MY STORY OR THE LIFE JOURNEY OF A YOUNG MALAYALI … 2009/4 VINAYA.pdf · Samyukta:A Journal of Women’s Studies (January 2009) Vol.9.No.1 My story or The Life Journey of a Young

A few admire her for her grit and self-confidence. Some condemn her for herbrazen outspokenness. Many call her a stormy petrel. Others dismiss her as a seekerof cheap fame. Whatever the impression she leaves on people’s minds, whatever theresponses she elicits, there is no denying that Vinaya’s was the most recognizable facein the Kerala constabulary. Her life has been a relentless battle against the culture ofhypocrisy, corruption and male chauvinism that has gained tremendous strength inour society despite growing awareness of gender-equality and justice. Herautobiography in Malayalam ‘Ente Katha Athava Oru Malayali Yuvathiyude JeevithaYaatra’ (2003) gives the readers an account, sometimes moving and sometimes hilarious,of the small struggles she initiated and the challenges she faced in life. Simultaneously,it throws light on the people who moulded her thoughts and the experiences thatshaped her world view. Following is a translation of excerpts from the book:

MY STORYOR

THE LIFE JOURNEY OF A YOUNGMALAYALI WOMAN

VINAYA

My (and everyone’s) mother’s life

When I recall my childhood days, it is my mother’s miserablecondition that first comes to memory. It was much later in life that Irealized how she represented the times she belonged to – living like aslave, shorn of all dignity. Heinous indeed was the manner in which myfather and all the men of his family treated their wives. Caught in a

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worthless existence and slogging day and night merely to get food,clothing and shelter, these women had to tackle several other problemsas well – relentless domestic work and settling of children’s quarrels . . .everyday, endlessly . . .

My father who did small-scale timber business and farming camehome only at night. We children would invariably be asleep by then. Ifever he reached early, that day remained fresh in our minds for a longtime. Complaints like ‘There’s no salt in the gruel’, ‘The gravy isn’tthick’, ‘The tea is not strong’, ‘The spittoon isn’t clean’ were followed byexpletives ‘Dirty animal’, ‘You inauspicious one’ – all directed at mymother. My younger sister and I stood mute in sheer fright but my eldersister grumbled, out of his earshot.

On most days father was heavily drunk. Then, he would call all ofus to his side and cheerfully repeat the same old story of how he trippedover a rope that tied a cow to a stake, and how he narrowly missed beinghit by a lorry. One day in the middle of this tale, when he stepped out towash his hands for dinner, mother muttered ‘Won’t this man die, ever?’I distinctly remember that episode even today.

There were many avenues for my father to give vent to his anger orexpress his happiness. He was a fine volleyball player and evenparticipated in competitions. He was also good at cards. On festivaldays like Onam and Vishu it was usual for some of his friends to comehome for lunch and join in the card games that followed. He was a manwho enjoyed life in all ways possible. My mother lived like ‘a goodwoman’ – without friends or social bonds, confined to the kitchen,ignorant of the world outside the house and adept at keeping all heremotions and feelings under check. Such is the condition of most mothers– destined not to find happiness of any kind, sacrificing their lives for thecomfort and satisfaction of others . . .

Gender Awareness

I was in the fifth standard when I killed a chicken for the first time.Chicken was usually served for lunch or dinner to honour visiting friendsor relatives and on such occasions we depended on a young labourerfrom a neighbouring colony or an older man to do the job. That particularday no one was immediately available and my mother became desperate.


My story or The Life Journey of a Young Malayali Woman 85

This situation made me think – ‘Can only men kill chicken?’ It was duskand all the hens were in the coop. I went there, caught one, held its feetfirmly under mine and using all my strength turned its head full circle.After some time its flappings stopped. I had earlier seen hens killed inour compound – the labourer merely twisted its head a little, the birdbounded high a couple of times and gradually went still. But I feared thatif I loosened my grasp, the chicken would run away. So I held on for along time. During dinner that night, as the visitors and my family tuckedin the chicken curry I felt no qualms. Rather I was proud to see them eatthe bird I had killed.

Like every woman, I have memories of a few adolescent experiencesthat like a slow-moving slug still haunt me in moments of loneliness andtrigger feelings of revulsion and fear. I’m sure most girls can recall atleast one instance of a crude sexual assault that has left a permanent scarin their minds. Although many such incidents have happened in mylife, two experiences sadden me even today. They happened when I wastoo young to know or resist.

I was in the first or the second standard then. Govindan was ourtrusted servant and odd jobs man who sometimes carried lightrefreshments and water to the labourers when they took a short mid-daybreak in the fields. I was sent along with him to bring back the pots andvessels. As the men resumed their work, Govindan would put me on hislap and fondle me. Several years passed before I realized that his caresseswere not a show of innocent affection. Later he died tragically, killed byhis younger brother in a domestic dispute.

The second incident took place when I was an eighth standardstudent. I was the only girl to be selected from my school to participate ina district-level sports meet. At the end of the first day, the boys’ events gotover and all my school-mates and teachers returned home. I was alonewith one instructor who promptly left me under the care of a male teacherfrom another school, an utter stranger to me. It was evening. We had togo back to our lodgings. Just as I boarded a bus, this man put his handunder my skirt and pinched me. All his subsequent actions were morerevolting. Soon we reached the lodge that housed many sports candidatesand their coaches from other schools. One master, perhaps seeing thedistress on my face, enquired about my school and offered to put me up


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at his house for the night. I accepted it immediately, without secondthoughts or even looking at my tormentor. I spent a happy night with hisfamily. Even today when I think of him my heart fills with gratitude.

There is an unwritten rule which compels girls to wear gold chainsround their necks when they attend weddings or other festivities. Itcame into effect in my life when I was doing my pre-degree course. Asneither my sister nor I had one, we usually borrowed a gold or gold-plated chain from our neighbour. It was given without any hesitationbut my mother always cautioned us: ‘Take good care of it, won’t you?Pin it firmly to your blouse. Remember, it is someone else’s’.

One day I decided to stop the practice. I wore a bead necklace to awedding. On the way, I pondered over the connection between a goldchain and my father’s honour. Why does a girl require gold chains andear rings? Essentially, they are a yardstick for others to assess herfinancial status. If the wife or the daughter wears jewellery, the creditgoes to the husband or the father, who does not use it! That very evening,I removed my ear rings. Since then I’ve never worn any jewellery. I’verealized that ornaments destroy a woman’s self-confidence. Even todaywhen I see women decked in jewellery I am convinced that the beauty ofa chain or the clinking sound of bangles serves only to limit her thoughtsto herself.

My younger sister’s wedding took place before mine. It was thenthat I came to know about the special restrictions society places on anelder sister’s behaviour and even her choice of dress. An experience at awedding brought home to me some of these taboos. I wore a churidar forthe first time in my life to my uncle’s daughter’s wedding. While I wasapplying make-up on the bride’s face, a middle-aged lady, an old familyfriend, stepped into the room. Seeing me, she blurted, ‘Why on earth areyou wearing a churidar? Your younger sister has had a baby! And yet,the elder one wears churidar . . .?’ My anger boiled over. Without waitingfor her to finish and totally unmindful of the women and photographersin the room, I retorted, ‘In our village, when the younger sister gets married,it is she who has the baby. In yours, is it the elder one who bears thechild?’ The arrow found its target and she left the scene immediately.



At the Police Training Ground

My police career began on 13 March 1991 at the Police TrainingCollege in Trivandrum. Our professional kit was distributed the sameday. It contained a cap, a belt, a baton, four sets of uniform, a pair each ofblack shoes (for parade) and white shoes (for PT), shoe polish and brushand a rifle sling.

Some women trainees, including myself, objected to our sari-uniform. We knew that it did not give us a professional look and one ofus even wrote a letter to the Chief Minister seeking official sanction forthe shirt-and-pants uniform. A few senior police women, who heardabout our discussions, called us to their room, spoke at length about thegreatness of the sari, the disadvantages we will suffer if we switch overto shirt and pants and even mentioned how it will destroy our marriageprospects. At the end of their brain-washing, an ‘anti-pants’ lobby emergedamong the trainees!

During recess, many trainees swapped stories about the marriageproposals they lost merely on account of their police job. Theirconversation ran like this:

‘Only police men will marry us. What a fate!’

‘Hmm . . . Men prefer soft and simple girls. And people say wearen’t like that.’

‘Yeah, everyone thinks police women are very arrogant!’

‘Now there’s a “pants problem” to make it worse. Isn’t it enoughif we get our salary on time and our pension, without looking for trouble!’

Try as I might I could never make them feel proud about having ajob that conferred executive powers on them. However, the fact that Icould keep the pants debate alive for some time gave me a sense of victoryor accomplishment.

There were many talented girls in our batch who excelled inathletics and played volleyball, basketball, football and so on. But noone in the police force bothered to seek them out or encourage them.There were many balls and nets in the PT room and whoever wasinterested could use them. That was all. It was not difficult to groom an


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excellent women’s volleyball team from among them. The IndianRailways and the KSEB (Kerala State Electricity Board) had separatemen’s and women’s sports teams but the Kerala Police was satisfiedwith only men’s teams. Even today, during the training period and later,men are given coaching in athletics and games while police women aremarginalized in every field of activity.

After training I was given orders to join the Bathery police stationalong with six others. On reaching there, the first bit of information thesenior policemen gave us was about the professional concessions we, aswomen constables, could enjoy. The most glaring among them, whichsparked off a big controversy later, gave us permission to leave office at5 p. m. every day.

Our most important responsibilities included doing wireless dutiesand taking copies. Besides, during law and order problems (like dharnaand picketing) we were called in to arrest and remove the strikers or toescort the accused. Our range of duties was very limited. In the evening,at the stroke of five, a policeman invariably asked, ‘Aren’t you goinghome?’ This encouraged all, except a few of us, to make haste and rushhome, earning in the process the reputation of being disciplined girls.

Nearly two months later we were transferred to the Bathery trafficunit. There we had to work in two shifts daily. The first was from eightto eleven in the forenoon and from two to five in the afternoon. The otherwas from eleven to two in the afternoon and from five to seven in theevening. The police women on evening shift were permitted to leave anhour early. However, this concession, granted willingly by the seniorpolicemen in the initial days, became conditional in course of time. Oftenone heard loud mock prayers like ‘O God! Make me a policewoman inmy next birth!’

As far as possible, I avoided approaching them for suchconcessions. I did my duty with enthusiasm right up to seven. But it didnot go well with my female friends. They feared that my attitude mightaffect them adversely.

Sometime then, a few police women had fears that long hours ofexposure to the sun would spoil their complexion and ruin their marriageprospects. They approached a local MLA for help. Convinced about the



gravity of their problem, he intervened and relieved police women fromthat ‘heavy’ traffic duty. This move put an end to our freedom to see theoutside world. Thereafter we remained cooped within the four walls ofour office.

During the training period we had strict instructions to addresssenior policemen (even when they were senior only by a year) as ‘sir’.However, on joining duty at Kalpetta traffic unit later, we started callingour juniors and other friendly policemen by their names. One day thehead constable and the SP (Superintendent of Police) came to know ofthis. They ordered us to go by the rules. Years later, when youngpolicemen joined the force, they started calling us by our names. Wecomplained to the head constable but it brought about no change. Hisincredulous reply was ‘How can you be addressed as “sir”? Aren’t youwomen?’ During training everyone was instructed to address each other,even police women, as ‘sir’. Sadly now, even the SP could not redressour complaint. A woman does not deserve respect but she is alwaysexpected to show respect to others – this principle holds good in thepolice force even today.

My Wedding

I got married at the Ganapathy temple in Bathery on 1 November1992. The groom was Mr Mohandas who worked at the Bathery TrafficStation. He was a man of few words.

There were twelve of us, men and women, working at the Batherystation. We were good friends. One day, some of them brought me amarriage proposal from a policeman working in the same office. As Iwas not interested in him, I told a senior policeman Mr Kunhikannan,‘Sir, if you’re interested in my welfare please tell me what you think of MrMohandas. I like him.’

‘Oh, I see . . . So you’re interested in getting married, after all!’ Heteased me. But a while later, calling me aside, he said, ‘Vinaya, considerme like your own father. I think you must wear jewellery. Otherwise, noone will marry you.’

‘That’s impossible, sir. If you agree to my choice, will you do whatis necessary?’


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I had never spoken to Mr Mohandas; I merely knew him. I usuallywent to the nearby temple on my way to the police station and distributedthe prasadam among my friends. Mr Mohandas was one of them.

A few days later, after traffic duty when I was going back to thestation, I met Mr Mohandas. He was returning from some work at thelaw court. We stepped into a tea shop in front of the police station. MrMohandas spoke to me about our wedding but was worried that he didnot have a house of his own. I assured him that a housing loan wouldsettle the issue. Then I mentioned the only condition I had regardingmarried life. He was willing to hear me out. I merely said, ‘Don’t expectme to change my ways after our wedding. I will never be able to do it.’ Hehad no objections.

Later, there were the usual formalities to go through – meeting thebride and so on. One morning, just a couple of days before the weddingceremony, Dasettan (Mr Mohandas) came to me, looking very worried.He said, ‘My relatives insist on the thali ceremony. Won’t you permit meto tie the thali thread around your neck that day?’ I was in a fix. Somesenior policemen spoke to us incessantly, insisting that we agree to thethali tying ceremony. ‘Otherwise . . . tongues will wag,’ they warned us.Just as this debate was going on, Ramla, a friend of mine, told me secretly,‘Vinaya, tell them go to hell! If they are so adamant, why don’t you putan end to the whole thing?’ That advice worked like a shot in the arm. Itold everyone, ‘I don’t want the thali tying ceremony. Maybe we shouldcall off the wedding!’ Immediately, somebody interrupted, ‘Vinaya, justimagine! After the wedding, if both of you check into a hotel, shouldn’tpeople know that you’re his wife?’

‘Oh, I see! Is the thali a licence for prostitution then? With thattiny thing tied round the neck I suppose I can move around with anyone.And no one will ask questions!’ My reply put an end to all discussionsabout the thali issue.

But there was something I had forgotten completely – the bride’sceremonial change of dress on the wedding day. Nearly a week beforethe wedding, Dasettan told me, ‘My elder brother and his wife will becoming to your house today to collect one of your blouses. Our tailorneeds your measurements to stitch the blouse I’ll be giving you at the



ceremony.’ As per custom, after the wedding the bride changes into anew sari and matching blouse given by the groom. I had always viewedthe ceremony as vulgar. Despite the aura of glamour and dignity, in myview, it is nothing but a blot on the bride’s honour because the change ofdress is never accompanied by a similar change of ornaments. Doesn’t itmean that the wife’s wealth is all that matters to the husband? Nothingelse is equally important, not even her dignity? I told Dasettan that I didnot like the purpose of their visit. But by the time I reached home afterduty they were already there. My mother and my elder sister warned menot to insult the guests. I had to comply.

The wedding took place without the thali ceremony. Dasettanand I merely exchanged the garlands blessed at the temple. But therewas another ceremony I could not prevent – the formal giving away ofthe bride – which my father did by placing my hand on Dasettan’s. Thenext ritual required the newly wedded couple to hold each other’s righthands and go round the temple, with the bride always following thegroom. I held Dasettan’s right hand in my left instead and walked by hisside. However the path near the mandapam was narrow, permitting onlyone person to walk at a time. When we reached that spot I stepped backunconsciously, allowing Dasettan to lead me!

During the wedding ceremony I accepted the set of clothespresented by Dasettan but refused to wear them. Dasettan’s familyinsisted that I follow the custom. They threatened not to participate inthe feast till I obeyed them and even asked Dasettan to order me. He wassilent all the while. When their nagging became insufferable, he turnedmildly angry, ‘If Vinaya doesn’t want to wear it, why do you compelher?’ I remember those words even today, with gratitude. Ever since, ourrelationship has grown from strength to strength.

Meanwhile Dasettan’s relatives showed no sign of backing down.It looked as though they would boycott the feast. At this point my motherintervened. Holding my arms, she wept, ‘My dear girl, don’t spoil theoccasion. If you do so, I swear upon Lord Vigneswara, I’ll not remainalive.’ I did not think any further. No one was more important to methan my mother. I wore the new sari but implored Dasettan’s relativesnot to compel me to put flowers on my hair. They complied with mywish. But word spread that I had refused to wear the sari because I didnot find it beautiful.


92 Vinaya

At Dasettan’s house, the next day, I woke up early and joined afew women who were sweeping the courtyard. Everyone lookedsurprised; some muttered words of praise. From their attitude it wasevident that they had not expected this behaviour. Later when I wentinside, my sister-in-law handed me a glass of coffee. Her grunt suggestedthat it was meant for my husband. Usually I never drink coffee but thatday I took the glass from her hand and drank it, right in front of her.

‘Ayyo! That was meant for Mohan!’ She tried to stop me.

I smiled broadly at her and emptied the glass. Then I went into ourbedroom, woke up Dasettan and led him to the kitchen. My sister-in-lawserved him a fresh cup of coffee. In this manner I tried to prevent Dasettanfrom having even small expectations from me.

A week later both of us went back to work. One day as we went outfor a stroll I happened to walk a couple of paces ahead of Dasettan. Wehad a mild quarrel over it. Usually on public roads the woman walks afew feet behind her spouse. It is almost impossible to imagine themwalking side by side or the wife walking ahead of her husband.

In my domestic life, I suffer the same discriminations that womenface in the social sphere. The full responsibility of raising children andlooking after their needs is always the mother’s, while the father enjoyslegal rights over them. Struggles and conflicts against such injusticeshave taken place throughout my married life. In a sense, such strugglesfor women’s rights should take place in every household; they shouldalso be taken forward because struggles eventually lead to consensus.Although there are limits to a woman’s rights within the family, many atime my intentionally wilful behaviour has helped me secure some ofthem.

House Construction

We began constructing our house in 1993. First, we identified aten cent plot adjacent to my ancestral house, close to the main road. Itwas full of trees – coffee bushes, jack, mango, casuarinas and others.After marking the plinth area, occasionally Dasettan and I took leave orwent to the site after duty hours to do the preliminary work. Dasettantook the lead in felling the trees to clear the area. Then both of us sawed



the trunks into pieces and removed them. When this was over, we hiredworkers to clean the spot and start digging.

My father laid the foundation stone of our house. We preparedfood for all the workers at home. Whenever we got some time to spare,Dasettan and I helped in the construction. My mother supervised theheavy kitchen work required for feeding the workers and simultaneouslylooked after our infant daughter. She did all this uncomplainingly.

Neither Dasettan nor I had any specific idea about the plan of thehouse. However, we were insistent about one thing - it should not bebuilt according to old patterns. With our GPF (General Provident Fund),housing and hire purchase loans, we completed the foundation work.By then our funds were completely exhausted. Another year passedbefore we could start the super structure.

Every day, before the workers came, we filled water in a tank thatDasettan had built earlier. Waking up at five in the morning, under thedim light of a couple of candles, we collected and piled the bricks neededfor the day’s construction and soaked them. By seven the work was overand after ablutions, we prepared our breakfast and headed for office. Wetried to do by ourselves all the work that was possible in order to reduceexpenses – sieving six loads of sand for the roofing, preparing the metalneeded for making the concrete mix, working alongside the labourersduring the concreting of the roof and so on. By evening our bodies wouldache terribly but a hot water bath prepared by my mother and a goodnight’s rest removed all the pain. Despite pauses, the work progressed,sometimes snail-like, sometimes quickly. By April 1997 the house wasready for occupation. We printed invitation cards for the house warmingceremony and I took care to put my name above Dasettan’s. He did notobject to my desire.

It was my mother who conducted the house warming ceremony.We could construct our house only because of her whole-hearted co-operation and only I could show her this respect and recognition. Mysiblings always gave more importance to their husbands’ relatives.Mother was always pushed to the second place, either as a hostess or asa guest, and this had always pained me. During all ceremonies –celebrating an infant’s first rice meal or its naming – the father’s family isalways given prominence. I was determined to change it.


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That night, my father and my uncle slept happily in the bedroomsof our new house. My husband, my little daughter and I lay on a coir maton the floor of our dining room, more happy and contented. All the guestshad their fill during the feast. Nothing had been in short supply. Thusas a result of our hard labour, a big dream came true. No doubt, it wasour job in the police force that made it possible.

The Different Faces of Discrimination

Nearly a month after joining duty, we were informed about apicketing in front of the Collector’s office. Only Soumini and I were inshirt-and-pants uniform. The rest of the police women wore khaki saris.I wanted to put on a helmet as well, but only policemen were allowedthat privilege. I wondered – were police women’s heads made of specialmetal that they did not need any protection?

I took my baton with me as I left the station. In nearly everyprocession, women protestors form the vanguard. As a result, policewomen have to be in the forefront to oppose them. However, the sight ofthe baton in my hand unsettled some superior officers. An SI (SeniorInspector) approached me. ‘Why are you taking the baton with you?’

‘Every policeman has one, sir.’

‘Don’t you worry about that! Put your baton in the jeep and getback.’

I insisted respectfully, ‘No, sir. Please let me keep it.’

‘Absolutely not! It may poke someone and create a lot of problems.Just obey my order!’

Thereafter, every time I left the station on duty, that man made it apoint to shout the same command. But whenever he was away, Iremembered to carry the baton with me.

While undergoing wireless duty training at Kalpetta Police ControlRoom, three of my batch-mates and I constantly wore the shirt-and-pantsuniform, including the cap. One day, a deputy SP, belonging to the rulingparty union, sent word that he wanted to see us. We trooped into hisroom, saluted him and stood in attention. He asked us our names. Then,



staring hard at us, he remarked, ‘Why are you in this uniform?’ No onegave him a reply. My friends looked wan.

‘Sari is the best dress for women,’ he remarked.

‘But aren’t pants better, sir?’ I spoke in a humble voice.

His tone turned sarcastic immediately. ‘Oh, I see! But what willyou do if you feel like peeing?’ His snigger sounded cruel. All mycolleagues stood shame-faced, staring at the floor. This man was behavingmore like the patriarch of a family than a superior officer! I felt pained.Summoning courage, I replied, ‘Sir, if you feel like going to the loo, whatdo you do?’

The faces of my colleagues lit up. They gave me a proud smile.The deputy SP lost his cool for a moment. He looked around to see ifanyone had overheard our conversation. I could not say whether he wasangry or spiteful.

‘Get out!’ he barked. We saluted him and left.

My colleagues switched over to the sari-uniform and stoppedwearing pants altogether. After this incident, some of my other friends,who liked to wear pants occasionally, gave it up for good. They toosought refuge in the khaki sari and became ‘disciplined’ police women.However I refused to change my ways.

With police women recalled from traffic duty, the pattern of ourwork changed completely. We stepped out of the station very rarely,only when there was a law and order problem to attend to. The recessperiod that we had lawfully enjoyed between traffic duty sessions wascancelled and the opportunities to interact with the public came to anend. We were permitted to do nothing except wireless and copying duties.Our male colleagues – both peers and superiors – began to remark,sometimes in jest and sometimes seriously, that police women werethoroughly inefficient.

Everyday after 5.30 p. m., when all the police women left the station,I stayed back to examine all the police records. With the help of a fewfriendly policemen, I even tried to learn some of the other duties. Incourse of time, I could easily prepare the cash book after going through


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its rough versions. By December 1992, I was adept at the ‘writer’s’ job atthe station and did it voluntarily whenever the official writer was onleave. The assistant writer was my friend and did not object to myinterventions.

One day, the assistant writer had to go out on an urgent errand.He gave me the keys to the money chest. The writer’s responsibilitiesincluded disbursing TA (Travelling Allowance), processing GPF loanapplications and so on. While I was in the midst of these cashtransactions, the SP came into the writer’s room on some business. ‘Whogave you the keys to the chest?’, he hollered on seeing me hand over cashto a few policemen. I could not betray my friend. ‘Sir, Aji sir was calledout urgently by someone. He’ll be back in a minute,’ I managed to say.Hearing this exchange, a policeman went out discretely and came backto the room along with Aji sir. The SI now turned to him, ‘Hereafter,don’t entrust women with cash transactions, do you understand?’

I soon grew tired of doing the same boring work everyday. But asI wore the shirt-and-pants uniform, I was always summoned in cases ofemergency. No one bothered to call the sari-clad police women. As I wasmade to do additional duty because of my uniform, I became the commonbutt of ridicule. I slowly realized that there was greater wisdom inchanging to the khaki sari. Unable to withstand the veiled barbs, Souminihad given up the struggle a little earlier.

This kind of discrimination extended to other areas as well – inthe duty roster of police women, in official records, and during ceremonialparades on Independence and Republic days. Usually, each one’s dutyis written against his or her number in the station history record everyday.The numbers assigned to the police women come before those of theirmale colleagues and therefore have to head the list in the record. But,strangely, they were put at the very end – after the SI, ASI, HC and PC. Iprotested against this practice and finally got it rectified.

Further, women constables were never given a chance to participatein the ceremonial parades conducted to showcase the skills of the policeforce before the public. I wrote several letters of complaint to theauthorities concerned but I doubt if they were ever dispatched from thepolice station. The main reason quoted for keeping police women out



was that the sari uniform looked entirely out of place in parades. Anotherreason was the inadequate number of women constables. As I had beenraising this issue almost relentlessly since 1992, I was invited to participatein the Republic Day parade in 2002. Two factors had worked in myfavour – I usually tucked in my shirt and wore my hair very short. Thelogic was that no one would know the difference! The greater irony isthat the very officer who decided to include me in the parade, later deniedme three increments precisely because I dressed like men constables.

Several disciplinary actions were taken against me for raisingcomplaints regarding gender discrimination at the work place. Buteventually the SP of Wyanad sent an official letter stating that the demandsof women constables were just. A circular was issued to inform everyoneconcerned that women constables should not be discriminated against.Today, from a distance, I can see that men and women constables enjoyequal rights. Although I am not destined to enjoy a right I was instrumentalin securing, I consider it a huge victory for women.

While I was working at Manandavady Deputy SP’s office, ourmorning tea was supplied by an old man who worked there as a sweeper.Everyday he made tea in my room and, bypassing my table that stoodclosest to his stove, served tea first to the four policemen seated in thefront rooms. Swarnamma, a woman constable, and I were the last to getour cups of tea. It took me some days to notice this ritual. Thereafter assoon as he finished making tea, I would go over to his table and take aglass for myself. One day, just as I stretched my hand to pick my cup, hetook the tray away, ran towards the front room and served the men.Enraged at his act, I declared that the old man had no right to behave inthis fashion. Arguments flew this way and that. Eventually a seniorhead constable found a solution. The man would merely brew the tea.Each one had to go to his table and pour a glass for oneself. Whenever hewas on leave, the responsibility usually fell on Swarnamma’s shoulders.I demanded that this practice be discontinued. Everyone had to make teaby turns. On many occasions I’ve seen women constables being orderedabout by all the men, either in the station or at the office and whereverpossible I’ve tried my best to correct the situation.

Once, while I was on duty at Ambalavayal station, the townspeoplewere making preparations for celebrating the Shivaraatri festival. They


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had planned the traditional display of caparisoned elephants, thaalappoli,kaavadi and so on. The town was full of people and the police wereposted on duty from two in the afternoon. By four, nearly all the policemenhad left the station and I stood ready, holding my baton. Just then, theASI queried, ‘Vinaya, are you on duty too?’ People were thronging evenon the path leading to the police station. Pointing to the overcrowdedtown, I replied that his question had no relevance at all and stepped out.Immediately he ordered me into his room. I followed him.

‘Vinaya, stay right here! If the need arises, you will besummoned!’

‘Why, sir? I shall do my duty within sight of the police station.Is that okay?’

‘There’s no need for it.’

‘Why not? Why shouldn’t I do my duty, especially today?’

‘Why should you be told the reason? Just do as I say!’

‘That’s difficult, sir. You can’t stop me from doing my duty! I’mleaving.’

‘I order you . . .’

‘Sir . . . I will do this duty. Report me if you want . . .’

Without waiting for his permission, I stepped out and returnedfrom duty only with the rest of the policemen. For some reason, the ASIdid not take any action against me.

In deciding not to send women constables on duty to heavilycrowded public places the police only reinforce the invisibility of womenthat is so usual in the social sphere. Perhaps the sight of police womenmaintaining law and order and thus proving their ability is disconcertingto the male chauvinistic culture of the police force.

My First Suspension

Once while I was working in the Manandavady Circle Office, theresidents of Thirunelli and Appappaara went on a strike to close down alocal arrack shop. Every day they assembled in front of it in the morning



and remained there till evening, shouting slogans. As days passed thestrikers, instead of returning home at dusk, stayed put in order to presstheir demand. Now policemen had to be deployed to stand on duty infront of the shop.

As there were many women among the strikers, four womenconstables including myself had to take turns and be on guard. By six inthe evening we would take down the names of the women before theywent back home. One day while I was on duty, they refused to go away,insisting that if they were not arrested and taken to court, they wouldthrow stones at the shop and destroy it. Soon they started to execute theirthreat. The asbestos roof began to break and fall. At this, the ASI wascompelled to order their arrest. The police station was about six kilometersaway and the road was not only winding but full of potholes as well. Ittook us five trips that evening to transfer nearly seventy women to thepolice station. The travel was gruelling. I was two months pregnantthen and found the rigour terribly fatiguing.

On reaching the station however the ASI permitted them to goback home but the women insisted on being taken to court. So now theyhad to be housed at the station that night. My husband and two otherpolicemen were on duty. I too had to remain there for the night. Thoughtired, I consoled myself - surely I would be relieved the next day as therewere three other women constables at the station. But the followingmorning, a lot of paper work had to be attended to before the womencould be taken to court. It was nearly twelve noon by the time I finishedit. I then had to accompany the women to court in a private bus hired forthe purpose.

At the court, the strikers announced that they did not want bail.The magistrate had to order that they be remanded. By evening howeverthe small children were bawling incessantly and some women began tolose their enthusiasm. Their lawyer approached the magistrate and filedhis affidavit. The court reconvened in order to grant bail to all the adults.As fourteen among the group were below the age of eighteen, they had tobe treated as children and taken to the juvenile court at Kalpetta. We hadto pack all of them into a police jeep and take them there. But by the timewe reached the juvenile court, it was seven thirty in the evening andpitch dark. The Chief Judicial Magistrate of Kalpetta was a lady and she


100 Vinaya

had left instructions not to be disturbed after dusk. The children’s lawyeras well as Dasettan, who had accompanied us, went to meet her. Sheabused them roundly, stating that she had specifically ordered the SPnot to send anyone to her house in the evening or later.

During my police training, I had learnt that the Magistrate’s housecould be considered as a court. But as the magistrate happened to be awoman and as it was evening, it was a mere house! With no other wayout, we had to take the children back to Manandavady police station inthe same jeep. By then the children had become totally restive. Theyswore and jeered at us all the way back. I was feeling extremely hungryand my head began to spin. Dasettan tried to comfort me as we could notstop anywhere, even to have a glass of black tea. It was nine thirty in thenight when we reached Manandavady station. All my pent-up angerand sorrow spilled over as we spoke of our troubles to the men on duty.While shepherding the children into the cell, one policeman even shouted,‘Get into the lock-up, you curs!’ The boys and the girls were locked up inseparate cells.

After these two days of relentless travel and due to lack of sleep, Iwas totally exhausted. I went to the officer in charge and sought a changeof duty. His irritated reply was, ‘No! That’s not possible. All of themhave very small children’. I knew that my colleagues’ children were ofthe same age as my own daughter. And she was only three years oldthen. But I did not say anything in reply. We had to remain there onnight duty, with a cup of black tea and a bun each for dinner. Theresponsibility of transporting these fourteen children had been entrustedto two policemen and me. One policeman, sensing that the case involvedhard work, decamped midway through the procedure. The subsequentexperiences that I had, proved he had acted wisely. All he lost was anincrement for dereliction of duty.

That evening we recorded our halt at the Manandavady stationand went home. I was ravenous and ate my dinner greedily. The nextday, back at the station, I saw an article in a newspaper which describedhow the boys and girls were put in the same lock-up and undressed bythe police. Immediately the DIG (Deputy Inspector General) of Policecame to the Manandavady Rest House to investigate the truth behind thenewspaper report. We were directed to report to him. The CI (Circle



Inspector) of the station who had played no role in the entire episodecame up to Dasettan and me and told us how to report the case, takingcare to ensure that no harm came to him. He compelled us to say that onthe day of the incident, he was present in the police station at ten in thenight and that the girls were locked up in the SI’s room that was lyingvacant then. Further, we had to state that the SI too was present at thestation the same night and that we did not receive orders from any officer.When we went to the DIG’s room, I was determined to tell the wholetruth to him. But the SI stood behind him and threatened us with gestures.I was forced to relate the false story he had taught us. In the end, the SI,the CI and the Dy SP got away scot free. The four of us who did our dutyconscientiously were placed under suspension.

Following this incident, many articles appeared in the press.Dasettan and I were specially targeted by a newspaper which carried anarticle portraying my antecedents in very bad light. As there was notrace of truth in the news story I immediately filed a case in the BatherySub Court against character vilification. The verdict was in my favourand the court ordered that I be given Rs 25,000 in damages. The newspaperhas since gone on appeal.

During this period, Dasettan and I drowned our sorrow in hardlabour. Without any help from labourers, we washed the metal andsieved the sand needed for our house construction. We did not have anymoney to pay the workers anyway. Both of us were taunted and blamedby our relatives and acquaintances but by then we were capable ofhandling the scorn without losing self-control. Five days after beingsuspended, I had an abortion. There had been mild bleeding during thejeep trips. Continuous travel, starvation and emotional stress snuffedout the little life. Thus I unknowingly became my baby’s killer. Dasettanand I braved our sorrow together.

The Human Rights Commission undertook a biased investigationinto the lock-up case. It decreed that a total compensation amount ofRs. 70,000 be paid to the boys who were detained by the police. Accordingto the Commission report, the incident took place in Thirunelli lock-up.In actuality, there was no complaint registered there. However, the policedepartment did not do anything to challenge the blatant error. Rather, it


102 Vinaya

issued notices to the four of us, stating that the amount would be deductedfrom our salary. This case is now under consideration in the high court.

We were re-instated in November 1995. Immediately on receivingthe orders, we went to the Wyanad district police office to meet thesuperintendent. There we got an amusing bit of advice: ‘If you are givenan option regarding transfer, choose a station where you don’t want to beposted because you ask for Manandavady and you’re sure to be sent toBathery. Ask for Bathery and you’ll be posted to Vythiri. So never mentionthe station you want to be in’. We did not take this seriously. It was onlywhen we received our posting orders that we realized the truth behindthe information. Dasettan had opted for Bathery and was given Vythiri.Another policeman wanted Manadavady but was sent to Mepaady. Asa woman constable, I didn’t have to be transferred at all but I was sent toKalpetta police station. As there was no provision to grant me eithertravel expenses or joining leave, I had to report for duty the very next dayat Kalpetta whereas Dasettan got two days as joining time. I worked atthe Kalpetta station for three months before being sent back to Bathery.

One evening I took a public transport bus from the Bathery busstand to go home. The bus was terribly crowded. All the ladies’ seatswere occupied by men while the women passengers remained standing.Unwilling to start a squabble I kept silent and stood along with thewomen. Just as the bus was about to start, a policeman who was on dutyat the bus stand, came over and asked the men to vacate the ladies’ seats.No one paid him any heed. The women too remained silent. As I gazedout, I saw him look at me hopefully. Just then, a man who was seated,commented, ‘The women don’t wish to sit, sir’. ‘Who are you to say that?We want these seats,’ I blurted out. All the three men stood upimmediately. Soon, others occupying four rows of seats behind mefollowed suit. But two men were still sitting on a row I was leaningagainst. A man who had just vacated his seat looked at me and hollered,‘Aren’t these men, eh? Why aren’t you asking them to move out?’ Ipretended not to hear him. There was a healthy-looking old man ofabout sixty in front of me who was watching everything keenly. Helaughed scornfully at me and, as if addressing all the passengers, said,‘What’s wrong with her?’ A stream of expletives followed and endedwith ‘Of all the women in this bus, how’s she so special?’ The passengerslaughed at his statements all the time.



For a while I stood perplexed, not knowing what to do. Then Iordered the conductor to stop the bus. Maybe because I sounded forceful,a couple of fellow passengers joined my side. When the bus stopped, Itook a diary and a pen from my bag and took down the names andaddresses of the three men. Those who had given me the details told methat I should go ahead with the case, no matter what happened. I thenpermitted the bus to resume the journey. A couple of stops later the oldman stepped out. I did not know his name or address but a few boys inthe bus gave me the required information.

That very night I rang up the CI of Bathery, merely to tell him aboutthe incident. I had been informed by the boys that the old man was alocal contractor who had contacts with some powerful higher-ups. WhatI wanted to do was give the CI all the details before the old man could doany mischief. As soon as the CI answered my phone he began to shout atme. If I had any complaint I ought not to ring up the CI but register acomplaint at the police station. He hung up abruptly. The next day Iwent to the station and lodged a complaint with the SI. Although everyoneat the station came to know of it, the case was not given the seriousnessit deserved. I insisted that the case be considered and by eleven a. m. theCI called me.

As soon as I entered his room, he said loudly, ‘What do you takeme for, eh? You may be in the habit of calling up many officers. Don’tinclude me among them’. He then asked me to leave. When I went to thestation, the SI informed me that I had been directed by the CI to submit anFIR. In my bag, I already had letters of complaint addressed to theWomen’s Commission and the Women’s Cell. By twelve noon the FIRwas ready. The accused was arrested at four that evening. The verdictwas in my favour. But the case has since gone on appeal.

Locking Horns with Authority

The first time I had differences with the Kerala Police organizationwas in 1998 when I was working at Bathery. Since my joining the forcein 1991 till 1996, annual elections to this organization had never takenplace. I gradually became part of a huge group that was unhappy at itsslow dissolution. Many secret meetings were conducted to oppose certainpockets of leadership which existed here and there and also to discuss


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the need for immediate elections. I participated in all the meetings andsincerely joined in the discussions. I was the only woman to attendthem.

Finally, in 1996, elections were held and my group emergedvictorious. One seat was reserved for women but I had shown enoughmerit during the meetings to secure an open seat. A woman constablenamed Safeela Bai was selected for the reserved post that year. The sametrend of handpicking the woman candidate continued in the next twoelections. However, the leadership did not show the common decency ofeven informing others about their choice of the woman office-bearer.Worse still, the organization blindly followed the orders of its leaders.When this repeated itself the third year, I decided to confront the leaderswho ‘gave birth’ to such candidates. I openly supported a womancandidate from the opposing panel and took leave from duty to canvassvotes for her. Despite my best efforts she lost. I was now singled out fortorture and a virtual procession of punishments followed.

Apparently influenced by the elected leaders, the SI became openlypartial in allotting duties to police constables. The supporters were notonly given many concessions but they could also shirk duties withimpunity. While only the nature of the duty was written against theirnames in their notebooks, I saw an extra item in mine – the number ofhours of duty which was specially endorsed by the SI.

True, there was one concession I shared with all the womenconstables at the station – an hour’s rest during lunch break. I used thistime to rush home and suckle my infant son. Now the leaders of theorganization wanted to deny me this privilege. By inserting the numberof duty hours in my notebook they could ensure that I did not go home inbetween. One day the SI, egged on by these men, told me, ‘I’ve receivedcomplaints that you go out during duty hours. So from now on, no onewill attend the VHF (Very High Frequency) transmitter while you areaway.’ He said this within the hearing of everyone in the station.

Until that day there was always someone or another to answer theVHF set for me if I happened to be busy. As wireless duty was exclusivelythe responsibility of women constables, we rarely got any co-operationfrom the men. The SI’s public instruction served only to abet their apathy.



On the days when Ramla was on leave, life at the station was reallytough. The number of times I had to rush out of the toilet without relievingmyself so that I could attend the call! According to rules, the wireless sethas to be answered within three beeps. If not, the SP will directly attendit. As a result, by the time the instrument beeped twice I began to havepalpitations. This torture continued for three days. I could take my lunchonly at six in the evening, after my duty ended. My fear was that thesmallest lapse on my side might provoke a suspension order.

I decided to talk to the SP about it. I drafted a letter mentioning theprejudiced behaviour of the SI and the practice of confining womenconstables to station duties. When I met the SP, I also told him that thestation provided no facilities for women constables. The cots in the restroom were invariably occupied by policemen from other stations.Showing my notebook as evidence, I implored him to give necessarydirections to the SI and change my punishing schedule. He took myletter, examined my notebook and assured me, ‘You may go. There won’tbe any more trouble’. I left his room feeling greatly relieved.

Two days later, a wireless message summoned all the womenconstables of the district to the SP’s office. As everyone stood in attention,he spoke scornfully about my letter of complaint. Further, he announcedthat all the police women were transferred to the women’s cell. Everyonecursed me, either openly or secretly. They were about to lose the smallcomforts they had grown used to and so held me solely responsible for it.‘Can’t they punish the complainant alone? Why should others too bearthe cross?’ Their sharp comments pierced my heart. In a week’s time, Ireceived official notice of punishment for having made baselesscomplaints and misled the SP. All the others were reinstated in the officesof their choice within a month.

The stress was so unbearable that one day I decided go out withmy family to see a film. The theatre manager was usually cordial andinvited us to have tea in his room. But that day, he did not show the samecourtesy. Instead, he called us over and secretly revealed that two daysearlier the SI of Bathery had come to the theatre and instructed the managerto promptly inform him if my family came to see a film.

‘What should I do now?’ he asked us.


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‘Will you give this same account of facts if the need arises?’ Iasked him.

‘Definitely! Even if it costs me my head.’ He sounded fierce inhis resolve.

On the strength of his word, I drafted a letter to the SP. Mycomplaint was that the SI’s instruction to the manager of the theatre wasan infringement on my right to privacy. However before I dispatched theletter I went to the theatre with Maria, a friend of mine, met the managerand requested him to give me all the information in writing.

‘Oh, no! I don’t think that’s necessary at all! I can reveal all thisanywhere you want,’ he said with the same conviction he had shownearlier.

Three days after the incident I submitted my letter of complaint. Idelayed it because of a nagging suspicion that my letter was practicallyuseless without the manager’s written statement accompanying it. Twodays later, I received an order from the department. Its contents took mecompletely by surprise. It said that I had gone to the theatre and pickedup a quarrel with the authorities for obtaining a pass. The theatre managerhad formally lodged a complaint to the SP about my behaviour just a daybefore I put in my letter! This necessitated the opening of anotherpunishment roll against my name.

In the police association elections of 2002, I joined a group thatcanvassed widely against the official panel. A seat was given to me veryreluctantly and after the results were announced, my panel was declaredelected. In the meeting that followed, after elaborate discussions, I wasselected to the executive committee. Many among the office-bearers toldme, half jokingly and half seriously, that the nomination of a police womanto the executive committee was due to the liberal views of the newlyconstituted organization.

Until then, police women, considered merely as a vote bank by allthe leaders, had only a couple of demands – transfers to convenientstations and more concessions. On several occasions, during discussionswith the organization workers, I argued that all the sections that wereexclusively male bastions – special branch, vigilance, crime department,



the narcotics cell battalions which included dog squad, bomb squad,tear gas section, telecommunications and others – should be opened upfor police women so as to improve their promotion chances. I could worktowards these goals only if I received an official post but no one seemedinterested in nominating me. It looked as though I would have to fightfor it myself. However when I made it known that I wished to benominated to the state working committee, a junior colleague lookedincredulously at me and asked, ‘But . . . what are your qualifications?’ Ihad no answer to his question. The only additional qualification thelikes of him had was the support of other policemen who nominated andseconded their names. I was not included either in the district or thestate working committee.

But I did what I could as an executive committee member. Iapproached Mr Radhakrishnan, a research inspector at the A. R. Camp,and sought his help to trace all the department circulars that had beenissued between 1951 and 2000. There were only two circulars relating topolice women and both were aimed at denying them opportunities. Iprobed into the history of police women and found out that the decisionto form a women’s police wing was taken by the Travancore-Cochingovernment in 1951. Its growth was very slow. I took down such data,thought of remedial measures and brought them up for discussions inthe executive committee meetings. But none of the leaders showed anyinterest in reading the material.

I discussed these issues with the DIG, Ms Sandhya whenever Iwent to Trivandrum. She even borrowed my book Sex Discrimination inAmerica that had been presented to me by an English woman. In January2001, she organized a seminar in Trivandrum on this topic and at theend of it, some of the suggestions I had made came into effect.

The state president of the association, Mr BalakrishnanPuthiyedathu had a special regard for me and included me in the editorialboard of Kaaval, a police quarterly. I used my position to introduce articleson feminism and police women, subjects that had never featured in ituntil then.


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A Mother’s Worth

One day while at home in Bathery on leave (I was working inTrivandrum then) I decided to go to town on my motorbike. As I wasgetting dressed I saw my daughter staring at me. Assuming that shewanted to accompany me, I called her over. She made a face at me asthough I had said something wrong and blurted, ‘Ayye, I won’t comewith you! Do girls ever ride bikes? The boys in my class tease me becausemy mother does . . . I’m not coming with you.’

Even today, through my daughter, I experience the pain inflictedby neglect and insults. In her eyes, I am a maverick, a person who upsetsher by refusing to wear sari, to grow hair or to put on jewellery. Manytimes, especially when we had to attend weddings, she has implored,‘Amma, please wear a sari . . . At least today’. She is incensed that I donot permit her to pierce her ear lobes or grow her hair.

Before I came back home on transfer, I took her to my hostel inTrivandrum for a short stay so that I could show her women riding bikes.Soon she was convinced it was not a bad thing after all! Thereafter shedid not feel shy about being a pillion rider when I drove my motorbike.

In taking my daughter to Trivandrum I had another intention tooin mind. She suffered from a chronic cold that occasionally worsenedinto wheezing and I wanted expert medical care that could cure hercompletely. A friend of mine fixed up an appointment with a professorworking in Trivandrum Medical College hospital. The doctor examinedpatients at his house as well. We reached there at the appointed timeand on entering the doctor’s room, saw him at the table, his fingers restingon the keyboard of a computer. He began his preliminary enquiries. Thephysical examination of the patient would come later.

‘What’s your name, child?’

‘Athira.’

‘Age?’

‘Seven.’

‘Dad’s name?’



‘Excuse me, sir. I’m her mother. Please write my name instead.’

‘Oh no! I don’t want the mother’s name.’

‘Sir, her father is in Wyanad. So his name is of no practical usehere. Please write mine, sir.’

‘Well . . . , what’s it?’

‘Vinaya.’

‘Dad’s name?’

‘Mohandas.’

He typed in all the details, examined my daughter and prescribedsome medicines. As we were about to leave he gave us a print-out of thedata he had entered in his computer. When I looked at it, I wasdumbfounded. There was no column for the mother’s name. Only thefather’s name had been typed!

On my way back, I decided that if such questions arose in future, Iwould reply that I did not know the father’s name! Will that cause theauthorities to deny anyone education or medical care? Does a nameuttered by the mother have greater worth than her own?

Authority, Dignity, Insult

While in Trivandrum, I had first hand experience of how thetraditional dress as well as social orthodoxy prevents a woman fromexercising even her legitimate authority. Everyone knows that the sari isa highly inconvenient dress, especially in the case of law enforcers. It isvery difficult for a sari-clad woman to remain decently covered while sheis in a bus, a train or in her workplace. Always trying to protect herselffrom dirty glances and unwelcome pinches, she becomes a prisoner ofboth the dress and the societal norms.

One night while I was at a station, a woman constable on guardduty had to go out at about eight thirty to arrest a trouble-maker. At ten,she returned to the station in tears, all alone and in great distress. Hersari had come undone and she was clutching it tightly around hershoulders. She had tried hard to catch the woman-offender but the lattergrabbed her sari and yanked it off her waist. In order to cover her shame,


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the woman constable had to release the culprit so that she could retrieveher sari and clamber back into the police jeep.

I was to see the same kind of scene many times over and this mademe think about the possible cause of such behaviour of criminals.Afterwards when I too faced a similar situation, I realized how the sari-uniform served only to perpetuate the centuries-old oppression of women.

Once while on night duty I had to join a squad at nine-thirty toarrest a woman who was creating trouble in the General Hospitalpremises. She stood there, like an avenging goddess, spreading fear allaround and showering expletives on the duty doctor. I was rattled butmarshalling all my courage, approached her. Immediately she fell silentand walked meekly towards me. ‘It’s alright. Come with me,’ I told hergently. When I tried to hold her hand, she did not attempt to wriggle free.Instead, she said in a soft voice, ‘Clear off! Or, I’ll pull your sari off! . . .Why bring shame on yourself?’ She gave a shriek of laughter. It soundedcruel. No one could hear our conversation or understand what wasgoing on because both of us spoke in low tones. I replied, ‘Unless youleave this place, we cannot go back. We won’t harm you.’ As she walkedaway, I went back to the jeep and told the head constable what hadhappened. It was the sheer absence of a convenient uniform that hadmade me comply with her demand in front of the huge crowd.

On another night, a policeman on duty called me at one-thirty. Awoman was creating commotion at the Thampanoor bus station. I wassummoned to help the squad in arresting her. Wrapping the sari-uniformtightly around me, I climbed into the jeep. But when we reached the busstation, we saw no woman there; only a group of people who had gatheredaround another police jeep. I asked them to disperse and looked around.Just then, somebody said, ‘Look below the jeep, sir’.

As we peered, we saw a woman lying on the ground with both herarms embracing the main lever of the jeep. She was panting and appearedexhausted, after a bout of loud shouting. I recognized the womaninstantly. She was the notorious criminal named ‘Shyamala’. As I calledher by name, she turned towards me. In a split second, her hand grippedthe folds of my sari.

‘Sir, may I pull it off . . .?’



I broke into cold sweat. Even at that midnight hour, there was afairly large crowd of men around me and I had to let go of Shyamala justfor that reason. So in a mildly angry tone, I told the policeman who hadaccompanied me, ‘Pull her out yourself. No one will complain. It seemsshe wants to disrobe me.’ The woman had to be dragged out and put intothe jeep. As she stubbornly lay on the floor of the vehicle, we had a toughtime keeping her pinned down all the way to the police station.

There was a bandage on her arm and spots of dried blood on it. InTrivandrum, whenever women criminals got arrested they would ferretout a razor blade or a shard of glass from their dress and injure themselves.The police invariably had to take them to hospital and from there thecriminals could escape the attention of the doctor and decamp quickly.Shyamala had bruised herself deliberately that morning when she sawthe police. After this incident, I discarded the khaki sari-uniform for good.Disregarding widespread criticism, I continued to wear the shirt-and-pants uniform and to arm myself with a baton.

Why did men and women doing the same job have differentuniforms? Why weren’t women constables permitted to tuck in theirshirts? I did not have answers to these questions. One day I went to thePolice Headquarters to see Ms Sandhya IPS and shot these queries at her.Looking at me, she merely smiled. She had no specific replies to give me.

‘May I stitch a uniform in that fashion, sir?’ I asked her politely.

‘Why not?’ Her reply gave me some courage.

Women of the IPS cadre tucked in their shirts whereas womenconstables could not. It was impossible for me to accept thisdiscrimination. The policemen too could tuck in their shirts. Didn’t thismale-chauvinistic rule imply that for women constables to be equal totheir male counterparts they had to be at least in the IPS cadre?

That very evening I bought uniform cloth for two pairs of shirt andpants and gave it to a tailor. The next day, I wore it to the station. The SIlooked at me from top to toe and asked, ‘How come you’ve tucked in yourshirt today?’

‘Isn’t that the rule, sir?’


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‘Only IPS officers have the right to do it.’

‘What about the men constables then?’

‘That’s another issue altogether. You need not worry about it . . .’Then the SI lost his patience. ‘Do whatever you want,’ he said.

He did not refer to my uniform ever again. But the womenconstables were irritated with me. Those who used to seek me out for allkinds of duties now began to avoid me deliberately. I was sent out onduty only if there was no other alternative.

My Image Make-over

During my frequent trips to Trivandrum I had to take my bath atthe Railway Rest Room and change my sari, standing on the wet, dirtyfloor. This gave me time to think about the inconvenience caused by thesari. Why should I suffer it merely to satisfy the whims of some people?

One day when I went home on leave, I told Dasettan, ‘I’m going tochange over to shirt and pants. That’s very comfortable’.

‘Oh . . . you’ll look beautiful indeed!’ he teased me. I knew hewould never appreciate it. Thereafter whenever we went out, I held mybag in my right hand and gripped the railing on the bus ceiling with myleft. Dasettan, seeing this, would urge me, ‘Hold your bag with your lefthand. Your midriff is showing!’ I didn’t pay him any attention andwhenever he persisted, I replied angrily, ‘Isn’t it my arm, after all?’Dasettan had to stand behind me and hold his hand over a seat to covermy exposed side! Our bus trips became a big burden for him.

One day a couple of boys came home to talk to me about anorganization they were planning to launch. Dasettan was in the kitchendoing something. At some point during our conversation, when he cameto the door, he saw that my sari had slipped down my shoulder. Takingcare to see that the boys did not observe him, he gestured to me to put mysari back properly and cover myself well. I pretended not to notice. Myconversation with the visitors went on and I could see that Dasettan wasgetting increasingly uneasy. As soon as the boys left, he said in mildanger, ‘Why couldn’t you wear your sari properly?’



‘Why should I? That’s also part of my body, isn’t it? I’ve worn ablouse. So what’s the big deal?’

‘But did you have to invite those boys’ attention to your body?’

‘I don’t have time to waste, thinking of such things!’

He merely pulled a long face and left.

On the last day of my leave, I tried on the pair of jeans and shirt Ihad bought during my training and inspected myself in front of the mirror.Dasettan who happened to step into the room just then remarked, ‘Hey,that suits you really well!’

I knew that my ruse had worked. Then onwards, pants and shirtbecame my regular wear during travel. In course of time, ignoringobjections, I started wearing pants and shirt frequently to the policestation. Finally I gave up wearing sari altogether.

During another of my trips to Trivandrum, a young fellow-passenger asked me, ‘Aunty, why do you wear you hair long?’

‘So that people may recognize me as a woman.’

‘Why?’

I had no reply to give him. I asked myself the same question severaltimes but got no answer. A girl always has to dress herself in a particularway – sport ear rings, put a bindi, have long hair and put on girls’ wear– so that the society can recognize her gender. Why should she take upthe responsibility of being identified? Isn’t it enough that people whoknow me as Vinaya recognize me in a crowd and take me for a woman?

During another journey, I asked an elderly male passenger seatednear me, ‘Why do women have long hair?’

‘For beauty’s sake, nothing else.’

‘Then, what about men who used to grow tufts during olden times?’

‘For beauty again.’

‘Why did that practice come to an end?’

‘Again, for beauty’s sake.’


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‘But having the tuft is beautiful, isn’t it?’

‘True. But in this fast-paced life, maintaining it is very difficult.Maybe that’s why men decided to discard it.’

His replies satisfied me. The social reformers had put an end tosuch caste-based practices and the commoners followed suit for thereasons that my co-passenger mentioned. Men tried to bring changes intheir dress and hair style to suit the times and also found reasons tojustify their decisions. How was it that the practice of women wearingtheir hair long remained unchanged through the ages, across alldifferences of caste and religion? Why didn’t any women’s group breakthe tradition?

I asked several women why they had long hair. One of the repliesI got was unusual but it held a great truth. ‘Because everyone does it.’ Iwas reminded of the story of the little fox, who on being asked why hehowled, replied, ‘Because everyone does it’. I understood that it wasfoolish to follow a practice which had no sound reason to back it. I wasnow determined to cut my hair short.

When I went home on leave, I told Dasettan of my decision.

‘Well, why not? Why don’t you shave your head, instead? That’lllook wonderful . . . A woman’s beauty is in her hair.’

The reply was on expected lines. So I decided to play the samegame as I had done about my sari. As Dasettan hated seeing hair in thecomb or on the floor, I always took care to see that it did not happen.Now I was going to break that habit.

One day, holding my comb, his face screwed up in utter disgust,Dasettan asked me, ‘Can’t you keep it clean?’ He threw it in front of me.

‘If you love me, you should love my hair too. If it disturbs you,why don’t you remove it yourself? Didn’t you tell me that a woman’sbeauty is in her hair? You like it when it covers the head but hate it in thecomb!’ I resumed my work. Dasettan was forced to clean it as there wasonly one comb in our house. Later, after my bath, with my hair still wetand dripping, I would go near Dasettan, show gestures of affection andwhack my hair a couple of times with force. His face would get sprayedand soon this began to get on his nerves.



Back in Trivandrum, I decided to remove this burden from mybody. I went to a beauty parlour. A male hair stylist approached me.

‘Which style do you prefer?’

‘I don’t mind any style. Leave some hair on my head but it shouldnot fly in the wind or bother me.’

In three quarters of an hour, he did the job for me. As I steppeddowned the stairs, I felt happy. It seemed as if a huge weight had beentaken off me. I went to a telephone booth and rang up Dasettan.

‘Dasetta, I’ve cut my hair.’

‘Very good!’ His voice conveyed pleasure!

Women do not tell others about the troubles they face - either in thename of deference to tradition or to pamper some notions of female beauty.A ‘good woman’ is expected to put up with all such liabilities. But Idecided not to restrain my arms, legs, tongue or hair merely to be a goodwoman. I only wanted to be a free person. I did not want to be exploitedas women generally are; nor did I want the respect men crave for. Imerely wanted the consideration accorded to every human being.

A Little Mirth

With my changed hairstyle and attire, I pass off for a boy, half myreal age. Many people have remarked about it and a few have eventalked to me as they would to a young man. And this has brought mesome solace during difficult days.

______________

At the Chottanikkara Devi temple in Ernakulam district, men arenot allowed to keep their shirt on when they step closer to the sanctumsanctorum (I have never found out the reason for this rule, despite severalenquiries). One day as I went inside and stood in line to pray, an angryguard shook my shoulder and thundered, ‘Remove your shirt, you . . .’

‘I am a woman. Should I . . .?’

Visibly embarrassed, he apologized and left the scene.

______________


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Once on my way from Trivandrum to Kozhikode, I stretched myselfon the upper berth in the general compartment of a train. Some time later,a young man tapped me on my head and said, ‘Move over.’ I shifted alittle and the man lay full length by my side, his head near my feet!

______________

During another train journey, a man asked me my name.

‘Vinay,’ I replied.

After some moments of conversation, he queried, ‘You go to thegym, don’t you?’

‘Yeah, occasionally . . .’

‘Hmm . . . I can see that . . . your chest . . . ‘ he said, suppressinghis jealousy.

______________

Once I boarded a KSRTC bus to Trivandrum from Bathery. In oneof the front rows, two young men were occupying the ends of a three-seater. As they showed no signs of moving, I had to sit right in themiddle. By two at night, when I was fast asleep, the boy to my right heldme by my chin and shook me roughly. In a gruff voice, he remarked,‘What do you take this bus for? Your home or what? While travelling,should you be falling over other people?’

‘If I were in a sari or churidar, how long you would have permittedme!’ I said to myself as I sat there impassively.

______________

One day, at Paravoor in Alappuzha district, I stood in front of atoddy shop watching and enjoying the antics of men as they went in andreturned fully drunk. Soon an elderly man stepped out and lit a beedi. Hekept looking at me for some time. Then, pulling out his wallet from hispocket, he said, ‘Hey, you boy! If you don’t have money, take this. Go inand have a drink instead of standing there with your mouth watering.’Before he could say anything further, I went into the shop and dranktoddy for Rs 10.

______________



On another occasion, I reached the Ernakulam railway station at11 a. m. to catch the 12 o’ clock express. After buying a ticket I strolled outas there was still some time to spare. Here and there, I saw men smokingcigarettes and looking around anxiously, to avoid being caught by thepolice. I went to a small shop nearby, bought a cigarette and lit it. Then,like the other smokers, I moved to a far corner in order to keep an eye onany policeman who might come that way. Suddenly, a man called mefrom behind, ‘Brother, may I . . .?’ He had an unlit cigarette in one hand.The other arm was in a sling. I gave him my cigarette. After lighting his,he returned my stub. ‘With this broken arm, it is difficult to strike amatch, you see . . .,’ he explained his helplessness. Then we proceeded totalk about the trouble we would have if the police spotted us smoking.

______________

It was festival season at Pallikkunnu. After night duty, I was backat work in mufti at eleven in the morning. A huge crowd was movingtowards the church. Suddenly, two tribesmen approached me. One ofthem whispered, ‘May I tell you something?’

I looked at him questioningly. He opened his bag. The fragranceof medicated oils pervaded the air. Then, taking out a bottle, he said,‘This is original bear fat. Apply it for merely four days – let it remain onyour face for an hour before you take your bath – you’ll be able to grow abeard and moustache.’

‘I don’t want either,’ I replied in an indifferent tone.

‘Someone must have tricked you earlier. But this one is genuine.’

‘Didn’t I tell you that I don’t want it?’ I showed my displeasure.

‘You’ll regret it one day. That’s for sure.’ The two men cursed meas they left.

______________

Once I was in a bus, travelling from Bathery to Madakkara. Seeinga girl from my neighbourhood, I stood near the women’s seats, talking toher. The conductor came to me, pressed me rather sternly on my shoulderblade and growled, ‘Move forward . . .’ I thought he was merely trying tomake more space in the crowded bus. As I was about to alight at


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Madakkara, the conductor looked at me in triumph, as though he hadcaught a thief, and said, ‘You boy, tried hard, didn’t you . . . to remainthere . . . near the women? Clear off!’ Only then did his insinuation dawnon me. Hiding that realization however, I winked to show him howenjoyable I found the whole trip!

______________

I was watching a matinee show at the Mahavir theatre in Kalpettaone day. My seat was in the middle of a row and there was no one to myright. After some time, four women appeared and occupied those seats.The movie began. A little while later, my foot accidentally touched thelady seated next to me. She immediately tapped my leg and said, ‘Moveyour foot away!’ I apologized and obeyed her. Much later, my leg touchedhers again but I was completely unaware of it. This time she shouted,‘You fellow . . . move your leg! This has been going on for some time now. . . ‘ Immediately, a lady seated next to her sprang up and said, ‘Teacher,come here and take my seat. I shall sit there.’ They exchanged places. Ifelt frightened. Was there any point in disclosing that I was a womanafter getting beaten up thoroughly? I held my breath throughout the restof the film. When it got over, the women stood up to leave but they keptstaring at me and muttering something. So I decided to wink at them inresponse. Instantly, one of them spat out, ‘Pah! Not out of your swaddlingclothes yet . . . and have you already started . . .?’ I fled the scene andquickly boarded a bus.

______________

Once Dasettan and I were travelling in a bus to Manandavady. Ayoung man, sitting next to me, took me for a boy and fired several questionsat me. I wove clever lies, one after another, and made him believe them. Alittle later, when the bus approached his stop, he asked me, ‘Are youtravelling alone?’

‘Oh no! I have a friend with me.’

‘Where?’

‘Over there,’ I said, pointing to Dasettan who was occupying awindow seat, three rows behind us. Dasettan had been staring at us allthe while, wondering at the man I was getting so friendly with.



‘That bald fellow?’ The boy was obviously displeased.

‘Exactly!’

‘Why is he staring at us like that?’ His voice conveyed his hatred.

‘Oh! He’s of a peculiar sort,’ I replied, screwing my lips.

As soon as he stepped out, Dasettan started cross-questioning me!

My First Writ Petition

While staying in a hostel in Trivandrum, on my second transfer tothe capital city, I got an opportunity to observe the activities of my younghostel-mates. It filled me with wonder. What attracted me most was themethod of study adopted by the students of journalism. I saw them cutout certain pieces from magazines as well as newspapers and createalbums. Gradually I came to understand that they were doing researchin certain subjects and that they were collecting material – articles andpictures – related to their topics of interest. All this was totally new tome.

From that day on, I too started collecting certain documents. Myfocus was on how the state, totally regardless of Article 15 of the IndianConstitution, perpetuated discrimination against women. I began tokeenly scan news stories, inspect the use of language, analyze pictures,application forms, designations, dictionaries, uniforms, films, stories,articles, advertisements, tag lines of advertisements and so on. I alsostarted collecting all the data available on the subject and noting downmy inferences. Besides, I set out to study the body language of women,their behavioural peculiarities, manner of dressing, hairstyles, jewellery,rituals and traditions. Soon I noticed that no one had made any effort tooverhaul the social set-up that stood in the way of gender-equality that isguaranteed by our Constitution. Couldn’t I take the first step, I wondered.

I took my stock of evidence to ‘Sakhi’, the women’s library inTrivandrum, elaborated every point and started pasting them on severalbooks in order to make albums. The authorities permitted me to open a‘Vinaya’ file and allotted me a separate space to keep it.

I used to take the files and books with me whenever I went homeon leave. One day on my way from Wayanad to Trivandrum, I wondered


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how I could file a writ petition on the subject in the High Court. I talkedto Father Joseph Therakam, an office bearer of the PUCL (People’s Unionfor Civil Liberties), and he assured me that I had collected everythingthat was needed to draft a petition.

Later, while I was on a medical leave, I left home three days beforemy leave expired and went to the Free Legal Aid Cell at the High Court inErnakulam. As there was no one available at the office, I stepped out,after collecting a copy of an O. P. (original petition) from another cabin.

There were several typists in front of the High Court. I approachedeach one of them and requested them to translate the matter I had writtenin Malayalam into English and format it into a petition. No one paid meany attention. Greatly disappointed, I decided to try for the last time.This man was busy typing but he took pity on me when he saw mybundle of books and papers. Stopping his work, he went through myfiles and said, ‘Please wait for some time. I shall type them for you in theafternoon.’ I was overjoyed. He was Mr James who had retired from theHigh Court.

In the afternoon, after discussing the issue with me, he translatedeverything into English and drafted a writ petition. By five in the eveningMr James closed his room, assuring me that he would finish the work byeleven the next morning. He kept his word and I showed the writ petitionto an advocate he had recommended to me. Mr James took only a nominalpayment from me. The sole expense I had to bear was the cost of stampsand stationery. That came to around Rs 500. My writ was accepted as‘party-in-person’ and the defendants included the Union of India, thestate of Kerala and the news media.

The next day my case came up for hearing. I was in a highlynervous state because the lawyers and the judge spoke only English andI couldn’t follow the language well. However, I gathered all my strengthand said, ‘I have a request to make before the Honourable Court.’

‘Yes?’

‘I do not understand English and can speak only Malayalam.Therefore please transfer my case to a court that permits Malayalam.’

‘You are permitted to speak in Malayalam.’



My joy knew no bounds. Later the court gave me its reply inMalayalam.

‘The print medium and Akashvani (All India Radio) do not comeunder the court’s jurisdiction. Therefore your writ can be accepted onlywith the first two defendants.’

I agreed to it and my writ was filed.

Only two cross examinations took place over this issue and onboth occasions, I argued my case strongly. I brought in Article 15 of theIndian Constitution and the CEDAW (Convention on the Elimination ofAll Forms of Discrimination Against Women) into my arguments. Onthe third hearing the verdict was announced. This pertained only to thecase of application forms. The rest of the nearly ten issues raised in mywrit were set aside due to lack of evidence. The High Court ordered thestate and central governments to ensure prohibition of genderdiscrimination and to rectify the anomaly in newly printed applicationforms. The verdict on my writ came into force that same year. From thenon, children passing the tenth standard got an opportunity to includetheir mothers’ names in their SSLC (Secondary School Leaving Certificate)books.

Where Does a Woman Lack Space?

Police Head Constable Balan died in a skirmish while he was onelection duty in Kalpetta. I was on patrolling duty then, in areas underthe Bathery station. The news of his hospitalization reached me at twoin the afternoon. As I did not consider his condition serious, Iaccompanied my colleagues to see him, without even changing my policeuniform. Only when we were ushered into the room did we learn of hisdemise. Sometime later as I joined my friends and walked towards ourjeep, the CI called me, ‘Vinaya, you must remain here on guard duty. Doyou mind?’ I obeyed him immediately. Though sad at the tragedy, I felthonoured that the CI considered me strong enough to stand guard overmy colleague’s dead body. The CI was one of the few superior officerswho entrusted me with serious responsibilities.

The next day as Balan sir’s body was being taken to his house, itbegan to rain heavily. The panchayat road that led to his house was not


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a tarred one. So all the vehicles had to stop on the main road and wewalked the rest of the distance. I was in the forefront, assisting in takingthe coffin from the ambulance and carrying it indoors. No one objectedto my actions.

Usually women are not allowed to participate in obsequies,especially in carrying the bier or taking the corpse to the funeral pyre.But even earlier, I had joined others in carrying a body to the crematoriumor the cemetery and the fact that no one questioned or stopped me was asource of great inspiration. I was convinced that the centuries’ oldtradition of marginalizing women had continued only because there wasno one to challenge it. I was also sure that such a practice that had beenmeekly accepted through all these years could be corrected by means ofaction. Further, I learned that through personal interventions, I couldput an end to the anti-woman attitude that society had nurtured overtime. Any one with the appropriate mind-set can take part in such rituals.Women should discard the wrong notion that they are a separatecommunity. They should learn to get involved in the problems of thesociety and become part of it.

One day while on suspension, prior to my dismissal from service,I was sitting in a tea shop in Madakkara, my native village, chewingbetel. A little while later, a young boy and a few of his friends came overand stuck a poster on the back wall of the shop.

‘What’s that?’ I asked him.

‘Vinaya chechi, we boys, the local residents of this place, havedecided to hold elections to our club this year. That’s what the notice isabout.’

‘How is that only boys form the local residents? What aboutgirls like us?’

His reply came immediately, ‘How can girls be considered so?’

I felt that his question was a relevant one.

The sound health which made him speak like this was itself theresult of the labour of a few women who remained indoors and cookedfood for him. The reason why he was able to spend his leisure time



indulging in such activities like a ‘local resident’ and the reason whywomen had to continue their fight for 35 % reservation was that womenwere simply unable to participate in these public events. The day womencan move around freely and be part of such basic social institutions likethe local club, the library or the citizens’ forum, they will not need tomake plaintive demands for 35 % reservation. But in every village, theseinstitutions come alive only between seven and nine in the evening –when most women are confined to their homes – and this accounts fortheir absence.

In order to elicit participation in the club elections I went to seemany members of a local association (of which I had been part earlier)and held several meetings at my house. None of the members attendedthe meetings but nearly fifteen women did. On the day of election, therewere only six women with me whereas a whole contingent of men turnedup to beat us. I argued for a seat for girls. But the boy whom I had taughtwhen he was small and who had been abandoned by his father andraised by his mother, shouted fervently, ‘We men will rule the club’. Ifhis mother had left men to rule in life during his childhood, he would nothave been alive to utter these words!

We lost in the elections. Four or five men had voted for us. Thoughdefeated we decided to wind up the function with a ‘woman song’ –‘Awake and arise, sister’ – composed by the well-known writer SarahJoseph. Some girls joined me in the song but the boys hooted with greatervigour and drowned our voices. The girls felt humiliated. Later theytold others that they would never again be in my company.

Still later I came to know that on the day of the election a few clubmembers had rung up all those who had attended the meetings andmany other women to inform them that the elections had been postponed.I understood that the women had failed to come solely due to thismisunderstanding. I felt sure that these boys did not have the ability todo anything for Madakkara except project themselves with a lot of zest.These were the very boys who had scuttled the activities of theMathrubhumi Study Circle I had initiated for around thirty boys andgirls some time back. I learnt that though they did nothing creative for


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their native village, they would do everything to prevent any progressiveactivity from flourishing there.

The Game-changer at Kannur

An event that changed the course of my life completely was theKerala State Police sports meet in March 2002. Both men and womencompeted in separate events and added points to their team scores. Butsuddenly the results on the score boards were republished after deletingall the points that the women competitors had scored. This provokedwidespread protests. Every police woman started cursing the momentshe decided to leave her home in order to participate in the sports meet.Jaya and I however decided to register our protest with our superiorofficers. We approached the Kasargod SP who was in charge of the meet.He refused to listen to us but asked us to give our complaint in writtenform. In the letter I drafted that very moment, I mentioned that the removalof points gained by the police women was in violation of Sections 14 and15 of the Indian Constitution. The SP assured us that the complaintwould be considered the next day. By seven thirty the following morningfour events were conducted but the score board continued to ignore thepoints scored by women. I went back to the SP and sought an explanation.He did not like my question at all. Screwing his face in utter scorn, hesaid, ‘You women will be given a few prizes. Be content with that.’ Manyathletes and officials were present there. I saw that this was not simplythe dismissive attitude a superior officer usually assumes in front ofsubordinates. It was pride that came from his male chauvinistic beliefs.

Unable to tolerate the insult, my mind filled with resentment andmy body felt weak. I collapsed on the ground. The meet could not continuewithout someone removing me. Half an hour passed. Three uniformedpolice personnel – two policewomen and a CI – came to the scene, arrestedme and took me to Kannur Town police station. I was locked up in theWomen’s Cell even before it was eight.

While on the way to the police station, I heard the CI receivingorders on the wireless set – he was to arrange two policewomen to standguard over me and prevent any media person from seeing me. Apolicewoman guarding my cell cursed loudly, ‘Now we have to do dutyon the ground as well – all because of you! What a bother!’ She belonged



to my batch and her words hurt me. She did not have the grace to realizethat I had been arrested while trying to defend her honour as well. Ibroke down.

I was granted bail by one o’clock that afternoon. Jaya and Elizabeth,my colleagues, were responsible for it but they were not permitted to seeme. After signing the papers, as I was about to step out of the station, theCI stopped me. Then, calling a videographer and ordering him to switchon the camera, he hollered, ‘If you don’t obey me, I’ll issue a non-bailablewarrant against you and lock you up’. I was thoroughly shaken. Thenthe camera was switched off. Maybe the plan was to attack me physicallyand switch on the camera the moment I reacted to the provocation. Asthe Women’s Cell was in the upper storey the CI roared, ‘Climb upstairs!’as if ordering a criminal. I felt as helpless as the not-so-tough offenderswho are brought into the station as convicts and found myself obeyinghim immediately. Later the office-bearers of my union requested him torelease me but the CI remained adamant. He replied that I would be setfree only when my husband arrived. He had conveyed the news toDasettan by then.

When convicts go to the toilet they are not permitted to lock thedoor. They can only close it and a constable stands guard outside. I wastreated like a true convict. Remani and Sujanan sir who had alwaysbehaved decently towards me at the station now turned hostile. Veryskillfully, they arrayed false evidence against me in front of theinvestigating officer. I was released only by seven thirty in the eveningwhen Dasettan reached Kannur police station. Orders for my suspensionreached me on 26 March 2002. I now began to feel terribly isolated.

Within two months I filed a petition in the high court challengingmy suspension order. The court instructed me to appeal to my higherauthority. Although I submitted my appeal to the DIG in time, he returnedit, stating that no decision could be taken before the departmentalinvestigation was over.

Six months passed. The investigation was not concluded. Unableto withstand the uncertainty, I decided to go to the A. R. Camp atWayanad which the DIG was scheduled to attend. Dasettan accompaniedme.


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When I eventually met the DIG, he treated my case very casually.

‘Well, what is it?’

‘A letter of representation.’

‘What is it for?’

‘Sir, it’s over six months now. This is a request for my reinstatement.’

‘Reinstatement?’ He laughed at me scornfully. ‘We are thinkingabout dismissing you.’

‘This representation . . .’ I extended my letter to him, with greathumility.

‘That’s precisely what I’m talking about . . . ’

‘Sir, you must at least accept my representation,’ I pleaded again.

‘Why?’

I could not control my sorrow. I felt terribly numb too. Then,finally, summoning courage, I said, ‘Sir, I have several problems to tackle. . . . Why do you want to aggravate them further by making me stand likethis?’

‘Well . . . then . . . give it to me.’

I returned feeling utterly humiliated. I was belittled in front of myhusband and Dasettan too was distressed. Both of us rode straight toour advocate Maria’s office. I called her out and told her the entire storyamid bitter sobs. She too became uneasy. ‘You will be dismissed, that’sfor sure. They’ll do just anything to ensure it. Let’s ring upMr Rajashekharan Nair.’

Mr Rajashekharan Nair had helped me in times of crisis evenearlier. On hearing us out, he asked us to approach the high court andsecure a reinstatement order immediately. However I was not in a positionto bear the expense of a high court trial. My family was in dire straitsalready. With no clue about how to proceed, as Maria and I sat in heroffice, Mr Rajashekharan Nair rang up to convey some news. The chiefeditor of Crime Mr Nandakumar was ready to see my case through.Mr Nandakumar in turn directed me to an advocate who prepared the O.P. in half an hour.



It took six more months for the announcement of the final verdict.I had to go to court two or three times in the meanwhile. The court statedthat in the changed circumstances, any further extension of mysuspension was not at all justifiable and ordered that a favourabledecision be taken within a month. On the strength of this verdict, I receivedorders of reinstatement on 23 April 2003.

I rejoined duty two days later at the Manandavady station. Asthat was the SP’s inspection day, many police officials were present. Iserved tea and laddoos to all. Some congratulated me. Most of themonly whispered their greetings. I overhead comments like, ‘It’s too earlyyet to crow with delight. Let’s wait till May 31’. May 31 was the day ofretirement of the DGP Mr K. J. Joseph. My colleagues’ warning thatsomething untoward may happen before that day sent shivers down myspine.

In April 2002, on the eve of his taking charge as the DGP, Mr K. J.Joseph had spoken to the press of his resolve to inject masculine vigourinto the police force. He had also made certain derogatory remarks aboutthe need to expose a few policemen who were fit only to wear bangles.On reading these remarks in the newspaper, I sought advocate Maria’shelp and prepared a lawyer’s notice. It stated that the DGP’s statementswere demoralizing to women and police women in particular. As theywent against Section 15 of the Indian Constitution, were discriminatoryagainst women and sexist in content, the DGP should withdraw hisstatements, failing which a defamatory case would be filed against him.I was working at Ambalavayal station then. The DGP gave a reply noticebut refused to withdraw his statements. While on suspension later, Ifiled my case against him at the Bathery sessions court.

I would soon learn that the hints my colleagues dropped on theday I rejoined duty at Manandavady pointed to the truth. On May 17, Ireceived a show cause notice demanding that I give reasons why myservices should not be terminated. The reply had to be sent within fifteendays. As soon as I got it, I went to see my friend Jose who was on StampGuard duty. When he was alone in the guard room, I handed him theshow cause notice and wept, holding his arm tightly. He felt terriblyupset. ‘Vinaya, don’t cry. You ought not to,’ he repeated, trying to console


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me. Those were the moments when I realized a truth - my belief that Icould weather any storm was only make-believe.

The following days rained more sorrows on me. All the newspaperscarried the story of my dismissal. I had to answer many people’squestions. Several statements – whatever I made, whatever I did not andwhatever I never intended to make – reared their heads before me. Thenewspapers and magazines sensationalized my words merely to increasetheir circulation and I began to hate them.

If the print medium had handled my case in the right manner, itcould have enlightened the public on the questions I had raised and theactions they had triggered. Without running a background check, itmerely reported the events as and when they happened, on a regularbasis. This caused me great pain.

All the demands I had made regarding the 2002 sports meet –through the case filed with the help of advocate Bhadrakumari – wereaccepted by the court. The senior officers were compelled to implementthem. During the 2003 sports meet, the police women were permitted towear white pants and shirt instead of sari. Besides, all the points scoredby them were included in the final championship tally. These were nomean achievements. But no one bothered to report these facts. No onetook the trouble of finding out the reasons for my suspension. I had firsthand experience of grave journalistic lapses.

The Depth of My Fall

When certain ideas that had formed in my mind during childhoodfell into the furnace of my adult experiences, they got crystallized intoprinciples I could never discard and my life turned into a war (often alosing one) waged in defending them. Setbacks and defeats have bestowedmental conflicts, often lasting several days, on me. But these intenseexperiences have made me the Vinaya I am today – a person who confrontschallenges in a way different from any ordinary woman.

The damage that my eleven-year professional career inflicted onme – continuous punishments, frequent transfers, suspension, dismissal– has often been more than I could bear in my short life so far. But therewas always some consoling thought I could hold on to, that would leadme to take refuge under a shade of safety, however small. This was to



change dramatically on a night, seven days before I received my marchingorders. What Dasettan revealed to me that night literally decimated me.

A Dy S. P., who was Dasettan’s superior, had retired that morning.After the retirement party when Dasettan reached home it was eight inthe night. He looked very tired and from his facial expression I could seethat he seemed to have taken a firm decision on something. That morningwhen I visited Dasettan’s elder sister at her house, her son (who was alsoa policeman) stated that my imminent dismissal was my own doing. Hislack of respect for me was so galling that as soon as Dasettan stepped into our house, I told him about the incident. But he paid no heed to mystory. Instead, he said in a loud voice, ‘Vinaya, I have something to tellyou. Listen to me carefully.’

I sat down to pay attention.

‘At the Dy S. P.’s party today, you were the subject of discussionall the time.’

‘What about?’

‘There are only two options before us.’

‘Tell me,’ I was getting impatient.

‘Either you should withdraw the case you filed against the DGP,seek his pardon and plead for your reinstatement . . . Otherwise, all hisire will be directed against you and then, against me. That is what the DyS. P., Mr Mathai of the PR section and others told me. If that happens,what’ll we do?’

I had nothing to say in reply. I merely sat staring at Dasettan. Hecontinued, ‘The other way out, as I see it . . .’

‘What is it?’ I wondered.

‘You need not give up anything - your ideas or your principles.I shall commit suicide.’ He burst into tears. Then, clutching his headwith both hands, he added, ‘I don’t see any other solution, that’s why.’

I felt totally crushed. The words that fell from Dasettan’s mouthwere unbearable for me. I did not want to leave him alone for a moment,even to make a phone call. What if Dasettan moved to the next room andlocked himself up? I went up to him and hugged him tightly.


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‘Dasetta . . . I am prepared to do anything – even withdraw mycase. I shall go and see the DGP tomorrow itself. No one in this world ismore precious to me than you. Not even our children.’

I realized that I was hollow through and through. My ideas andprinciples were not more important to me than the person I loved. Iyearned to throw away everything for the sake of Dasettan who hadstood by me through thick and thin. I learnt that he was my greatestsupport. Dasettan who shouted in anger . . . who laughed . . . his sorrowswere what gave me strength. But his helplessness brought my ownvulnerability out into the open.

I was worried. Determined to ring up a couple of people and makeDasettan speak to them, I led him to our bedroom where our telephonewas. I made him lie down and rang up our advocate Maria first. She wasout of station. Next I tried Mr Rajashekharan Nair. In a fit of fear, I toldhim that I had decided to withdraw my statement because Dasettan haddecided to kill himself.

‘Vinaya, if you feel that way, do it. I won’t ever tell you to continueyour fight all the time. You have done everything you could. And so youcan take appropriate decision without any pang of conscience. If youwish to meet the DGP, do it tomorrow itself.’ I hung up.

Just then a call from Manandavady station came through. It wasthe president of our union, Mr Girishan. ‘Why did you approach thecourt over the show cause notice issue? The court has rejected it. Thiswas announced in the news just a moment ago. There’s no otheralternative before us. Your dismissal is certain. There’s nothing else todo . . .’ I had mentioned in my writ that the real right to dismiss wasvested with the appointing authority and it was the state governmentthat appointed women police. But due to lack of adequate evidence, thecourt rejected my case. Now my hopes of seeking the DGP’s pardon wereshattered. My dismissal was a dead certainty now. I rang up MrRajashekharan Nair again. I told him how the court’s rejection of myappeal strengthened the department’s position and requested him tospeak to Dasettan. They spoke for nearly half an hour. Dasettan’s griefseemed less intense and his weeping stopped.



Almost immediately there was another call. This was from Dubai– for a telephonic interview I had consented to earlier. But I told the manthat the circumstances were not right just then as Dasettan was terriblydistraught and spoke of suicide. Then I asked him to talk to Dasettan.He was a total stranger. But to me, at that moment, he seemed the answerto my desperate prayers. He too spoke to Dasettan for some time. Then Icalled up Mr Balachandran, a former office bearer of our professionalassociation and one of Dasettan’s friends, and told him the same story.They spoke to each other for a long time. In a couple of hours, much to myrelief, Dasettan became composed.

I could not afford to cry but my insides were burning. I realizedthat I had no right even to contemplate suicide. Wondering how I hadmade a virtual habit of giving pain to my loved ones, I tried to find outwhere I had gone wrong. But the effort was futile. I had done only thosethings I considered right. But they always ended in failure. Sadly Irecognized that I had become addicted to doing the right things and Ialso know that I will continue to pursue the same path.

I asked myself why I continued to act selfishly despite such setbacks.But I got no reply. All my thoughts were aimed at gaining utmostsatisfaction for myself alone. The welfare of the society and women didcome within the ambit of my thoughts but my actions were primarily formy own gratification. It appeared ironical that even painful experiencesgave me contentment. I seemed to get a fair amount of pleasure too fromthem. Yet Dasettan’s mental distress paralyzed me completely.

[Vinaya was dismissed from service on 13 June 2003]Translated from Malayalam by P. Radhika

Documents

MY STORY OR THE LIFE JOURNEY OF A YOUNG MALAYALI … 2009/4 VINAYA.pdf · Samyukta:A Journal of Women’s Studies (January 2009) Vol.9.No.1 My story or The Life Journey of a Young