Varón de 37 años

Women on the production line doing finishing work under the oversight of a thēkēdār

This chapter builds on the final section of the last, continuing the focus on female workers. Whilst the previous chapter dealt with women’s locations within supply chains, here the focus shifts to work within both factory and home. Initially this chapter continues the discussion on networks among women and focuses on the gendered nature of working environments and how processes of recruitment and ‘learning to labour’ take place. In addition, the chapter deals with the nature of competition and relations among women, and between men and women. Whereas the previous chapter dealt with this in terms of homeworkers, this chapter explores relations between homeworkers and factory workers, and between Muslim and non-Muslim workers. This inter-religious dynamic is set in the context of a recent influx of Chamar women into the industry. Finally, the chapter discusses the ways in which both homeworkers and factory workers navigate the morality of engaging in paid work. These negotiations are

contextualised in terms of chal-chalan (reputation/character)130 _{both amongst workers}

themselves and with regard to wider society.

This forms a particularly difficult terrain, not least in the context of my own positionality. As mentioned in the introduction of this thesis, much of the empirical data discussed here was gathered by Ayesha with only later visits involving myself. Her voice, therefore, is very much a part of these stories. On my return to the field, a year after my initial departure, I presented Ayesha with, what was then, a draft version of this chapter. For Ayesha there were certain areas that had not been sufficiently addressed. It is with Ayesha’s words that I start:

“Due to this work there is a lot of competition between neighbours. In Manak Mau131 _{the situation was very controversial because there live both} Muslim and Chamari ladies. Both sets of ladies criticised each other but the main friction was about the work. The Hindu ladies thought that the Muslim ladies were characterless as they came late at night. They wore the burkha but they did not really care about purdah or follow the system. When I went there at 9pm the Muslim ladies were in their homes and the Chamari ladies were coming later as they have no veil system. On the other hand Muslim ladies criticise Chamari ladies, they think that they never need money but just go for enjoyment. In Kajour Tala I met one lady who was not mentioned in this chapter. She was very tortured by her husband because she was not pretty. He ran away to another town.

Another important point is that some young lady workers are doing this work only for dowry. You know they have a dream in their mind ‘oh today I have to do lots of work, when money will come I can buy this pot or some piece of jewellery’. This is a big reason pushing them to work. Parents also force their daughter’s to do this work for their dowries”.

Ayesha’s comments begin to hint at the complex reasons for participating in paid work and the fact that the gendered nature of work amongst women in Saharanpur is cross- cut by other distinctions such as caste, religion and status. I return to this shortly but begin with a broader discussion of Muslim women and work in India and beyond.

130 _{Not an easily translatable term but broadly speaking it means character, reputation or ‘how society sees you’. It}

carries a great deal of weight and strength and is used mostly, although not exclusively, by, and with reference to, women.

Contextualising Muslim Women & Work in India

A great deal of the literature around Muslim women and work in India focuses on ‘low labour force participation’ (i.e. Das, 2005; Mistry, 1998; Raju, 1999)132_{. Using the Muslim}

Women’s Survey (MWS)133_{, Hasan & Menon (2005) suggest participation is around 14%.} This they compare to other marginalised groups such as Scheduled castes (30%) and Other Backwards Castes (22%). Das (2005) suggests this is larger with 36% of Hindu and 16% of Muslim women participating in paid work134_{. These differing figures hint at} potential issues in the data. Indeed, most contributors acknowledge the problematic of defining labour force participation (Olsen & Mehta, 2006)135 _{and the tendency of} respondents themselves to discount some types of economically contributory work (Hasan & Menon, 2004) which blur categories of ‘housework’, ‘homework’ and ‘paid work’. According to MWS136 _{results, urban Muslim women in North India are most likely} to be categorised as ‘self-employed’ (60%) and are primarily involved in artisan trades137 (Hasan & Menon, 2004). Generally the focus regarding Muslim women in North India is on homework (i.e. Scrase, 2003; Wilkinson-Weber, 1999; Bhatty, 1987). Indeed, some tie this up with notions of seclusion and see it as an active choice (Bhatty, 1987). This tends toward a conclusion that North Indian Muslim women do not ‘go out’ to work. As mentioned, larger factories of Saharanpur often employ both Muslim and Hindu women. This is not to say that such considerations play no part. However, it eludes to a complex series of discussions which require some unpacking.

Islam and women’s labour have long had a somewhat frictional relationship. Tripp (2006), for example, sees this as playing out between the ambivalence of capitalism, with its apparent gender-blindness, and Islam’s emphasis on gender segregation. He argues that a “socially embedded market was by no means gender blind: women were regarded as a cheaper form of labour” (p.168). Whereas Tripp focuses on the role of

132 _{This stands in contrast to studies of Muslim women in South East Asia and, to a lesser degree, Bangladesh. A point}

I shall return to later.

133 _{The Survey covered nearly 10,000 Indian women comprising 80% Muslim and 20% Hindu.} 134 _{NSSO (1994).}

135 _{Olsen & Mehta discuss how definitions of labour force participation vary from country to country, often exclude}

more subtle forms of economic contribution and entirely ignore domestic work. Raju (1993) adds that the definitions are often “inadequate in a partially commoditised economy where a significant portion of goods and services are produced for self-consumption” (p.2).

136 _{Muslim Women’s Survey (2001)}

male scholars in laying out the moral terrain for Muslim women, Mahmood (2005) suggests that too often ‘western’ or ‘universalist’ claims of human rights or feminist discourse paint an image of Muslim women (particularly those ascribing to values of piety and purdah) as agentless, submissive to patriarchal systems and self-defeating in their cultural practice. Mahmood asks that we move away from seeing such constructions as resulting only from external forces and instead consider how they are “…not so much an attribute of the body [but a] characteristic of the individual’s interiority, which is then expressed in bodily form” (p.161). Just as expressions of piety can be constraining, Mahmood brings to light the ways in which its practice simultaneously opens up certain capacities and resources. For those attempting to follow a more observant doctrine, engagement with labour markets can be particularly challenging (ibid)138_{. However, unlike Mahmood’s examples from Cairo, not all of the} women discussed here saw themselves as particularly observant or pious. For many more practical concerns were foremost, particularly those facing the greatest levels of poverty. Yet even here notions of chal-chalaan and concerns around purdah were a part of women’s negotiation of work. However, purdah itself is not a fixed moral terrain but rather one that is negotiated in a variety of ways. Before returning to the ethnographic narrative it is necessary to unpack this in further detail.

Purdah & Work: Labouring behind & in-front of the Curtain

To the outside eye Saharanpur, or the Muslim neighbourhoods at least, give the appearance of relative conservatism in the practice of purdah. Yet, the relationship with, and effect upon, work and economic interaction is little explored. The application of purdah varies from region to region and according to caste and social status. As Hasan & Menon (2004) suggest: “In the north zone (Uttar Pradesh and Bihar), which is generally more conservative and patriarchal, cultural norms govern women’s work outside and often work is treated as a mark of low status” (p. 117). It is, however, important to emphasise that this is not exclusive to North Indian Muslims. Indeed, it is

138 _{Mahmood refers to this in the context of the pious virtue of al-haya (shyness/modesty). In Saharanpur this is}

primarily framed in terms of chal-chalaan (reputation/character). Although they have similar implications for negotiating work they are not identical, with the former focusing more on person or personality and the latter more on ‘how society sees you’.

often high caste Hindus who enforce purdah most rigorously, particularly in rural areas (Das, 2005; Sen, 1999). Chen (1995) ranks the status of women in a North Indian village according to the spaces in which they work. Here, the lowest status women work both within and outside the village in public areas. As status rises, however, women labour in increasingly more confined spaces, with those of highest standing working only within the walls of the home. Das Gupta (1995) adds that the practice of purdah is not static throughout the lifecycle, with older women having greater physical mobility. Whereas it is tempting to see purdah purely in terms of physical concealment, Lateef (1990) suggests that even where Indian Muslim women do not live in purdah, “the ‘purdah mentality’ continues to affect the attitudes of women” (p.133).

Lateef sees the story as double-sided and suggests that when it comes to labour, for “women forced to work [due to economic hardship], purdah can be both liberating and a status symbol” (p.134). Simultaneously, though, it can reduce access to broader society and to other women. Baden (1992) takes the sense of agency in purdah practice further for both non-working and working women:

“One pragmatic explanation advanced for the revival of interest in Islam among lower income women (as evidenced by the increase in veiling) is that women may be reasserting Islamic norms to try to resist entry into low paid, undesirable work. Alternatively, as a consequence of being forced to enter the labour force, women are increasingly in the public sphere and are using veiling both as a means of protection and as a way of reasserting Islamic norms, and thus their claim on husbands' support”.

(p. 28-29) Alavi (1988), however, discusses women who experienced increased purdah during the green revolution as resenting the change, in that “as well as their freedom of movement they had also lost much of their prized economic freedom” (p.1328). Lateef (1990), though, critiques the view that purdah women are necessarily absent from various aspects of public life and economic activity. Whilst some contributors link low labour force participation with purdah, Hasan and Menon (2004) urge caution. Pointing to their analysis of the MWS data they suggest that “for our respondents, purdah is neither the primary nor secondary reason for not taking up employment outside the home […] too much should not be made of cultural norms in explaining the exclusion of Muslim

women from work participation” (p.114). Lateef (1990) makes a similar point. However, she also suggests that work done by Muslim women can be distinct from other groups.

In Saharanpur, however, women were active in both homes and factories. In factories, Kabeer (2000) suggests that purdah, itself, can allow women to create new economic opportunities. Kabeer describes how: “Women were clearly aware of the negative views of […] wider society. By taking up outside employment, they were effectively accepting the cultural costs such employment entailed” (p.88). Kabeer, however, argues that factory workers renegotiated cultural norms to moralise their activity. Drori (2000) describes similar processes of renegotiation amongst Arab female workers in Israel and cites an informant who justifies ‘going out’ for work to her father: “I told him that I would give him respect too. I told him that I wanted to buy a stove and a refrigerator for my wedding” (p. 99). Although Muslim women find ways of vindicating factory work, Drori suggests that the prevalence of unemployment amongst the male Arab population is also a contributing factor. Kabeer (2000) acknowledges this in Bangladesh, suggesting that: “It is in this perceived erosion of the patriarchal contract, and the increasing inability of men to sustain the model of male breadwinner, that the genesis of women’s entry into factory employment has to be understood” (p.140). In Calcutta’s jute mills recruitment of women allowed employers to obtain cheap labour, but also “the existing negative perceptions about women’s participation in factory work drew male workers and unions into collaboration with mill management” (Sen, 1999; p.124). In Java, owners were able to use a degree of female autonomy, within local culture, to recruit while simultaneously deploying patriarchal ideology to keep wages low as unmarried women remained economically reliant on family, hence capable of labouring on a wage below subsistence levels (Wolf, 1992).

Purdah, then, is applied and negotiated in differing contexts. It may involve blending

Brahmic (high/priestly caste) and colonial Victorian values among upwardly mobile

Hindus (Sen, 1999) or be renegotiated to provide economic opportunity by Bangladeshi garment workers (Kabeer, 2000). During reflection on cultural tendencies toward seclusion and its association with status, Muzumdar (1990) points out that whilst “the ideal woman need not work it is not recognised that the actual woman must and does

work” (p.279). It is to these realities, in the context of Saharanpur’s labour force, which I now turn.

From Homework to Factory Work: Moving within & between Spaces

The presence of women in Saharanpur’s workforce is nothing new. Faiza’s mother Raisa139_{, now into her 60s, had been working since childhood. The gully’s informal} supervisor, Farhana, also started as a child pausing only briefly after her marriage. Recruitment was generally informal with older women teaching their sisters, daughters, daughters-in-law, other younger relatives and neighbours. On other occasions husbands and fathers taught wives and daughters. For many this was seen as a nonchalant process requiring no ‘real learning’: “it is very easy work, I have no special training. When I see my mother doing it so I learn it from her, nobody trained me just by seeing I learned it” (A Home Worker in Ali Ki Chungi). Some younger girls received a little pocket money from mothers or sisters, others not. This is not to say, however, that women were always in control of the money. For those working in a family business where fathers and brothers were involved in other stages of production, money was usually controlled by the men, as Hashmed from Purana Thana Mandi explains:

“My husband deals with [money] as that is his duty. I don’t take any money, all the money goes to my husband and son. All payments are collected by my son but if I need money for my medicine then I ask for it. What would I do with money; I am just doing my work. As it is our own business and not from outside so there is no question of asking for money”.

Although often the case within family businesses, this is not to say that the presence of a male breadwinner in the household always meant that women always lost control of their income:

“I do not give money to my husband, why would I give it to him [laughs]? I do not give any money to my daughter [either]. All the money stays in my pocket. It is for the children, for their school fees and clothes”.

(Sana, a homeworker)

139 _{See previous chapter.}

Senior women often handled earnings and organised the labour of other female family members. Here, though, Kantor (2002) warns that many female homeworkers only retain control of their income as it is often so small that it rouses little interest from male family members. A large number, particularly in factories, retained this control on the basis of being widowed, divorced or separated.

However, even where women have control over money within the household, they remain dependent on men and contractors for both work and payment. Women, such as Sana, were still reliant on intermediaries from whom payments were often late, disputed or never materialised:

“The owner is very corrupt, they give money very late. We have to go many times in their shop. They cannot understand our situation and sometimes they give our money 1-2 months late. Sometimes, though, some owners run away and we cannot find our money. […] Once we have done 10,000 boxes. The owner said to us to do some 5000 extra boxes before payment. I thought we would get a big amount of money but suddenly he ran away from Saharanpur and we did not see him again”.

(Raisa, a homeworker in Ali ki Chungi)

The stories examined here also illustrate the degree to which internal competition among homeworkers themselves can keep earnings further suppressed:

“In this area competition is too much, so work is not regular. Sometimes we have no work and we stay in our home and wait for work […] it is very bad as the work is very little so the competition is very high. If we find work then the rate of piece is very little so there is no benefit from the work”.

(Shazia, a young homeworker in Kajhoor Tala)

Changes in ‘putting out’ practice have intensified the competitive environment with homeworkers experiencing a perceived threat from women in factories. Here Gulshan explains that over the past five or six years rural and Chamar women started factory work:

“Nowadays I have little work. […] The owner prefers to give the work to factory ladies. He does not want to send work to our house as it is costly. Now many ladies are going to the factories, I also did some time ago but not

now as my daughter is grown up. There is lots of work in the factories but I cannot go there. […] undoubtedly due to these ladies we get a lot less work in our house”.

Whilst acknowledging the impact on her level of work she did not blame those going to the factories, instead attributing this change to kismet (fate):

“It is our own kismet. We find employment due to our kismet not because of any Chamari lady. If she is Muslim or Hindu it is not a big matter, everybody finds work according to their kismet. Everyone is equal whether they are Muslim, Hindu or Chamar. It is Allah’s duty to give us roti and employment so we cannot blame any Chamari ladies”.

Recent restructuring of the industry has seen factory workers threaten an area of the labour market that homeworkers used to dominate. This runs counter to trajectories within other industries where factory workers experience a threat to their labour arrangements as producers tend toward increased outsourcing (i.e. Balakrishnan & Sayeed, 2002; Neetha, 2001). However the factories are not closed to homeworkers. Indeed, Gulshan, had worked in both environments.

For many homeworkers there are considerations originating from notions of chal- chalaan. Nasreen, another former factory worker, described her reasons for switching to homework:

“It is bad and worthless [in factories] as there is no partition between men and ladies so there is not any value of the veil. Due to this I left the factory. Those who do not wear the burka or believe in the veil are comfortable in the factories. But for women like me who give importance to these things