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Posts Tagged ‘Chawl’

189 – The school teachers who went on a twelve-day satyagraha

My mother, K Jagadammal (right) with her peer and friend Jayshree Sawant (left), Bombay, Maharashtra. 1977

Image & narrative contributed by Nishant Radhakrishnan, Mumbai

This is a photograph taken in 1977 of my mother, K Jagadammal (right) with her peer and friend Jayshree Sawant (left) in Bombay. They were on a strike, outside a school compound, protesting the injustices served by the school they both taught in.

My mother, K Jagadammal was born in 1949 in Kalanjoor, Pathanamthitta District, Kerala. Her parents were farmers, and she was one of five sisters and a brother. Her father later ran his own grocery shop, exactly opposite Kalanjoor Government School, that all of his children attended. My mother and her siblings all grew up to have careers as school-teachers.

In 1972, following a matrilineal Dravidian tradition, the Marumakkattayam system (where women of the family are legitimate inheritors of property and therefore integral to families), my mother was betrothed to her cousin, her mother’s brother’s son, my eventual father, M. G. Radhakrishnan. My father had been living in Bombay (now Mumbai) since 1968 and worked in a clerical position at the Indian Cotton Mills Federation. After their marriage they moved to Bombay and on June 11, 1973, my mother armed with degrees in B. Sc (Science) and B. Ed (Education), joined the ranks of thousands of Malayalee migrants (mostly teachers and nurses), and became a Primary section teacher at Abhyudaya Education Society High School where she taught all subjects except Marathi.

From 1975, my parents lived in the teeming mill suburb of Kalachowky, among other migrants, in a one-room kitchen apartment. The 70s were also the years when the political party, Shiv Sena were mobilising their cadre against migrants, especially South Indians like my parents. But this was also the time that people away from their birth homes had begun to embrace and appreciate the other Indias. Yet like many others from Kerala, my parents had a high degree of political agency and found it hard to tolerate injustice. While it may sound like a cliché, it is second nature for us Malayalees to go on strike. The 1970s were a potent moment in India – the heady years of Emergency and after. In this photograph my mother (right) was 28 years old when the two teachers went on a strike demanding their reinstatement at the Abhyudaya Education Society High School, following three years of harassment and intimidation by a member of the school management.

In 1975, a new teacher, Kalyanikutty joined the school. She was related to a Mr. Nair, the school administrator, known to be an authoritarian figure. Allegedly, he would run the school like his personal fiefdom. On several occasions, he would command Kalyanikutty to return home over perceived slights or mistakes. The personal harassment was purely based on the close family relationship between them – found often in patriarchal Indian households. Unable to tolerate the injustice, and in solidarity with Kalyanikutty, all teachers, including my mother submitted a protest letter asking Mr. Nair to stop troubling Kalyanikutty. In retaliation, he called upon each teacher and asked them to withdraw their signatures. All the Secondary School section teachers refused to do so, but from the Primary section, with the exception of my mother, all teachers withdrew their signatures – and categorically refused to withdraw it. This began a long period of harassment for my mother – threats, show cause notices, random inspections on her classes, a trip to the police station. But my mother, with the support of my father, teachers, students and much of the management, maintained her stand. My parents’ position was clear – Mr Nair did not own the school or its employees – he was her co-worker, an employee, just like her – an equal in hierarchy.

So the stage was set – My mother, a teacher – K. Jagadammal versus Mr. Nair, the patriarch. Heavily pregnant with me, she was denied her rightful maternity leave and made to accept half-pay on leave, albeit was abruptly terminated from service. In 1976, shortly after my birth, pressured by committee members, she was reinstated, but demoted to a lower teaching position. Following Mr. Nair’s machinations, at the end of the academic year, she was terminated, again.

So in 1977, my mother was no longer an employee of the school, yet she simply refused to accept the unfair termination and continued to attend the school in protest. Every single day, she would go to the Headmaster’s office to sign-in on the attendance muster. When she was not allowed to sign it, she began submitting letters – every day – stating that “she had come to the school and not allowed to sign”. She would stay in the school all through the working hours. She tells me that inside the headmaster’s cabin, there were two chairs and she began to make herself comfortable on one of them. Weeks later, one chair was removed, so she would sit on the remaining available chair. Then that one chair, too, was removed. After this, the only chair available was the Headmaster’s own. It was also used by Mr. Nair, when he was present. My mother clearly had no choice – she says “ I simply plonked myself on the Headmaster’s chair.” The Headmaster or Mr. Nair would remain standing, while she would sit on “their” chair and would only get to sit on it when she had needed a rest-room break. These passive aggressive comedic moments notwithstanding – every single day, K Jagadammal ensured that her protest and attendance was marked.

Five months later, after submitting a forewarning as due process to the authorities, my mother and Jayshree Sawant (herself, a victim of nepotism) embarked on a civil disobedience movement of their own – a Satyagraha. When this photograph was taken, my mother ‘s brother, my uncle, would bring me – a toddler – to the school every day, through the twelve days protest, and point her out to me. Soon after, the protest by these two teachers blew up into a full-fledged students boycott, led by my father, teachers and others. The heat was really on.

During a meeting with the enquiry commission by the BMC, (Bombay Municipal Corporation), a letter alleging that my mother ‘was not teaching at all’, but instead ‘was taking rest-room breaks all the time’ was passed around, including onto students. The letter was a tipping point and she lost her temper – she removed her footwear and proceeded to chastise one of the administrators with it. To her (and the target’s) good fortune, she was dissuaded and the slipper did not reach its destination. The protest soon found political attention and was even discussed in the Maharashtra Legislative Assembly.

But the tides were turning – for this protest shed light upon several illegalities that the administration was indulging in – forgery of musters, salary embezzlement, autocratic, misogynistic behaviour by male officials. After the enquiry, both K. Jagadammal and Jayshree Sawant were reinstated and the 12-day Satyagraha was called off. Nonetheless, a price still had to be paid and neither of the two were paid salaries for that year. The good news was that the two officials including Mr. Nair, lost the managing committee elections and never found their way back.

My mother, K. Jagadammal eventually became a beloved (and much revered) teacher in the same school and Jayshree Sawant after two years, joined another school. Somehow, the two Satyagrahis lost touch since. My mother I feel paid yet another price for her beliefs. The events of 1974-77 did compromise her merited right to be promoted as Headmistress at the school, yet she served her commitment to teach, and after 35 years at Abhyudaya Education Society School she retired in 2007.

During my childhood, I witnessed K. Jagadammal wake up every day at 4.30 AM, cook meals for my father and me, go to work on the 6.10 AM train and return at 2 pm and my father eventually became a legendary Malayalam copywriter during the golden age of Indian regional languages advertising. This photograph is a reminder of an inspiring and just legacy my parents have given me and my own new family. The two ladies in this photograph – K. Jagadammal and Jayshree Sawant teach us the value of standing up for others, to seek justice and protest whenever needed. I have grown up watching them all, but most of all, I continue to find empowerment through my mother.


136 – The Motiwalas of Bombay

My aunts Zehra, Zainab and mother, Rubab Bombay. Circa 1946

My aunts Zehra, Zainab and mother, Rubab. Bombay. Circa 1946

Image and Text contributed by Fawzan Husain, Mumbai

This picture was taken at my grandfather’s home, on the occasion of my aunt Zainab’s pre wedding ceremony. She was about to be married to a fireworks merchant. Zehra, was my mother Rubab and Zenab’s half sister.

My maternal grandfather Abdul Husain Motiwala, a Pearl Merchant, belonged to the Bohra Shia Community in Saurashtra (now Gujarat State). At the time, during the early 20th century, Saurasthra’s coast line had been a rich hub for pearl hunting, and trade was in the community’s blood. The word Bohra itself comes from the Gujarati word vehru (“trade”). As most merchants and families began to adopt and attach last names after the products they traded in, my grandfather’s name Motiwala too, literally translates as “Pearl Man”.
As a teenager, he decided to go to Bombay with Rs. 5 in hand, and landed up at the shop that dealt with pearls, for a job. Soon he grew in stature and bought the same establishment that he worked for. He turned the business around, made it hugely profitable and became one of the top businessmen of the community.

My grandfather was a liberal man and was inclined towards reformism. After the death of his first wife at a rather young age, and a young son to care for, he decided to marry Fatema, a young widow and mother to a daughter Zehra, from her own previous marriage. The Bohra community was hugely upset and wondered aloud as to ‘why this very rich and eligible man needed to marry a widow with a child, when there were so many other eligible proposals from the community.’

My grandfather Abdul Husain and Fatema, my grandmother, had three children together. With three daughters and two sons, it became a family of seven. Zehra and Zainab for some reason never got educated, while my mother and her brother studied up to 10th grade college. All the sisters got along very well. Two of whom were so close, that later while my father could afford a bigger house in Bombay, my mother insisted instead that we live next to my aunt Zenab’s house in a chawl (inexpensive community housing) near Bombay Central.

My grandfather Abdul Husain Motiwala was the first man in our community to own an American Kaiser car. He was so well respected that he was given the title of “Patel”. A surname that was used primarily by Hindus whose ancestors were traditionally landlords and owners, I suppose it had come to mean “Respected man”. People would shout from the streets as his car passed by- “Patel Saheb’s car has come!

While Abdul Husain was one of the best businessmen around, he was keenly aware of his own hardworking background. He had great respect for the dignity of labour and had no sense of class discrimination. He, for instance did not go easy on his own son Kamruddin, and ensured that he worked very hard to earn his keep. Another instance was, when a proposal for Zehra came from a man in the community who had walked away from his own family business. With problems at home, he had decided to begin life on his own terms and became a taxi driver. My grandfather agreed to the proposal, perhaps because he knew his to be son-in-law to be a dignified & hardworking man. He helped him out with good advise and offered him loans to build a fleet of taxis in Bombay. The advise was taken but the money wasn’t, proving my grandfather right.

My mother Rubab or as she was fondly called Ruby, was the youngest and the most adored. So much so, that she like many of the youngest members in families enjoyed several liberties. Being exceptionally intrigued with photography, she would dress up in different attires & accessories and get herself photographed regularly by a photographer called Ahmed Zardi in the near-by photo studio called Dayzars.

My father Ahmed, a photographer, and my mother Ruby, the photographed, fell in love over pictures, and my grandfather accepted the relationship with great ease. My father became a regular visitor at my mother’s home and would take our family pictures ever so often, even before they got married. It was the first love marriage in our family.

Dayzars was a Photography studio in Bombay Central and was named after its two partners – Dayabhai from Rajasthan and my father Ahmed Zardi.  They worked together for 32 years. As far as I know, it was uncommon for a Hindu and a Muslim to have such a great and long partnership. But when Dayabhai’s eyes began to fail him, he decided to leave Bombay and return home. My father and Dayabhai’s son tried to work together but a generational gap of ideas led him to relieve himself of the business and Studio Dayzars was sold. I was an only child and would frequent my father’s studio. I learnt how to handle cameras, developed film and made prints. The magic of the dark room was an incredible experience. However, I was absolutely not interested in studio photography and so I studied journalism and became an editorial photographer.







115 – “Being a good and honest maid was the best I could do”

My Wedding Reception. Bandra, Bombay. February 14, 1982

My Wedding Reception. Bandra, Bombay. February 14, 1982

Image and Text Contributed by Sunita Vishnu Kapse, Mumbai

We lived in Shivaji Park, Bombay in a house that our families had lived in for eight generations. My father‘s name was Tulsiram Pawar and my mother’s was Chandra Bai. My grand-mother who lived until the age of 101, used to work in the municipality as a road sweeper. My father also worked for the municipality of Shivaji Park, cleaning garbage. But he was an alcoholic, most of the times drunk and incapable of working. He would beat up my mother and abuse her all the time, but she gulped all the pain and began working instead of him. She is the one who earned and brought us all up. Her salary at the time was only Rs. 200 a month, so it was tough on her. Most men in the chawl were in similar jobs and were all drunks & wife beaters, exactly like my father. All the girls in the chawl were scared to get married anticipating the same future.

My family belonged to the Mahar Caste, considered untouchables and of low caste in India. But we all got saved when my parents adopted the beliefs preached by Babasaheb, Dr. B.R. Ambedkar. If it wasn’t for him, we would have been on the streets or dead, of hunger or indignity. My parents converted to Buddhism following Ambedkar’s encourgement and since then we have been restored our dignity.

We are four sisters and two brothers. I was born on November 13, 1963. In school I studied up to class 10 (sometimes as night classes). I used to love dancing, participated in school events and played everyone’s favourite sport at the time Kho Kho. Embroidery was another skill I learnt from the women in the Chawl. On Saturdays & Sundays we would finish the house-work faster so we could rush to watch Marathi movies in a quarter that had a B&W television.

In 1982, when I was 18 my parents got me married. The chosen husband was Vishnu Rama Kapse. He was 15 years older to me. When our parents asked us to marry, we just did, there was no argument or discussion over it. My mother said that they were a well to do family, and they eat a lot, and so I will be happy.  Later I heard, that my husband too didn’t want to really get married, but others advised him that he needed a partner who could also contribute to earnings. 
The wedding was all paid-for by my mother. I think she must have spent Rs. 5000 on it. As was tradition for the In-Laws to do, my actual name Satyabhama was changed to Smita by my husband, but my mother-in-law couldn’t pronounce it so she began calling me Sunita, and now everyone calls me Sunita.

This photograph is from my wedding reception in a small hall in Bandra, Bombay. With us is my husband’s regular employer (since he was a child), Mrs. Ula and her family. They really loved us. Now they live in USA.
I am wearing a Blue saree and my husband wore a Grey suit. In Buddhism, during the actual ceremony we wear white, not red as is the norm of most Indian weddings. With our dharma guru as witness, we exchange garlands, listened to a short sermon and that was it, we were married. There were around 200 guests for our wedding. The gifts we received were currency notes of Rs. 2 or 5 in small packets. I got married into a very large family, with mother, sister, brother and cousin in laws.

My husband was a simple decent looking man. He respected, and loved me passionately. He never hit me or embarrassed me in-front of anyone. He used to say “If I disrespect you in-front of someone else, they won’t respect you”. That is the reason my children respect me too, because that is what they saw. My husband really loved me, showered me with attention, but I am aware that he was also afraid that I might leave him, because I was a good looking and to top it, 15 years younger.  That is the reason he never wanted to live away from the large family because he felt it kept me in check. I always found it very amusing but in a way it imparted a lot of self-confidence. We were great partners & friends and would never do anything without consulting each other. My husband would keep me updated on current affairs of the world. When I couldn’t understand, he would explain everything patiently.

My husband’s family came from Ratangiri and his family owned a lot of agricultural land there. But once the Dam and new railway tracks began to be constructed, many new people came and grabbed most of our land and so many of us, also from near by villages, were left with almost nothing. We still have a legal case going on but I doubt anything will happen.

Like thousands of others, my husband at the time in the 1980s was working in the Textile Mill, breaking yarn. When the mill shut down (called the Great Bombay Textile Strike), he began working as a wall painter, or as daily labour (also for the family in the picture). The same year my eldest daughter Annapurana was born, but the earning was not enough for us, so I began working as a domestic maid. My first monthly salary was Rs. 75 with a Sitan Family here in Bandra, I have now worked for them for 32 years and I still work there.  Then we had a second child Abhijeet, a son and a third another daughter, Priyanka. My husband and I worked very hard and educated all three of my kids. They went to government municipality schools, and then they went to college. Fortunately for us they are now married into good families.

I never chose to be a maid, but I did it because if I didn’t work we couldn’t earn. And with my experience, being a good and honest maid was the best I could do. My husband would not give me all the money he earned, because some of it was kept for his brothers and their families whom he supported largely. So I too saved, keeping money aside and buying gold as an investment without him knowing, but the amusing part was he knew all along. I always worked around the Bandra, as it was close to home. The Parsi family next to our home sold their land and in its place a mosque was built. But we all casts and religions lived along as good neighbors cordially, perhaps because we were Buddhists and non-violent. In-fact in times of conflict in Bombay, the muslims neighbours always came around to check if we are okay.

My normal routine everyday for years was getting up at 6 am, pack my husband’s and kids lunch tiffin, go do all my work and return by 2 pm to fill water that would only come in taps twice a day. I learned a lot by working as a maid, like cooking different Indian Cuisines from my employers and then I would try it all at home. My family loved my cooking. Even when my daughter got married, I had every feast cooked at home. I have been lucky that all my employers respected and taught me a lot. Looking at our employers helped us aspire for a better lifestyle. But one thing that makes me sad is how people spend on things much more than they need to. Wasting food is probably the biggest problem I see in so many households, the wealthier the families the more food is wasted. But people and women are also more independent and that is admirable, though I still get worried if my daughter doesn’t come home on time.

In 2006, my husband developed a heart problem and he began to keep unwell often. So I got a couple of more jobs and continued working as a maid cooking, cleaning, sweeping, and washing to earn enough to pay for his medical bills. Many employers too helped with the medical bills. But in 2012 his health worsened and he passed away. I now continue to work as a maid, because if I didn’t work I would go crazy. Because of my children, I am not struggling for money, but it is good for me, it makes me independent, I work in places I like to work, I am respected and I get to step out. But I really miss my husband a lot. He was my friend, my protector, my partner of life. I really feel alone and cry when I think of him, but I thank Buddha and Sai baba because of whom I have great children, siblings and their families.







39 – For Bachelors only

My grandfather Michael Fernando speaking at the Idinthakarai Villagers Association meet. Bombay, Maharashtra. 1971

Image and text contribution Sebastin Kolman

Mr. Michael Fernando, my grandfather (on the microphone) managed the Idinthakarai Villagers Association in Mumbai. Idinthakarai, my native place, is located near Kanyakumari, Tamil Nadu.

He had helped the village association purchase a two storeyed huge room (similar to a chawl) in Matunga Labour Camp, Mumbai. The room was for anyone from Idinthakarai seeking a job in Mumbai. They could stay in it for free until they found work and then could continue staying on rent. This photograph was taken at the inauguration of that room.

This room still exists and is managed by the said Association. Currently there are about 15 to 20 Idinthakarai bachelors living there.