14 January,2018 06:32 AM IST | Mumbai | Sumedha Raikar Mhatre
Sushama Deshpande who has portrayed Savitribai Phule in the 75-minute play Whaay Mee Savitri (Yes I am Savitri) since January 1989 says that when she presents the Hindi version Ha Main Savitribai in the villages of Chhattisgarh, Uttarakhand and Madhya Pradesh, she encounters more curiosity about Savitribai than during her her performances in Mumbai and Pune. Pic/Ashish Raje
Each time I see it, a question pops up: Could there be a more imaginative, a bit lyrical and a bit more inspiring watchword than a bland, uni-dimensional, pat one? If the idea was to bring out the large-scale societal impact of women's education, as against the restricted individualistic impact of men's education, the low-effort four word rhyme, built in the present tense, doesn't succeed even half-way in conveying the sentiment.
Yet, surprisingly, the tagline was much appreciated in the state government circles as an example of succinct messaging. Bollywood singer Ila Arun declared at a Doordarshan award event that whenever she read the slogan written on the back of an autorickshaw in Mumbai, it reminded her of the excellent work done for the cause of the girl child. I find it ironic that the Mulgi Shikli, Pragati Zhali vanilla-white underwhelming construct - borrowed in many government initiatives (an essay writing competition, a tele-serial and not to forget several You Tube videos) - emerges from a Maharashtra whose public discourse on women's rights is pretty evolved and nuanced and supposedly ahead of other Indian states. Maharashtra boasts of the country's first female teacher Savitribai Phule (1831-97), who opened the first girls' school in Pune in 1848, exactly 170 years ago. Savitribai's birth (January 3) and death (March 10) anniversaries are celebratory commemorative occasions to acknowledge a woman's courage in taking on three forces (patriarchy, caste system and British rule) while upholding the model of a girl's school.
The busts of Savitribai and Jyotiba at Phulewada in Pune. Pic/Mandar Tannu
This year, January 3rd was unusually violent and led to shutting of schools, but otherwise it is a happy reiteration of the need to take Savitribai's legacy forward, both at the government policy level and also in terms of the civil society response. That is exactly why Mulgi Shikli, Pragati Zhali and sundry other taglines (Deshala Havet Shivba, Jijau, Mahnun Striyana Manane Vaagvu - another flaccid repeat of the need to rear and respect strong mothers like Jijabai who raised Shivaji; more contrived is Vichar Kara Aani Paul Uchla, Shikshanache Shashtr Dya Mulila which encourages us to empower women with education) seem limp and laboured. In fact, vigour and vitality in social messaging should have come naturally to modern Maharashtra's communication apparatus. But it is lacking and it shows. We dare not admit, but there is no connect and a sense of answerability towards any of our pioneering figures, be it Babasaheb Ambedkar, Mahatma Phule or Shahu Maharaj.
This writer acted in this street play named Mulgi Zhali Ho (A girl is born) which toured in and out of Maharashtra
Savitribai has turned into our poster girl to counter inconvenient statistical data on crimes against women. When the National Crime Record Bureau ranks Maharashtra third in crimes committed against women (2016) accounting for 4,189 cases (10.7 per cent) after Madhya Pradesh and Uttar Pradesh, we seek refuge in the fact that one of Maharashtra's premier cities nurtured India's first female teacher, who along with her revolutionary husband Jyotirao not just fought for the rights of Dalits and women, but also founded the first women's school at Bhide Wada. We mention the duo in almost every cause associated with women. We institute awards and girls' hostels in their names. There has been a long-standing demand to declare Savitribai's birth anniversary as the 'real' Teacher's Day. We rechristened Pune University after Savitribai in November 2014; although uninformed souls said it was meant to appeal to Dalits, particularly the Mali caste of the Phules. We are armed with pet lines like: Better late than never in honouring the youngest Indian teacher (17) who faced stones and cow dung on her way to school; the child bride who worked to improve the lives of widows by dissuading barbers from shaving the heads of widows. Worse is the fact that we begin to attribute lofty poetry to Savitribai. Historians have expressed doubts about the veracity of the letters and poems that were recently released in her name, especially considering the flourish in the language.
Actress-activist Sushama Deshpande has a theory about Maharashtra's glib tributes to Savitribai and Jyotirao. Having presented 3,000-odd shows of the 75-minute play Whaay Mee Savitri (Yes I am Savitri) since January 1989, she has a rare insight into why the Phule couple has become a handy feel-good drawing room conversation starter in Maharashtra. When she presents Whaay Mee Savitri in the villages of Chhattisgarh, Uttarakhand and Madhya Pradesh, she encounters piercing questions about Savitribai after the show. Men come forward to ask about the tensions in her life, her tenacity to continue Phule's fight against caste hierarchy after his death. There is respect for a Dalit caste member who died while nursing plague victims. Deshpande can sense curiosity about the couple's surprisingly equal partnership in marriage. She enjoys performing the Hindi version (as against Marathi) out of Maharashtra. In Mumbai and Pune or any urban part of the state, the audience has the smug "we-have-already-read-about-Savitribai" smile.
Interestingly, there is a seeming surfeit of information about Jyotirao, although very few have delved into Savitribai's life. It was only five years ago that her photo was released (as the recognised original) in the public domain. Funny as it sounds, for a long time many NGOs and government undertakings took Sushama Deshpande's play stills to represent Savitri.
In the eighties and nineties, when Doordarshan was the only TV channel, Google unavailable as a research tool and banks indulged in 'politically incorrect' loans for daughters' marriages, I used to act in a street play named Mulgi Zhali Ho (A girl is born) which toured in and out of Maharashtra celebrating the birth of a girl child. Borrowing heavily from Marathi folk forms, the play's opening line was devoted to trailblazer Jyotiba (Karoo Pahila Naman Jyotibala, Jyana Stree Muktila Janma Dila), who laid the foundation of the women's movement in India. Whenever the play was performed in Delhi or Mussorie or Panaji, the audience invariably termed us as "a fortunate women's troupe" from Maharashtra. As a performer, as a wide-eyed 18-year-old collegian, I didn't realise the significance of the good luck I had inherited. Today, after the passage of three decades, I know what fortune means - it is to be born to parents who intrinsically encouraged me to be part of a travelling play; it is to be studying in a college that recognised theatre as legitimate extra-curricular work. As independent women, there are many freedoms we take for granted. For the everyday mobility that enriches us, for the way we conduct ourselves in the public realm, we are indebted to that first Mulgi who started it.
Sumedha Raikar-Mhatre is a culture columnist in search of the sub-text. You can reach her at sumedha.raikar@gmail.com
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