I have never met her. And yet, it seems like I know her well. I have heard of her, heard of her work and heard her speak. And she has always embodied the quintessential woman. Madhu Bhushan – for me, is a woman who wears her femininity with pride and grace and yet, is a fiery feminist. For me she signifies what all of us women should aspire to be. I believe that feminism is NOT about competing with men – it’s about loving your femininity with the same love that nature displayed while giving it to you; it means looking beautiful because you are beautiful inside out, being soft, and reveling in your ability to give and nurture life – something that men can’t do (at least not yet). And above all it means being quietly firm and sure of your place in the order of the world – equal, if not the greater half. As yet another Women’s Day rolls by, who better to share her experiences about women, than her? Thank you Madhu, you made this Women’s Day special for GRIN! Madhu Bhushan is a feminist activist, writer, (re)searcher, part of Vimochana for more than three decades since 1983 and now works independently.
Over to Madhu, unplugged…
Bharathi did me the honour of asking me to write something for her blog for March 8. Memories of a woman or women who have inspired me down the years. It did not take much to coax me, since I am getting to that age when it takes very little to get me to relive the past! At first I thought I would write only about Dodyelgamma. But as I began to write more memories of more women started flooding the page. But in the interest of space, I edited many out to include just two other Ammas in my life. Kamlamma and Ceciliyamma.
Kamlamma, my grandmother…
The gentle matriarch of her large family. Just thinking of her life makes me breathless. She started the babies coming when she gave birth to my father at the tender age of 13 years. And then did not stop till she had thirteen children. It became so routine that she was conducting deliveries for her daughters even while she was going through her own.
Despite being debilitated and disabled by rheumatoid arthritis from young, she also became a full time nurse for her husband, my grandfather, who lay in bed totally paralyzed and bedridden for 12 long years. This apart from cooking and caring for her children and scores of grandchildren like us who kept flowing in and out of the house at regular intervals.
And yet through all this, she managed to have time and inclination to tend to her little garden in front of her little house that exploded with flowers – pearly mallige, the perky purple spatika and the cheery orange kanakambra. And lovingly nurture the tiny backyard that boasted of a little banana grove, a solitary cotton bush, a coffee plant and a mandatory lemon tree that never failed to yield its produce year after year.
Kamalamma, a woman of her times whose stoic resilience sustained a generation; for who choice and freedom were hardy home-grown ingredients, not ready-to-eat products, processed, packaged and sold in the supermarket of convenience.
Ceciliyamma, my first feminist comrade…
A village nurse and midwife who evolved her own special brand of fiery organic feminism forged in the fires of her domestic battles with a husband who had abandoned her and their three children.
For me, as a young, idealistic awe-struck activist in the 80s she was not so much a ‘case’ I was supporting in her fight for justice. She was a woman who inspired with her grit and determination to build a new just world for women, despite or perhaps because of her own personal sense of injustice.
Her unexpected death at the hands of her husband who she forgave and took back into her home was as much tragic as it was traumatic for those of us who thought she and her convictions were indestructible.
Ceciliyamma in her life and death taught us about the fragility of all ideologies when faced with vulnerability of the human spirit for which love continues to be a curse and benediction, both.
Dodyelgamma. A life teacher. A woman whose life was as hard as her faith…
The image of her praying to her beloved Goddess Yellamma one memorable night when she got possessed is indelibly etched into my soul. Standing in front of the deity in the ramshackle hut she called her home, arms akimbo, feet astride, hair all white and wild, saree all tattered, teeth all betel-stained. And emerging from her mouth a steady stream of curses against the goddess. Berating her for not caring enough or doing justice. For her or for her people. Irreverent. Free and fearless. Yet full of faith. Her colourful vocabulary, infinite wisdom and beautifully personal, democratic relationship with the divine continue to inspire!
Thank you Dodyelgamma for teaching me the value and worth of uncompromising freedom and autonomy in our relationship with power. Be it sacred or secular.
The final word…
Resistance through resilience. Love through vulnerability. Power through autonomy. There is much to learn from the vast canvas of transformation into which women paint colours of hope and hopelessness from their everyday realities that anchor them firmly. A valuable lesson learnt from being part of the very diverse women’s movement over the past three decades that despite all the questions and contradictions has taught me to look for the universal in the specific; the political in the personal; the poetry in the pain. And yes, sometimes the other way around too!
I agree Madhu, entirely!