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‘Ek garbhvati mahila ke baare mein sochiye - usse kaantedar, ghas bhare raaston se, jahan zameen bhi dikhai nahin deti, apne sir par pani ke 10 bartan le jaane padte hain. Ghas mein saanp bhi hote han, lekin phir bhi use jana hi padta hai.’ (Think about a pregnant woman—she has to carry 10 vessels of water on her head through these thorny, grassy paths where you can’t even see the ground. There are snakes in the grass, but she still has to go).
Our study, based in Rajasthan’s Karauli district and the Bundelkhand region of Madhya Pradesh, brings out women’s embodied experiences of water insecurity.
In rural India, access to water is not only a necessity for survival but also a deeply political resource. It is unequally distributed across lines of gender, class, caste and religion. Reading (Rege, S. (2006). Writing caste/writing gender: Reading Dalit women's testimonios. Zubaan) helps us observe the inseparability of caste hierarchy and patriarchal control in the Indian rural context. Their membership in water-user groups or regulatory bodies remains nominal, as mere forms of tokenistic representation. Effective water governance plays a fundamental role in ensuring increased water potential and security. As Cornwall & Gaventa opined back in 2000, the time has come to shift the narrative of women from ‘users and choosers’ to ‘makers and shapers’ of water resources.
Across all villages, water access is commodified. The landed Gurjars of Bhojpura and Karauli converted their economic capital into hydraulic capital by establishing private borewells. Those at the bottom of the hierarchy, the Jatavs, get excluded from access to private and public water resources. Economic exploitation takes place within the same caste groups, too, with individuals who are economically better off charging a ‘water rent’ (Dubash, N. K. (2002). Tubewell capitalism: Groundwater development and agrarian change in Gujarat. Oxford University Press). This hierarchy mirrors old feudal bonds. While the caste hierarchy may have flattened, individuals who belong to a higher class or own assets manage to reproduce similar forms of exclusion (Shah, A. (2008). Caste in the 21st century: From system to elements. Economic and Political Weekly, 43(46), 109–116).
While this village is dominated by the members of the same caste, a few economically vulnerable farmers do not have borewells of their own. In such a situation, they have to pay for its usage, amounting to Rs 2,500-Rs 3,500 for one field. The villagers were dissatisfied with the situation, and one respondent expressed his concerns:
'Yadi aap ek acre mein 10 quintal gehu ugaate hain, to kam se kam teen quintal paani upalabdh karaane vaale vyakti ko jaata hai. Baki teen quintal beejon ki laagat aur kharchon mein chala jaata hai. Ant mein kisaan ke lie kuchh bhee nahin bachata.’ (If you grow 10 quintals of wheat on one acre, at least three quintals go to the person who provided the water. Another three quintals go toward the cost of seeds and other expenses. In the end, nothing is left for the farmer).
This inequity prevails not only in access to irrigational facilities but also in drinking water. When formal water infrastructure fails, women’s bodies take on the burden automatically.
‘Bojh kispe hota hain? - humpe hi hain na, humko itni door se sar pe rakh ke laana padhta hain. Roz 2 kilometres... Do baar teen baar.’ (Who bears the burden? Women do. We carry the utensils on our head for such long distances — walk 2 kilometres every day, twice or thrice a day.’ — our female participants expressed.
In our interviews, men merely acknowledge women’s role in collecting drinking water during times of trouble. However, this does not translate into accountability. They refuse to share the burden of dividing water collection responsibilities. The water crisis takes a more insidious form when notions of pollution and purity are attached to it. Particularly in the Jatav community, untouchability still exists.
The Gurjars treat a community borewell built by the Sarpanch as a private resource, claiming ‘je mera haq hain' (this is my right), and refuse to let the Jatav community fill their vessels there. These forms of exclusion manifest overtly. Denial of water resources for Dalit communities has a long, drawn-out historical and political tradition in India.
Women’s inclusion in water governance is heavily layered — shaped by caste, institutional history, class and age. Across the districts, we captured either absolute silence or tentative self-assertion. In neither case, however, did the women openly step out of the socially constructed boundaries.
Men often assert that women lack the knowledge to participate in meetings; however, the reproductive labour performed by women denies them the time to become informed. This leads to an internalisation of inadequacy. The Gurjar women reported not understanding the ‘men’s language'. This could either point to the technical jargon used or the language of authority. This, in itself, is a form of epistemic violence (Dotson, K. (2011). Tracking epistemic violence, tracking practices of silencing. Hypatia, 26(2), 236–257). Spivak's Can the Subaltern Speak? (1988) helps us interpret this condition — these women have been led to believe that their words hold no institutional value.
An extremely compelling statement from a Jatav woman points to women’s bodies as sites of water injustices. A pregnant woman carrying vessels of water through snake-infested grass is not a demonstration of her courage or sense of responsibility. It points to the absence of proper governance and management of resources. Their bodies bear the burden of the physical danger and vulnerability of having to manage the meagre resources they have – a reality never brought up in governance meetings.
This creates a gap between whose body bears the cost and whose voice influences the management of resources.
A counter-narrative emerges in Lakhepur and Banyani villages, wherein women suggest a generational shift is possible. While education is one pathway to increased participation, it is not the only one. In Prem Bai’s case, experience, grounded knowledge and memory helped better utilisation of resources. Emerging as the most resourceful water manager, her experience is embodied. Her individual action, however, results from collective inaction and failure.
Similarly, the Meena women of Daulatpura village, Karauli, disrupt several dominant norms. These women are not ‘waiting’ to be empowered — they already have. They are capable enough, and the removal of structural barriers would aid them in navigating formal institutions. There is a clear need for a decentralisation of power, especially in water governance. Doing so would help dismantle local hierarchies of gender, class, caste and religion.
Prarthana Lumba works at the intersection of exploration and impact as a Project Executive in the Research Vertical at SRIJAN.
Stutilina Pal brings both depth and direction to her role as Program Director at SRIJAN, where she has been influencing systems since 2006.
Views expressed are the authors’ own and don’t necessarily reflect those of Down To Earth.