Award-winning independent publishing house, Karadi Tales, launched a new series of chapter books under its new chapter book imprint, Minmini Reads, that targets readers from ages 10 to 15, at the Delhi Book Fair on October 31st, 2020. This series is done in collaboration with People’s Archive of Rural India (PARI): an ambitious, acclaimed living archive of reporting about rural India, founded and led by Magsaysay Award-winner and veteran journalist P. Sainath.
The PARI series uses real stories of rural India, disenfranchised people and communities, and the unique challenges that they overcome every day. These are tales of courage, adversity, success, and hope.
They feature children who participate cheerfully in civic issues, athletes who power past their disabilities, citizens who demand their right to be heard. The series attempts to give these voices a platform, as well as address the serious dearth of children’s books that are set in non-urban locations.
All the books are based on articles written by top journalists, and originally published by PARI. The set features five tales from different parts of rural India.
No Nonsense Nandhini by Aparna Karthikeyan is based on the life of Chandra Subramanian, a Sivagangai district farmer, retailer, and mother, who received a ‘homepreneur’ award.
No Ticket, Will Travel by Subuhi Jiwani is a series of short stories on migrant labourers who travel in search of work, determined to make a living although their lives are rife with uncertainty.
Coming Home by Priti David is about a group of children from Sittilingi Valley who, at one point, are forced to drop out of school and find work in far-flung factories and mills. Until one day, they decide to start their own school, and help create jobs in their own valley in the process.
A Big Splash by Nivedha Ganesh follows Dhivya, a young farmer and an ace swimmer who had previously only swum in the tank and lake in her village. From her cotton fields to the Paralympics, Dhivya manages to brave all odds.
House of Uncommons by Vishaka George takes a peek into the lives of the students at Snehagram, an institute for HIV positive children, and their struggles, triumphs, and achievements.
With 65% of India’s population living in rural areas, Karadi Tales brings these stories to the urban demographic who remain oblivious to the issues faced by their rural counterparts. Urban children grow up exposed to stories that mirror their own struggles and are unaware of the cultures, lifestyles, and problems of other children, who are of their own age group, living further away from them.
Sainath says, “[The series] is a very important addition, not only to the reading diet of children, which is completely bereft of knowledge about rural India , but adds to the spectrum of imagination of young children.”
These stories are based on true events and everyday people. Their struggles and success prove to be a source of inspiration for readers. They help children reconnect to their ancestral roots, to nature, and to understand the realities faced by many others in our vast country. Karadi Tales and PARI have taken up this mission to unearth the treasure trove of stories that rural India has to offer, while spreading awareness among the masses.
About the Authors
Aparna Karthikeyan is a storyteller, independent journalist, and volunteers for PARI. Her articles have been published in The Hindu, PARI, The Caravan, Wire, Scroll.in and other publications on culture, books, and livelihoods.
Subuhi Jiwani has worked as a journalist and editor in Mumbai, most recently with PARI. She has also edited Day’s End Stories: Life After Sundown in Small-Town India (Westland Books, 2014), an anthology of travel essays, and directed a short documentary on the Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus titled Terminus: Stories of CST (Sahapedia, 2017).
Priti David is the Education Editor and a rural reporter at PARI. She interacts with school and college students to encourage them to explore, engage and write on rural issues. She has been a business journalist, a book editor, and a high school teacher.
Nivedha Ganesh graduated with a degree in English literature and has been dreaming up stories since she was nine. She likes writing about monsters, magic, and characters with hearts of gold.
Vishaka George is a journalist who reports on agrarian distress and labour exploitation for PARI. She is PARI’s social media editor, working with a team of journalists who make stories from rural India more accessible to audiences across the world. She is a part of a two-member team that teaches media ethics and rural journalism to school and college students.
As I watched the Netflix documentary that follows Michele Obama’s book tour to promote her memoir, “Becoming”, I was reminded of a former American first lady who published a book while her husband was in office.
During the Clintons’ tenure at the White House, I was first a graduate student, and later, a postdoctoral fellow at a university not far from Washington DC. I knew nothing about motherhood and parenting. Judging Hilary Clinton’s expertise to write a book (that I had not read) was presumptuous on my part.
About a year and a half later, as I cradled my newborn daughter in Silicon Valley, I asked a friend who came by for a visit – “How will I bring up this tiny baby into adulthood? I don’t know anything about parenting.”
A mother of a preschooler, she smiled knowingly and replied “Don’t worry, they come programmed to survive and grow. You don’t have to know anything.”
I heard her but did not believe her. I had devoured What To Expect When You’re Expecting, during my pregnancy. Knowing my penchant for turning to books for advice, someone had thoughtfully gifted me the sequel to help me figure out the first year of my child’s life.
During my short maternity break, I could foresee how much more difficult my life would become once I returned to work. With growing demands on my body, emotions, and time, I wondered if I would lose myself as I slowly dissolved into the ocean of caregiving that is motherhood.
Children consume you in ways few other things do. They coerce you, bind you, and trap you with their heart-melting smiles even as you change diapers and pick up toys innumerable times. Coming on the heels of years of infertility, for me, motherhood, like my Ph.D., had been a long-drawn project, a goal that I had desired and aspired for, and my child, the reward for my prayers and effort.
In the two decades since that initial expression of doubt regarding my mothering ability, I have discovered, to my eternal surprise and gratitude, that I am just the string that connects every person who crossed my path and provided me guidance and assistance along the way to raise my child.
This year Mother’s Day was especially poignant because, in a few weeks, that tiny baby who used to fit in my lap, will fly out of the nest and head back to America, the country where she was born.
I think back to the village of people scattered across the globe, who not only directly impacted her growth but also influenced my journey as a mother.
Some, like my mother, Amma, held my hand in the delivery room and took care of me in the early days. Amma rescued me several other times when I was in a pinch for childcare, struggling to remain in the workforce. Always supportive, but not necessarily indulgent, she followed the ‘tough love’ style of mothering, long before the phrase was coined.
Catherine, the gentle, silver-haired British lady who took over as the local grandmother when Amma returned to India, was the first person outside the home to bond with my child. Using only organic ingredients to cook fresh meals and creating personalized birthdays for the kids in her care, Catherine was a loving, no-nonsense woman. It was impressive how she managed to carve out time for self-care, swimming thirty laps in the community pool after a long day watching a handful of babies and toddlers. I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Catherine for providing reliable childcare, the prime reason I was able to focus on my budding career.
Bill, my boss, who looked the other way when he saw me slouched over my desk in the early days of motherhood, first introduced me to a lunchtime yoga class, and later supported all of my part-time or flex-time requests, ensuring my progress through the ranks. I shudder to think of how my life would have turned out without Bill as my boss.
In California, a circle of women friends gathered around me to provide assistance to a working mother in a dysfunctional marriage. When I moved to India, another group of female friends came together in Hyderabad to help me find my feet as a single parent. Loaning me a gas cylinder when I moved into my own place, watching my child if I was late from work, accompanying me to court, or to the doctor’s office, many kind women propped me up.
When handling everything alone felt overwhelming, I remembered the wise words of a colleague who told me at my baby shower, “Parenting is a series of threats and bribes.”
When I doubted my decision to quit my well-paying job with long working hours and choose a freelance consulting path that paid less but offered greater flexibility, I remembered my aunt’s advice to make whatever minor changes necessary but to not give up my financial independence.
I am indebted to a large global network of individuals who have shared my journey as a mother. It has not been smooth. I have been far from perfect.
From our shaky first steps in California to the rocky patch in India, and now in our new blended family in Singapore, motherhood has been a delicate dance. The two of us held onto each other, flowing with life as it detoured into uncharted territories. We are at a point where our paths must diverge. My time of intense parenting is coming to an end.
The river of life will take her in its fold, whisk her to unknown destinations. But I will send her away with the confidence that there is a village out there, to pick up where my direct influence ends. Just as a village came together and sustained her thus far, I have no doubt that she will build another one for the next leg of her life.
Even without reading Hilary Clinton’s book, I learned first-hand the powerful lesson embedded in the African proverb that she chose as the title for her book. It does take a village to raise a child. And I stand humbled by the experience.
Ranjani Rao is a scientist by training, writer by avocation, originally from Mumbai, a former resident of USA, and now lives in Singapore with her family. She is co-founder of Story Artisan Press and her books are available on Amazon. She is presently working on a memoir. Medium | Twitter | Facebook | Blog
To people from the West, the most familiar and paradoxical images of Indian women come from the extremes of a very broad and complicated spectrum. One is the image of Indira Gandhi, clad in a starched white sari, serving as the powerful leader of a largely patriarchal society. The other is that of an anonymous, thin, overburdened woman in a dirty sari, holding one undernourished child on her hip, while others gather round her legs. The women in these two images tread very divergent paths. Yet on closer examination, they share a powerful cultural symbol: the sari.
Throughout the world, women of most nationalities have adopted Western clothing for daily wear. But a majority of Indian women continue to wear the sari or its variants daily as well as on special occasions. More striking is the fact that it is only the women for whom traditional clothing is still a daily wear. Indian men adopted Western garments a long time ago.
Little research has gone into the tradition of the sari, and the factors that have helped to keep it in fashion for centuries. Historians trace the beginning of the sari to approximately 1500 BC and later. The manner of wearing a sari in those days varied among classes and occupations, and from region to region. Women of the higher classes wore two garments, one for the upper body, and another for the lower. Some would wear a bodice, breast-band, or shawl to cover the upper body. When worn separately, the lower garment was either wrapped as a full skirt and held at the waist with a girdle, or wrapped with pleats at the back. Women of the lower class and courtesans appear to have been bare-breasted.
Under Muslim rule (1200-1850 CE), North Indian Hindu women learned to wear clothes more akin to Persian costumes, with loose pants and a long top (known today as the salwar kameez). Onto this foreign costume, a sari-derived scarf, the dupatta, was added to serve as head covering.
The advent of British rule (1858 CE) also resulted in significant changes in the manner of wearing a sari. In the past, the finer and more diaphanous the sari, the more valuable it was. The British disapproved of this sari style: for them, the sheerness was too titillating and thus immoral. The petticoat worn under the sari carne into place to deflect the intense criticism made by “British missionaries about the “immodesty” of Indian woman’s clothing. During the same time, and apparently for the same reasons, the blouse or bodice—which had not been standardized or used throughout India— became a fixed upper garment for most Indian women.
Perhaps the single most important historical impact on the sari during British Rule in India was the British policy of non-assimilation. Indian men, who were members of the imperial bureaucracy, earned to wear Western clothes. But with no opportunity to move in Western society, there was little likelihood of the women developing a taste for foreign clothes. Therefore, custom retained its hold, and even today, despite outside influences, the sari remains a primary force.
Most women begin wearing a sari regularly when they are 16 to 18 years old. A younger girl is allowed to wear Western-style dresses, or in some parts of the country, an Indian-style long skirt tied at the waist. When she reaches puberty, this may become part of a more modest costume—a combination of a blouse, a long skirt, and a “half-sari” or a piece of cloth three yards long, tucked in the front and draped over the shoulder. In some parts of India, this continues to be the costume of most rural women throughout their adult life.
In North India, women generally wear the salwar kameez or chudidar kurta which consists of loose or tight pants, worn under a knee-length tunic, with a scarf half the length of the sari flung casually across the shoulders, or draped round the head and upper body. In most other parts of India, once a woman reaches marriageable age (18-24), the sari is her usual attire.
One aspect of wearing a sari has remained constant through time: the tucked in pleats. Sanskrit literature from the Vedic period insists that the pleats are absolutely necessary for a woman to be truly a woman. These pleats must be tucked in at the waist, front or back, so that the presiding deity, Vayu, the wind god, can whisk away any evil influence that may strike the woman in two important regions, the stomach and the reproductive organs.
The brilliant colors of the sari are also partly ruled by custom: colors are held to represent moods. Yellow, green, and red are festive and auspicious colors, which stand for fertility. Red, which also evokes passion, is a bridal color in some parts of the country and a part of rituals associated with pregnancy. Pale cream is soothing in the summer and also symbolizes bridal purity. A married Hindu woman will not wear a completely white sari, as it is only for widows: Life without a husband is a life without color. Black alone is thought to bring misfortune and must be mixed with another color. Blue evokes the thirst-quenching, life-giving force of the monsoon and visions of the beautiful boy-God, Krishna.
Indian women have always recycled their saris. Old saris are cut up and sown into pillowcases or quilts, redyed, exchanged for stainless steel pots and pans, or given to loyal servants. Sometimes gold borders are removed and used on children’s dresses. However, traditionally, the clothes of a dead woman are usually not part of her children’s inheritance; they are either burned or given to servants. Custom places a premium on new clothing as a symbol of renewal; old clothes are not valued as heirlooms.
More recently, fashion and a changing cultural climate have affected the sari and front pleats have become the norm. The sari size has decreased from seven to nine yards to five and a half to six yards. Women today also prefer blouses which match the sari; previously, blouses with contrasting patterns and colors were preferred.
Not surprisingly, economics has affected the evolution of the sari. Lengths of Japanese nylon made to the same width as the sari have been in vogue for nearly three decades. This trend began with increased travel between countries and gradual depletion in the ranks of dhobis, who traditionally washed clothes for the community. Nylon saris are easier to keep clean and need no starch or ironing. But for religious, social, and festive occasions, cotton and silk saris retain their position of importance.
Popular culture also influences sari fashions. Often an actress in a particular film may wear a distinctive blouse, sari, or a color combination which soon becomes a popular fashion. In the film Sagara Sangamam, the actress Jaya Prada wore a fuchsia pink and royal blue Kanchipuram sari that became instantly fashionable.
Custom and fashion may have shaped the sari, but cultural perceptions promote its continued use. When a woman wears a sari, she acquires honor. An episode from the Hindu epic, the Mahabharata (400 BC to 400 AD) illustrates this idea.
After losing his own freedom in a rigged dice game to his Kaurava enemies, Yudhishthir, the eldest among Draupadi’s five Pandava husbands, also loses her. When the Kauravas attempt to disrobe Draupadi, she calls upon Lord Krishna for protection. Each time one fold of Draupadi’s sari unravels, Krishna graces her with another. By giving Draupadi a sari of unending length, Krishna saves her honor.
The symbolism is obvious. Rather than whisking Draupadi away or striking down her tormentor, Krishna provides her with a limitless sari both as a symbol of his grace and of his intent to protect feminine modesty.
By wearing a sari, women fulfill another cultural ideal by acquiring the related feminine characteristics of beauty and sensuality. Various poems, scenes, and images from the large store of ancient Indian literature celebrate the beauty of the sari-clad woman. “Who is she? Carefully veiled to barely reveal her body’s beauty surrounded by the ascetics like a bud among withered leaves?” wonders King Dushyant at his first glimpse of Shakuntala, in Kalidasa’s renowned play of the same name (circa 400 BC)
The imagery is frequently repeated in another form in popular romantic films of today, where the seductive heroine appears in a diaphanous sari and the excitement of the chase is enhanced both for the hero and the audience! The hero begins the chase by tugging at the end of her sari. The audience knows that the sari is the ideal garment for the pursuit of sensual love—it can be so easily unraveled—and waits for the cut to the closed door which is the visual code that suggests the woman’s surrender. In the Hindu cultural context, Western clothing is never used to suggest seduction.
The sari also compensates for any physical shortcomings. It gives fullness to the thin figure and is equally good at camouflaging extra fat when required—something Western clothes cannot aspire to.
The cultural ideal of decorum and dignity is also satisfied by the sari. In the presence of God, husband, in-laws, or strangers, the married woman is often required to cover her head. The sari readily fulfills this function.
Another important reason behind the continued usage of the sari is the recently established cultural ideal of nationalism. During India’s struggle for independence from Britain, Mahatma Gandhi carried out a campaign of civil disobedience, particularly to inflict economic pain on the colonizer. Textiles, an industry integrally related to the history of the sari, became an important symbol of this fight for independence. Since the 19th century, the British had taken up the practice of exporting inexpensive Indian cotton to England, turning it into cloth, and reselling it for enormous profit in India. Gandhi decided to combat this practice by boycotting English cloth and starting the “HomeSpun” movement. Yarn would be made by each individual for personal use. At mid-century, the patriotic symbolism attached to indigenous cloth and clothing still continued. A woman or a man who wore traditional clothing was more “Indian” than one who adopted Western attire.
For Indian women, to be Indian is to wear a sari. Indira Gandhi, with her Western education, frequently wore Western clothes in her youth. She gave them up for the sari the moment she took on a political persona. The sari has also made her Italian daughter-in-law, Sonia Gandhi, politically more acceptable to Indians. Both these women, who were constantly in the public eye, succeeded in diminishing the significance of foreign influence from their background primarily by adhering to the traditional sari dress code.
The sari is the most visible example of Indian cultural ideals surrounding women. The sari-clad woman is both dignified and alluring, honorable and sensual. The sari forges a strong link between the lives of women across the country, be they leaders, activists, and professionals, or homemakers, mothers, students, and laborers.
Vandana Kumar has won the Asian American Hero award from the County of Santa Clara and the Leadership in Business award from the California Legislature Assembly.