The Women At Tumkur Jail

Blood.

Drop.

By.

Drop.

Staining her precious white dress.

The Two Fridas. A painting for some. Truth for us.

. . .

Eyes wide. Mouth agape. I stumbled out of the car. Before me stood a rusted four-foot metal door littered with grubby padlocks and deadbolts. On the other side—a sea of “evil” women.

A documentary had brought me here. Recounting the hardships of former convicts, it challenged my middle-school conception of the divide between “good” and “evil.” In truth, it was little more than privilege that allowed me to watch from the outside; it showed me the decrepit condition of women in India and how incarcerated women were literally left to their own resources in prison. In a system rigged for some to fail, could I help a few succeed?

Scene: Tumkur Jail; in front of me, just five women. I took note of their scrutiny—the raised eyebrows as I lapsed between Tamil and English, the quick dart of a smirk when I made a mistake, the hesitance in their eyes to accept my help.

I sat dejected. I’d failed even before I’d begun.

. . .

I tried to pinpoint what was going wrong for weeks.

I just couldn’t break-in.

The classroom was more lifeless than the piles of paintbrushes, canvases, and gold foil I brought with me, and the silence . . . it echoed off the walls.

“Razia, do you like this program?” I asked.

“It’s fine, I guess.”

“Fine?”

“I mean . . . have you tried listening to us? To our stories?”

Her voice cracked.

“I was sixteen when I entered Tumkur. I’m twenty-two now. Yet, no one has ever asked me what I want.

“We need an outlet. Unless we can reveal ourselves as we are, we’ll never feel heard. It’s just another useless class.”

I was trying to create a safe space where the women could unburden their journey, but for that to happen, I needed to drive communication.

WE needed to drive communication.

Every woman at Tumkur had a story to tell, but no one to listen . . . no one from the outside, at least.

Each week, we sat in a circle and discussed the vicious cycle of incarceration that made the women feel trapped, how they entered prison poor and left even more destitute. But we also hoped for a brighter future in which they, like the rest of us, could be people again.

We painted and talked. We listened.

Slowly, the class size grew, and the women, more liberated than before. Absorbing their poignant stories, I resonated with their desire to speak out—to scream to the world that they deserved a fresh start. Our voices intertwined. Somewhere, in our shared desire and desolation, we became one.

. . .

Razia called me a few weeks ago. She had gotten acquitted of her crime.

“Why did you stay in the classes, Razia?

“Your other Muslim friends dropped out at just the mention of Hindu gods … but you stayed.”

“As strange as it sounds, I … I felt one with god. Each stroke of my brush brought me closer to him and farther from my past.”

. . .

Listening to the women of Tumkur has forced me to wonder, Can circumstance justify one’s actions? When we investigate the situations thrust upon them, yes, they had a choice; ultimately, a child’s hungry belly trumps morality. Many times, I’ve contemplated the decisions I would’ve made had I been in their position, but to be honest, I don’t know. The luck of circumstance has kept me on the outside, and while I can empathize, I can never really know how they feel.

Yet we understand one another.

Like Frida in white, Razia carries a broken heart, her sorrow from lost time staining her beautiful new dress. Like Frida in blue, my heart swells with a freedom she warns me to protect. The vein connecting us is the vein that runs through all womankind—the desire to be heard.