18 MANUSHI

Neither A Complete SuccessNor A Total Failure

Report of A SEWA Campaign To Organise Bidi Workers

RENANA JHABWALA

I first met Anasuya when she joinedSEWA as an organiser. She was 20years old. She belongs to a communityof bidi workers and was the first girl inher family to go to college. 1 didn’t seemuch of her at first because her jobwas to mobilise savings for the SEWAbank and I was the SEWA researchexpert. We collaborated in a campaignto organise bidi workers. It was anaverage SEWA campaign, notcompletely successful, nor a totalfailure. Many other SEWA campaignswere going on at the same time but Ihave deliberately left them out toconcentrate on telling the story of“How the bidi workers got their identitycards.”

The story begins when Anasuyabrings a 40 year old, pan chewingwoman to Ela Bhatt (Elaben), SEWA’sgeneral secretary. She introduces thewoman as Zohra Bibi, a bidi workerfrom Patan. Patan is a small town, 200km away from Ahmedabad and famousfor its weaving and bidi making.

“There are thousands of us bidiworkers there”, Zohra Bibi tells us.“We have no other work and are verypoor.”

“Can’t we organise them?”,Anasuya asks eagerly, “My brothershave given me permission to go toPatan.”

“She can stay in my house”, addsZohra Bibi.

“Maybe we can start with a surveyof the bidi workers’ socio -economicconditions”, Elaben agrees.

So Anasuya and I design a surveyform with simple questions about thebidi worker’s family background, her

Most reports sent to us tend to mention only the positive outcome of variousstruggles. We found this report, by one of the full time workers of SEWA,Ahmedabad, particularly useful because it gives an idea of the actual zig zagprocess which most organising efforts go through and the persistence requiredto make very very small gains.

earnings and working conditions.Armed with 200 copies of the surveyquestionnaire, Anasuya takes the earlymorning bus to Patan where she iswelcomed by Zohra Bibi and hernumerous relatives. “The women werehappy to see me”, Anasuya reportslater. “They offered me water and thensat down to roll bidis as they answeredthe questions. Sometimes they offeredme tea or sherbet. One woman eveninvited me to her son’s wedding. Butone sleazy Mehmood Bhai keptfollowing me around. If I asked awoman a question he wouldn’t let herspeak but would insist on answeringfor her.”

Later we found out that MehmoodBhai is a member of Majoor Mahajanand a spy for the contractors. TheMajoor Mahajan, or Textile LabourOrganisation is a trade union withbranches all over Gujarat.

The results of the survey show thatmost of the bidi workers in Patan areMuslim women. All are homeworkers.Most work for a contractor, a fewdirectly for bidi traders. The women aresupplied tobacco and tendu leaves intheir houses and paid four to fiverupees for a thousand bidis—about halfof the legal minimum wage. Of thewomen 21 percent are sole supportersof their families. The rest contributesubstantially to the family income.Children help to dry the bidi leaves androll the bidis. The houses are full of

tobacco dust and most of the womenhave respiratory diseases. Mosthouses are pucca but in dilapidatedcondition. Although most women donot wear burkahs they are not allowedto leave their mohallas. Most womenare illiterate.

The survey over, Anasuya calls ameeting of the bidi workers. I take themorning bus to Patan and am surprisedto find over 200 of these usuallysequestered women gathered under abanyan tree.

“At first my husband forbade meto attend meetings. But after he metAnasuya, he saw she is a good andsimple girl and knew there would beno harm in the meeting”, Karima Bibiexplains to me.

“I had to go to each woman’shouse to convince her,” Anasuya says.“Habib Bhai, who owns a garage andis much respected by the Muslims, wasvery helpful to me. He told the womenthat bidi workers should go to themeeting and form a union. With hissupport, I could persuade many womento come.”

Anasuya begins the meeting byexplaining SEWA’s work with womenin the unorganised sector. Then I talkabout the benefits of forming a union.The women talk about their problems.

“I work 10 hours a day and earnonly five rupees”, Hava Bibi says. “Myhusband has TB and we have fourchildren.”

NUMBER TWENTY TWO, 1984 19

“The contractor gives us lesstobacco and we have to make up thedeficit from our own earnings”,complains Karima Bibi.

“The government has opened aclinic for bidi workers but the doctorrefuses to treat us,” says little Khatun.“I had high fever and my mother tookme to the clinic which is right in frontof our house. But the doctor said wewere not bidi workers because wedidn’t have identity cards. My mothershowed my hands, all stained withtobacco, but he still wouldn’t believeus. So we had to go to a private doctor,who charged Rs 25.”

“The same happened to me”, onewoman says. Others nod their heads.

“Shall we take up this problem rightaway?” I ask, “All in favour raise yourhands.” All hands go up.

“Let us form a committee and go tothe clinic”, I suggest. The womennominate Zohra Bibi, Hava Bibi andKarima Bibi, Anasuya and me, and weproceed to the clinic.

A board outside a small stonebuilding informs us that this is the BidiWorkers’ Welfare Centre (under Bidiand Cigar Workers Welfare Act). Oneroom is the bidi workers’ clinic, the restare offices. We go in and a short, thin,partly bald man looks up nervously.The nameplate on his desk says ‘N.Swaminathan, welfare officer.’ MrSwaminathan offers chairs to Anasuyaand me and gestures for the Muslimwomen to squat on the floor. Instead,we share the two chairs among the fiveof us, each balancing on half a buttock.

The welfare officer tells us that thecentre is funded from the bidi workers’welfare fund, which is collected from atax on bidi. The clinic is supposed totreat bidi workers free. It is alsosupposed to give scholarships to bidiworkers’ children and subsidies forthem to build houses. But all this isonly for bidi workers who have identitycards.

“Nobody in Patan has identitycards”, exclaims Zohra Bibi, “Ourmaliks (owners) will never give us suchcards !”

“Rules are rules”, says

Swaminathan, ending theconversation. As we go out we seethe doctor asleep on a charpai in hisempty clinic.

Out in the street, I suggest we goand talk to the malik. “You go.

He’ll get angry if he sees us”, saysKarima Bibi.

“We are your representatives.Without you we have no standing,”Anasuya insists.

There is a moment of indecision,then Hava Bibi says : “I’ll go. I’m notafraid of that blood sucker.” So we alldecide to go to the biggest malik,Amritlal Thakker.

Thakker has two shops in the mainbazar. One shop sells plastic goods andthe other is stocked with boxes of bidisand chewing tobacco. There is a biggreen and yellow sign on the awning‘’Smoke Amrit Bidi. They are No. 1",with a painting of a smiling Amritlal.We see Amrit Bhai sitting at hisstrongbox. He is about fifty, wearing awhite kurta and dhoti, and has anunshaven stubble of beard.

“What do you want?” he asks mesuspiciously. Then he sees Hava Bibiclimbing into his shop. “Down, down,you”, he shouts. Hava Bibi scuttlesdown.

A worker making bidis

20 MANUSHI

In response to my explanationsabout the bidi clinic he says : “i amonly a trader, not an employer. I knownothing about identity cards.” Herefuses to talk any more.

We return to the banyan tree wherethe bidi women are patiently waitingfor us. A few men bidi workers havejoined them. “The owners don’t wantto give us identity cards because thatwill establish an employer-employeerelationship and then they will have topay minimum wages”, the men tell us.

I describe what happened and askwhat we should do next. “We shouldgo on strike”, shouts one of the men.The women are silent. One or twoshake their heads.

“Can’t the government doanything?” asks a woman timidly.Finally the women decide to present amemorandum to the labourcommissioner.

Anasuya and I return toAhmedabad. We are followed by afrantic letter from Hava Bibi. “Mycontractor has stopped giving me work.He says if you want work go toSEWA—.” Anasuya takes the next busto Patan. “Hava Bibi is not gettingwork”, Anasuya reports on her returnthe next day. “Her daughter is ill andher husband has TB. She has no foodin her house. She doesn’t even haveanything to pawn. I went to see thecontractor, Bhure Khan, to persuadehim to take Hava Bibi back. But he onlyshouted at me, ‘Go back toAhmedabad. You are spoiling our(Muslim) women with your looseways!’”

The other women too are unwillingto help. The atmosphere seems to havechanged. “I tried to call a meeting ofthe bidi women but no one came.When I went to their houses theyturned their faces away from me”,Anasuya says.

Karima Bibi, who has accompaniedAnasuya, explains: “Everybody isafraid. The contractors are making anexample of Hava Bibi.”

What next? Of course, SEWA’slawyer files a case for reinstatement inthe labour court. But it will be years

before the case is even heard, let alonedecided. Meanwhile, what will HavaBibi and her family eat?

Hava Bibi is no stranger toadversity. Nor does she give up soeasily. “If I could get a loan, I could doa little business in threading beads”,she writes from Patan. A nationalisedbank is out of the question since HavaBibi can offer no security, and anywayit would be too long before her loangets sanctioned. Finally, Manila SEWACooperative Bank agrees to give HavaBibi a loan of Rs 300.

Meanwhile, Elaben presents a

labour minister. He is sympathetic tothe cause of bidi workers.

“I started my career organising bidiworkers into a union in my nativeSaurashtra”, he recalls wistfully.“Those days women were alwaysbehind parda and very exploited.”Suddenly he starts singing. “I roll bidisall day, behind my veil, for only eightpaise, Oh sister.”

He phones the labourcommissioner and says : “Send aninspector to Patan immediately.Arrange a meeting with the owners andcome to some agreement.”

Two days later the labourcommissioner phones Elaben. He hasfixed the meeting, but he insists thatsince Majoor Mahajan already has aunion we should collaborate with theirrepresentative.

The women are not happy with thisdevelopment “Oh no, that man isalways drunk”, says Karima Bibi.

“He is in the pocket of theowners”, adds Zohra Bibi.Nevertheless, we agree to ‘collaborate’with him.

We go to the meeting at the PatanBidi Welfare Centre. Mattresses arearranged in the room with bolstersagainst the walls. The deputy chieflabour inspector, Mr I.K. Patel, isalready leaning against a bolster. Buthe shifts uncomfortably from time totime as his trousers are too tight.Swaminathan runs to and fronervously. Elaben, Hava Bibi, ZohraBibi, Karima Bibi, Anasuya and 1arrange ourselves along one wall. Halfan hour later, five maliks come intogether, wearing starched whitekurtas and dhotis. They sit as far fromus as possible. Last, the MajoorMahajan representative, GovardhanBhai, staggers in and goes and sits withthe maliks.

“Shall we begin ?” I.K. Patel asks.“First these women must go out”,

says Amritlal Thakker, glaring at thethree Bibis. “They are our employees,we won’t bargain with them.”

“If they leave then we leave too”,says Elaben.

Amritial stands up. We stand up.

memorandum signed by 100 women tothe labour commissioner. “...Werequest you to instruct the bidi tradersto issue us identity cardsimmediately...”

“These are all home workers, theyare not proper employees,’ the labourcommissioner says doubtfully.

“But the Bidi and Cigar Actspecifically defines homeworkers asemployees”, Elaben replies.

‘They are all housewives doingsome leisure work. If we press theowners, they will stop giving themwork and these poor families will haveless income”, says the labourcommissioner and refuses to take anyaction.

Elaben takes a delegation of womenfrom Patan to Sanat Mehta, the state

No retirement age

NUMBER TWENTY TWO, 1984 21

Swaminathan scuttles over andwhispers something to Amritlai. Heglares but sits down again.

We begin with a string ofcomplaints : The maliks pay belowminimum wages. They don’t giveidentity cards. They dismiss workerswho have been with them for 30 years.They don’t deal with workers directlybut employ contractors.

The maliks retailate : The womensteal tobacco. Their bidis aresubstandard. They are always late withtheir work.

I.K. Patel steers the discussion tothe question of identity cards. “I haveonly 10 employees”, says Amritlal.

“You are a liar, you have over 100”,shouts Hava Bibi indignantly.

Amritlai stands up, outraged, andhas to be pacified by Patel andSwaminathan.

“We are not opposed to the cardsbut these workers are not constant”,says Bhala Bhai, another owner. “Oneday a mother comes, next day thedaughter, then the daughter-in-law. Inwhose name can we make a card ?”

“On the contrary, you keepchanging the names of workers on therolls so that no one can claim she ispermanent”, retorts Elaben.

However, the maliks agree toidentity cards ‘in principle.’ So it isagreed that SEWA will give a list ofworkers to the labour office, who willverify it with the maliks. Everyone hasa cup of tea and the meeting breaksup. We begin an intensive list makingcampaign, but the women are beingintimidated. “The contractor sendsmessages to my house every night. If Igive my name to SEWA he’ll stopgiving me work”, says a woman.

“Bhure Khan shouts abuse after mewhen I go out to make the list”, saysZohra Bibi. “He has also spreadrumours that I am a loose woman.”

We manage to make a list of only400 women, although there are over2,000 bidi workers in Pa tan. We submitit to the labour office but hear nothingfrom them for three weeks. Then thelabour commissioner tells us that themaliks deny that any woman on the

list is their employee.The workers’ enthusiasm is

considerably dampened now. Even themen who had wanted to go on strikesay “Don’t disturb a sleeping giant.”

“The women are no longer readyto make a union. Each woman says shewill join only after others have joined”,says Hava Bibi bitterly. “They are allafraid of the maliks”’

Anasuya stops going to Patan.Elaben writes to the bidi welfarecommissioner who is based inRajasthan, asking him to waive theidentity card rule. There is no reply.

Two years pass. SEWA has written11 letters to the welfare commissionerwithout a single reply. Hava Bibi hasfound work with another contractor.Anasuya has learnt shorthand andtyping and has taken over SEWA’ssecretarial work.

identifying the workers”, Elaben offers.“I can’t take that responsibility

alone. The state labour departmentmust cooperate with me”, says MrSharma.

The labour commissioner agrees tocooperate in issuing cards. It is decidedthat the cards will be co-signed by awelfare officer and a labour officer. Butthe chief labour inspector stalls. “It willbe my responsibility”, he grumbles, “Ifa wrong name gets in, someone mightmake a fuss which will affect mypromotions.” He manages to delayimplementation for another six months,but finally we get a letter asking us toaccompany two officers to Patan.

We write to Hava Bibi and ZohraBibi and they come to Ahmedabad.“We need a full time SEWA organiserin Patan now”, Elaben tells them. “Findan educated girl in one of your

Making bidis at home

One day a question is raised inparliament as to why the bidi welfarefund has not been spent. The centrallabour minister writes an angry letterto the welfare commissioner. Thewelfare commissioner, Mr Sharma,finally replies to our 11 letters. He iscoming to Ahmedabad, can we meethim ? He is ready to waive the rule thatthe owner should issue identity cards.Can we suggest an alternative ?

“Why can’t the welfare office issueidentity cards? We will help in

families.”Zohra Bibi brings her niece, a fiery

19 year old, educated up to tenth classand the daughter of a policeman. Shehas the same name as her aunt so wecall her “little’ Zohra. Chaperoned byHava Bibi, little Zohra escorts the twoinspectors around Patan and within aweek 700 identity cards are ready.

Then we get a postcard from littleZohra. “Respectful greetings. By thegrace of God all are well. Identity cardsare being distributed. Contractors are

22 MANUSHI

threatening to beat me. They are tearingup the cards.”

I go to Patan the next day to findhubbub outside the welfare centre.Contractor Bhure Khan stands outsidethe gate. I see him snatch a woman’sidentity card, tear it into pieces andthrow the pieces in the air. A smallgroup of women led by little Zohrastands at a distance shouting at him. Ipush past the contractor and go intothe centre to find Swaminathancowering behind his desk.

I go out to find Bhure Khan andthe women yelling abuse at oneanother. I calm down the women. Thenlittle Zohra and I walk up to BhureKhan. Seeing Zohra drives him into afury. He froths at the mouth. I talk tohim till he is calmer. Then I tell him thatthis group of women is going into thecentre and if he tries to harm usphysically, he will be in trouble withthe police. So the first group of bidiworkers gets treated at the clinic.

Two weeks later, little Zohra comesto the SEWA office. “Some women areusing the clinic now, but some areafraid and have given their cards backto the welfare centre”, she reports. Butnow there is a new problem. Bhala BhaiThakker is going to close down hisshop and give all his work tocontractors, and 52 women will losetheir jobs.

“We have decided to do a dharnaoutside his shop. You must come”, littleZohra says. But that is another story.

THERE is no denying the fact thatwomen constitute the mostunappreciated inputs in the third worldlabour force. Not only do labour forcestatistics pay scant attention to themillions of women whose contributionsgo least acknowledged, but thesewomen are also doubly oppressedbecause development planners fail torecognise the fact that women carry adouble burden of work.

A multitude of factors determinewhether or not people are able to availof rights formally pronounced to betheirs. My interview with Aklima, whois one among millions, revealed thatneither is she aware that she has a rightto a holiday on May 1, nor does shewish to avail of this right. Aklima has aholiday not because the world respectsthis day as Labour Day but becausethere is a shortage of bricks to bepounded today. The contractor senther a message that there was no workfor the day as the new consignment ofbricks has not yet arrived. However, onher way to market she walked an extraone and a half miles just to confirmwhether this was actually the case. MayDay is thus a forced holiday for her.

Holding her nine month old babyand a tattered grocery bag, Aklimastands nearby while I talk to Fulon whopounds left over bricks under a tree.

Aklima lives in a hut in a slum behindthe Jame Masjid at Rayerbazar in Dhaka.About 12 years ago, she and her parentsmigrated to the city from Barisal district.Her father, who was working as aconstruction labourer, fell to the groundfrom the roof of a four storeyed buildingand died on the spot. Since then,

Aklima’s mother has been working as amaidservant. Aklima says that theBibisaheb is kind enough to let Aklima’smother and her youngest son sleep inthe house at night. This allows Aklima’smother to save 70 taka out of her 100taka salary, as she does not have to payhouse rent. Aklima regrets that hermother does not have a house whereshe, the daughter, can go and stay forsome time if she does not want to staywith her husband. “My father is deadand my mother works in other people’shouses. I don’t even have an elderbrother. Being a woman, my luck is sobad.”

Aklima seems to be in her earlytwenties. She says she got married oneyear after national independence. Shehas two living children. Her eldest son,six years old, has to stay home all byhimself when she goes out in themorning to earn money. For the last threeyears, Aklima has been working in themorning as a part time maidservant.Before her marriage, when her fatherdied, she had started working as hermother’s helper on construction sites.

Pointing to her nine month old son,she says : “This time, I started my workwhen he was only 10 days old. I couldnot bear starvation any more—ghorekono khaon achilo na.”Once, when hermother realised that Aklima wasstarving, she decided not to let her goback to her husband for some months.Aklima explains : “I was married onlyfor my bare survival, so that I wouldget food and clothing. When this bareminimum was not available, why shouldmy mother let me go back to myhusband?”

Aklima andMay Day

SHAMIMA ISLAM

Follow UpVimochana women’s forum,

Bangalore, have written to say that theymet the chief minister, Karnataka, onMarch 23, to discuss the beating up ofwomen demonstrators on March 8,reported in Manushi No, 21. Heapologised to them and assured themthat an enquiry would be conductedby a district magistrate. Vimochanawomen feel that this gain has beenpossible because of the solidarity andsupport expressed by other women indifferent places, who protested againstthe police violence on women inBangalore.

NUMBER TWENTY TWO, 1984 23

Aklima’s husband is also a daylabourer in construction work. He movesall over the city wherever he can findwork. He works from morning to 5 p.m.According to Aklima, he can pound 100to 125 bricks a day. For 100 poundedbricks he is paid 12.50 taka, so hisearnings are 12 to 15 taka a day.However, there is no guarantee that hewill always find work. Usually, he getswork only 15 or 20 days in a month. Heis supposed to buy food from hisearnings but Aklima says that he spendsmore on his own food than on food forthe family.

Aklima has never used any form ofcontraceptive because her husband didnot allow her to do so. “Many peopledie after using it”, he said, Aklimaregretfully says : “I never realised thatmy material situation would deteriorateso much. Otherwise, I would have atleast thought about using it.”

Aklima can pound about 25 bricksin an afternoon. She thus earnsapproximately 3 taka. In the morning,she works as a maidservant in aneighbouring house. She gets 50 taka amonth there, but no food. At noon, shegoes home, eats a roti and gives one toher son, then walks to the worksite,taking both children with her.Throughout the afternoon, as shepounds bricks, the baby rests on herlap, clinging to her breasts. When sheputs him down on the ground, she canfeel a little relaxed. The presence of thetwo children makes it difficult for her topound more bricks. Heaving a greatsigh, she says : “I wish there was a littlemore shade on the roadside. Usually,young mothers with tiny children haveto work in almost inhuman conditionson these worksites where you cannotfind any form of shade anywhere.”

Aklirna feels grateful to her currentemployer who allowed her to take thebaby to work in the morning, so thatshe could suckle him, when he was anew born. Aklima laid down thiscondition because she fully remembershow she lost her second son when shewas at work in another house. Since shewas not allowed to bring her one and a

half year old baby to the house whereshe worked previously, she used toleave him at home, in the care of herfour year old son. One day she fed thebaby at 11 a.m., left him asleep, and wentto work. When she returned at 1 p.m.she could not find him anywhere. Later,he was found lying drowned in a nearbyditch. Sighing, she explains : “Probablyhe followed his brother to the ditch. Heused to be attracted by the waterhyacinths and must have fallen inwithout being noticed. I still do not knowexactly what happened. This is just myguess.”

Despite the bad working conditionsAklima prefers the construction job todomestic service, because “there is fullindependence. I don’t have to workwhen I don’t want to. Also, nobody canstop me from bringing my children towork. I lost my best looking childbecause I had to leave him alone.” Shewas in tears as she said: “You sahebsordinarily do not touch our dirtychildren. But the one I lost was sohandsome that he looked like sahebs’children. Nobody could believe that hewas my son. I lost him only because Iwent out to fill my stomach.”

Of the various kinds of constructionwork available to women, Aklima prefersbrick pounding work. She is not willingto work in roof construction sincecontractors do not let women engagedin that work bring their children to theworksite. Aklima says that these daysmore women prefer to work asconstruction labourers rather than asmaidservants, even though domesticservants are often better paid, since theyget food, clothing and shelter almostfree, and can save their salaries. Aklimafeels that domestic work is nothing but“constant slavery” where a woman doesnot have any freedom at all.

From her own meagre income ofapproximately 100 taka a month, Aklimahas to pay 80 taka as house rent. Shespends approximately 50 paise a dayon the two children. As the baby doesnot now get breastmilk, she has to feedhim with flour. Sometimes she buys hima little gur. She cannot spend anything

on herself. In a grim voice, she says:“Now I have to buy my husband clotheswhen he needs them.” He quarrels almostevery day with her, saying: “Why not?What is the use of your earning if 1 haveto do everything myself?” She dependson other well to do women, usually thewomen of the house where she works aspart time maidservant, for her ownclothes. She says she has never had anew sari in her life.

At night she cooks fresh rice fordinner and plain roti for next day’sbreakfast and lunch She has to buythree fifth seer of wheat from the rationshop every week with which she feedsthe family twice a day. She pays for thisfrom her own income. Sometimes shehas to arrange for loans. Her husbandonly pays for the rice at night. She sighsand says: “If only rice price was a littlelower.”

Aklima feels bitter that her husbandquarrels with her all the time, blamingher for his bad luck and his poverty. Forthe last few days she has startedcooking separately. “Let me see if heimproves”, she says. She feels sad whenher husband blames her even forfeeding his people. She says : “I do nothave relatives who come and eat in thehouse. It is his relatives who often comeat mealtimes. Can I refuse to feed my in-laws when they come to visit ? Thesedays, I just look at them and sit tight. Iam not going to cook for anybody.”

She is planning to follow herneighbour’s advice and hire a separatehut for herself. She can get one withoutany provision of water for 60 taka. Shesays : “For my own use, I can easilyfetch a pot of water from the place whereI work. Let him manage on his own.”Aklima is quite aware that such anaction would mean freeing him from anyobligation. Yet she thinks this will offera better quality of life for her since shewill not be forced to quarrel every day.She thinks women can escape povertyonly if they become part of the labourforce and are able to earn. She aspiresfor the kind of job which will help herescape starvation and will also be freefrom drudgery.