‘It’s her job’: In water-starved Chambua near Udaipur, women are disproportionately affected

Kotla block in Udaipur district of Rajasthan lies a few kilometres south of Udaipur city. But while the latter is known for its lakes, Kotla suffers acute water crisis, lack of adequate irrigated land and glaring poverty.

I visited several villages in Kotla in April last year for a project on the impact of reverse migration during COVID-19 on female labour participation rates.

But what struck me was the area’s water crisis. With temperatures as high as 38 degrees Celsius and hot winds (lu; synonymous with Rajasthan summers) blowing, the area felt drier than it was. 

The landscape was very different from any other state I had visited.

On either side of a narrow lane off the main highway (Pindwara-Udaipur), shrubs had shrivelled up, looking like they had not tasted water in days.

A winding road led up to the villages. Chambua, one of the villages on my list, was located atop a hill. It has a history of lack of water and electricity supply. As we approached the village, the phone network vanished.

Located in an almost inaccessible terrain, the village was inhabited only by people from the Garasia and Bhil tribes. Every house was perched on a hillock and the distance between each was around a kilometre.

When I asked why they still lived so far removed from civilisation, they said these homes were their ancestral property. They had been a part of this particular landscape for a very long time.

The absence of water in the area makes it next to impossible for any crops to grow; only slightly economically better-off families can afford to grow corn (makka) in their fields.

Located on a hill, neither animals nor tractors can be used in agricultural activities; therefore making the entire process of crop production labour-intensive.

The families which do not have agriculture to fall back on as a livelihood option, opt for the sale of non-timber-related forest products. Within this belt, the collection of mahua, which is used in making local alcohol, is popular. Tendu leaves, too, are used as a form of sustenance, as women from these localities use the same for making beedi.

These livelihood options, though, have their own drawbacks. Both trees are seasonal in nature — only growing adequately during the months of May and June. The tribals are left to fend for themselves all year round; either engaging in however little mazduri (labour work) or choosing to migrate to nearby cities in search of work.

In this village, I met a 70-year-old woman in one of the houses with a thatched roof made of dried hay and sticks. The locals call her Daadi (paternal grandmother) and she spoke in an unnamed language that sounded like a mixture of Mewari, Marwari and Gujarati.

Her home, as well as the neighbouring houses, did not have access to any hand pump or borewell. Located at the height they were, Daadi told us how she walks downhill four to five times a day in order to collect water.

The water comes from a well located in a khai (ravine) some 2-3 kilometres away from her home. All the members of her family have migrated to find work; Daadi lives alone with her two grandsons aged six or seven. The children assist her in household chores and water collection, making it impossible for them to attend school.

When Daadi welcomed me into her home, it was 1 pm. By then, she had already been downhill thrice to collect water in cans and containers.
She said she stores the water in a hole dug in the ground near her house. In the event of rain, however, the water tends to get contaminated. But they consume it anyway, she added.

“Agar humare paas handpump hota, toh aisa paani nahi peena padhta. Paani hain to sab hain - paani nahi ho toh fasal mein daale kya. Paani ho to saari bimari khatam.” (If we had a hand pump, we would not have had to consume such water. If we have water, we have everything. If not, we cannot grow any crops. With adequate access to water, all diseases can be prevented).

Speaking to individuals from nearby homes, I understood that the process of water collection is extremely gendered in nature. Water, too, in this manner, developed a social context of its own.

The women of the household were employed in both unpaid care and paid work, and they were also responsible for the collection of water.

On being asked who goes to collect water, an Anganwadi worker immediately replied “aurat ka kaam hota hain”.(It is a woman’s work).

“Ghar mein aurat rehti hain — aadmi kaam karenge toh dusre log sochenge ki aadmi inka gulaam hain, isiliye ghar ka kaam karta hain. Toh aadmi ki izzat ghathti hain. Khudh main bhi karti houn. Dusre log dekhte hain, bolte hain yeh kuch nahi karti, ghar waalon se karvati hain — toh apne ko sharam aati hain.”
(A woman stays at home. If men work at home, then others will think that men are our slaves. Their respect reduces. I also go to collect water. If not, the others taunt us by saying that we do not do any work ourselves, and make our household members work instead.)

Acting as a form of surveillance and control, the act of filling water, too, sets the norm of who collects it, and who gets to consume the most of it. Not seen as a form of power or disciplinary mechanism, the women have resigned to fate — doing what is asked of them without a question.

At one point, Daadi looked exasperated and said something to the two ASHA workers who were translating her words for me.

“Daadi bol rahi hain meri madat karne aaye ho ya aise hi puchrahe ho.” (Daadi is asking whether you have come to help her, or if you are here only to ask questions).

I had nothing to say in response — nothing I could say or do would have justified the situation. Usually, after a round of speaking to individuals, I feel a sense of fulfilment, and a greater understanding of their socioeconomic situation, and the problems plaguing their village.

This time, however, I was filled with a sense of guilt and helplessness.

Nearby, I heard a mother hen calling out to her baby chicks and a cow mooing for more fodder. Time, for me, had slowed down. Meanwhile, Daadi’s world went on. It had to: She had a livelihood to make.

Leaving her quarters, I got into a Bolero. The car was already cool inside due to the AC and there were three full Bisleri water bottles lying on the seat.

Working in the social sector, more often than not, you feel a sense of disillusionment. A constant dichotomy between what you see on the field and how you choose to interpret it. We take notes, observe our ‘subjects’, collect data and write reports on them. All the while treating them as far removed from reality, little realising how much of the work done by us is theirs to own — the time they could have spent making a living, goes into speaking to us. How, then, must we tackle issues of such greater ethical concerns?

How can we accord justice to the individuals we speak to — those who, in a way, help build our own careers? While some work leads to greater outcomes and benefits, others are merely exploratory in nature — mine was part of the latter.

Prarthana Lumba works as a research associate with SRIJAN. Her research interests are in the fields of gender, sexual and reproductive health, power politics, livelihood development, masculinity and culture studies.

Views expressed are the author’s own and don’t necessarily reflect those of Down To Earth.

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