Her name was Bimla… I think. It has been 26 years since I saw her so my memory may have distorted the truth. What I am certain of is her image – high cheek bones, deep hazel eyes, pure skin, long dark hair. She wore a green sari with gold trim and worn sandals. She was soft spoken with head usually bowed a little, and her steps were small and light, as though she had no right to disturb the earth.
I was visiting India as naive 18 year old, part of a one month project helping to build the roof of an aid centre whilst gathering information on the challenges facing rural communities. Each day we would spend the morning climbing the steep slopes of the hillsides to speak to villagers; and the afternoon mixing concrete or shovelling earth. Up to this point, my world view was borne of middle-class comfort, loving parents, and a small cohort of friends. This new world opened me up.
The stunning scenery, evenings of dahl and beedies, sores on my forearms from the grind of unfamiliar work – all have stayed with me. But more than this, there was Bimla.
I couldn’t help but be touched by the difficulties she faced, along with many other women in the area whose lives were similar. She spent the early hours teaching kindergarten-aged children. The school was a one room stone hut with a flattened patch of sand outside for a playground.
In the afternoons she worked in the fields. In the evenings she cooked for her family, and doubtless cleaned and laundered as well. Her house was little more than a single room, in which they all ate, socialised, and slept in a group. The wood burning stove issued as much smoke into the living area as it did up the makeshift vent at the back.
Meanwhile, many of the men lay around indolently. Often they were drunkards, who not only contributed little but actually detracted from the community effort, draining time and energy.
I never really got to the heart of this. I suspect, perhaps mistakenly, that it was a symptom of the gender hierarchy of that place and time. And it may also seem misplaced for a western man to be commenting on these issues (my impact back then was doubtless pretty minimal – I certainly learned more than I gave). But if we are to enhance the lives of half the world’s population, I believe both halves have a role to play.
So as I sit in my smart office in Vancouver, many miles and years away from northern India, reading about International Women’s Day on 8 March, it reminded me of Bimla. And it made me wonder what her life is like now.
I hope that we the international community and the aid centre I worked with have made some progress. One of the themes this year is ‘Gaining Momentum’. I hope that the men in her village play a more constructive role, that she has access to the support she needs, and that she has, occasionally, some moments in which to stop and enjoy her life.
But even if this has been realised I know there will be many women for whom this is still not the case. And as long as that’s true, further ‘momentum’ is still needed.