary writing.

16. Shirin Kudchedkar (71) Literary criticism and translations.

17. Sonal Shukla (59) Journalistic writing, literary criticism, essays.

18. Usha Sheth (60). Letters, short stories, essays, plays, literary and academic writings.

19. Vasuben (75). Short stories, plays, academic writings.