Action women

‘‘From my childhood I dreamt of joining the armed forces,’’ says Madhu Thakur. ‘‘I was fortunate to have family support. And when I got married my husband was in the CRPF too.’’ Thakur knows how fortunate she is—she is familiar with the kind of fight women around her have put up in order to join the forces.

‘‘It was a struggle to get into the force,’’ says sub-inspector Mini Kumari. ‘‘It took a lot to convince my husband. I wanted to change the way girls were looked upon in our village.’’ She seems to have succeeded in her attempt. She is a role model for girls in her village—Raug in Himachal Pradesh—who crowd around her every time she goes visiting.

CHECKING and frisking women, controlling crowds and riots and conducting insurgency operations are some of the duties of the Mahila Battalion. Their combat gear weighs no less than 16 kg.

‘‘During the Gujarat riots, we had to lathicharge and throw tear gas shells to control the mob,’’ says Havaldar Madhu Thakur. ‘‘It was a wild crowd. Not for a moment did I think that I was a woman. I just performed my duty.’’ Thakur has been serving in the CRPF for the past 14 years now. Her husband is posted in Jammu and her 7-year-old son lives in her maternal home. ‘‘The only thing that hurts is that my son doesn’t recognise me. He calls me masi (aunt),’’ she says. Her quick smile can’t hide the pain.

Today is a Sunday, a rest day for some of them. In an ‘ops’ area, there are many restrictions.

Inside, the rules are bent just a little. Sundays are for late risers. The residential quarters resemble any other girls’ hostel. Inside the TV room, Shah Rukh Khan’s voice fills the space. The girls are busy watching Main Hoon Na. In one corner of the room, a girl is applying henna on another’s hair.

‘‘Sundays are ekdum free. On other days there is hardly any time so we keep it for personal grooming,’’ says Thakur. I ask them for names of beauty saloons in Srinagar. A list of parlours and their addresses follow promptly along with personal recommendations. ‘‘Going to these parlours is a huge security risk for us. We will have to deploy 4-5 people for their security outside,’’ says assistant commandant Karuna Rana.

A single room shared by 5 or 6 girls is squeaky clean. The wall are bare, no posters, no family photographs, just a calendar with some dates marked. ‘‘I have them (family) all the time in my heart,’’ says constable Renuka Saiyyam. Saiyyam’s joining the forces is something of a chance. She filled the form meant for her brother when he realised that he was not eligible. ‘‘Initially everybody wondered how I could do this. But I stuck to my guns,’’ says Saiyyam.

So did these girls who have come from all parts of India find any good- looking Kashmiri boys here? ‘‘No. It’s not necessary that when we go out we meet someone nice,’’ says a constable before adding, ‘‘we have to be very alert at duty so we can’t afford to take any such chances.’’

BUT love does bloom amidst guns, grenade attacks and bomb blasts. Many in the forces have chosen their partners from either the same battalion or the BSF or the army. And these couples defy caste and religious diktats. ‘‘It did take a lot of time for our parents to consent to our wedding but we waited patiently,’’ says an officer who married outside her religion.

‘‘For a woman to serve in the armed forces is like a mission,’’ says commandant Aprajita R. ‘‘The entire family has to contribute. The husband also has to make sacrifices. The children have to come to terms with the fact that their mother can’t be there all the time.’’

These are just a few of their concerns. Every day they step out from the CRPF Complex at Bemina, not knowing what the next 24 hours will bring for them. In Kashmir, anything can happen, any time.

‘‘In 1993, militants attacked the radio station,’’ remembers guard commander Chimsum, ‘‘It was the first time I heard the deafening explosion of a bomb blast. It was scary at first.’’ Her eyes widen and her hands flap around theatrically as she explains the magnitude of the attack. ‘The entire Morcha fell down. We immediately took positions.’’

The other challenge of course is hostility of male colleagues, many of whom find it hard to accept the presence of women in ‘their’ domain.

‘‘In the beginning I had to face a situation where duties assigned to me were not in keeping with my rank. It was very frustrating and humiliating,’’ says a woman officer.

On the recent suicide by a woman army officer, Aprajita says, ‘‘If behind every successful man there is a woman, then behind every woman’s suicide there is a man.’’

Perhaps, it’s due to such pressures at work that many women in the Mahila Battalion don’t recommend this career to their friends and relatives. ‘‘It looks glamorous from the outside,’’ says a woman constable. ‘‘I would never encourage my family or friends to join it.’’

At the same time compulsions of running their homes since often they are the only earning members, force them to plod on. ‘‘Now I think I should complete twenty years, kum se kum pension to milegi,’’ Thakur says.

While for some it’s just a job that gets them money, for others it’s definitely more than that.