Panchayat women have seen many colours and shades since they began participating in rural local bodies. They experienced humiliation, mental torture, and cruelty in all forms but still navigated through ups and downs. But where are they now? Lost into oblivion or still ruling the roost?

Let me take you back in time—about 25 years ago, down memory lane, in April 1993, when the Seventy-Third Constitutional Amendment Act was enacted in both letter and spirit, a watershed moment for India, ushering in a new era for women of rural India by opening the doors for their participation in grassroots democracy. What followed next? A dark and harrowing reality unfolded for the women who dared to enter the public space.

These women—brave, resilient, and unyielding—faced unimaginable torture for simply contesting elections and occupying seats in the panchayats that were rightfully theirs. They paid a heavy price for their courage. Those days, every other day, newspapers and local magazines were filled with chilling accounts of women brutally murdered for daring to claim their space.

Thikaria Village Panchayat, Dausa, Rajasthan. Misri Devi, a Mina tribal woman and deputy sarpanch, was attacked and stripped by a gang of four men. Misri Devi, a courageous deputy sarpanch who replaced a corrupt predecessor. People voted against him for his unlawful activities like fraud and embezzlement. On Republic Day, 1998, she was preparing to unfurl the national flag in her village school when the ousted man, enraged at his removal, launched a brutal attack. His gang dragged Misri by her hair and stripped her of her ornaments, and when she ran away to save herself into the office of the headmaster, they chased her and stripped her naked. The horror continued for hours.

On 25th July, 2000. Bijli village, Raipur district. Lata Sahu, accused of being a witch, was forced to parade naked. What was her crime? She dared to contest the election for sarpanch.

East Godavari district, Andhra Pradesh, had a hot summer day on 14th July. Dhulla Ratnam, a woman panchayat member, and her eight-year-old grandson were burned alive by unidentified assailants. She stood against corruption in her panchayat. According to police records, members of the opposition Telugu Desam Party poured kerosene on her and her grandson while they slept, setting them on fire. Ratnam died instantly, and her grandson succumbed to his injuries later.

Baby Devi, a 40-year-old mukhiya of Gorkhari Panchayat in Bihar, was shot dead in her home while she was busy pressing clothes. Baby Devi had been actively fighting corruption in her panchayat and had even reported threats to her life. Despite her warnings, she was gunned down in cold blood by two assailants who fled the scene.

The violence against these women knew no bounds—no time, no place, no pretext was off-limits.

An Irony

What a tragic paradox! The Seventy-Third Amendment, which promised a new chapter for rural women by paving the way for their entry into politics, also unleashed a spate of violence against them. Misri Devi, Lata Sahu, Dhulla Ratnam, and Baby Devi—were not just names but symbols of extraordinary courage. Their lives and deaths raised a haunting question: why does the fight for justice and equality in the political arena continue to come at such a horrific cost?

The stories of these women resonate as both a testament to their bravery and a reminder of the systemic barriers they face. Their sacrifices demand our attention and action, for the goal of an inclusive democracy cannot be achieved while such violence persists.

The pertinent question is why the women had to suffer for the role assigned to them by the government.

Gender and politics are deeply intertwined, shaping the behaviour of communities and defining the social and cultural roles assigned to men and women. Individuals must accept the defined roles—familial, social, cultural, or political. A deviation from these norms often sparks violence at various levels, from households to villages, towns, and even local governance institutions like panchayats.

Panchayats, grassroots governance structures, introduced new connections between castes, communities, and genders. This idea of empowering women also disrupted traditional gender norms, triggering a backlash aimed at enforcing strict codes of conduct.

At the heart of this lies the control over the aspirations of women—the rigid boundaries that define their roles. The boundaries are vital to maintaining male dominance, status, and power. Women who challenge these expectations—whether through education, political participation, or questioning oppressive cultural practices—are often met with aggression.

Challenges to these roles emerged repeatedly within families and through external forces. The Seventy-third Constitutional Amendment Act began to reshape power dynamics. Women elected to panchayats confronted the ideologies upheld by their male counterparts, questioning outdated norms, defying taboos, and rejecting the traditional demands of male honor.

This shift, however, was not without conflict. Men, threatened by the erosion of their dominance, often reacted with hostility. The intersection of gender and caste further complicated matters when a woman from a lower caste rises to power within a panchayat.

In such cases, the challenges to entrenched systems of oppression—both gendered and caste-based—became doubly significant, igniting resistance that underscores the enduring struggle for equality.

Panchibai, a Dalit woman and sarpanch of Kanwas Gram Panchayat in Rajasthan, faced a shocking assault by a young man from her village—simply because she took a stand on a drainage issue and actively participated in panchayat matters. The incident brought forth the deep-seated hostility toward women in leadership. The aggression, mostly, was brazenly public; other times, it festered behind closed doors.

Unfortunately, law enforcement rarely acts as a reliable ally. Their complaints were often ignored or delayed, and investigations were a facade. The underlying message was clear: women were to bow to the perpetrators of violence. The police ignored such cases, enabling the cycle of oppression. In many cases, there was a disturbing nexus between the aggressors and the police, cloaked in the rhetoric of caste and community honor.

The leadership of women in panchayats was a threat to patriarchal norms. The villagers bound by mindsets often supported punishing women who dared to challenge caste or gender hierarchies—sending a chilling warning to others who might follow suit.

In Andhra Pradesh, Dhulla faced relentless opposition. They brushed aside her demand for a fair vice president election. Dare not! That is our arena! When she questioned practices surrounding finances, record-keeping, and beneficiary selection, she was abused and threatened. She must learn a lesson. The decision was the indicator of the dominant force of the brutes.

The community at large condones such attitudes and sees punishing women as a way to uphold caste and community norms. For them, these acts were not crimes but executions of justice for cultural violations.

In West Bengal, Purulia district, Kamla, the pradhan of Bandoan Panchayat, had many achievements. She stressed the glaring disparity in respect afforded to male and female leaders. 'Women show him great respect to a male pradhan—they cover their heads and step aside. But men never reciprocated this respect toward me. Second, women have no income of their own. But things are changing. Now, when a tubewell needs repair, women handle it. If a well needs cleaning, they buy bleaching powder and get it done themselves. We have stopped waiting for men to act.'

However, she paid the price for her zeal. Her husband, unable to accept her growing independence and leadership, subjected her to severe mental anguish and eventually abandoned her. Today, Kamla is living on her own, a poignant symbol of resilience and sacrifice.

In Bardhaman district, Rampur village, Buri Hembrum, dared to confront a rampant issue: alcoholism. Initially, the women in their villages were too afraid to join her efforts, fearing more abuse and humiliation. She galvanized the women and destroyed a liquor shop on the village outskirts.

Nirmala Devi, 32, a Zila Parishad member from Chandauli district, Uttar Pradesh, endured relentless mental harassment due to her identity as a scheduled caste woman. 'After getting elected, I distributed sweets but, people refused to accept the sweets I offered. They come to me with their problems, seek my help, and vote for me, yet still consider me untouchable,' she lamented.

In Karnataka, Mandya district, Besagarahalli village, Adiamma, a scheduled caste woman sarpanch, faced a no-confidence motion that ousted her. Despite her work, including clearing encroachments near the local bus stand and streamlining services like katha transfers and ration cards, she remained a mere woman for the villagers; they boycotted meetings and criticized her management, removing her under flimsy pretexts.

That was a recurring pattern—women leaders who attempted to speak or assert themselves were often mocked into silence, passing their tenure unheard. Their male counterparts frequently gang up to oust women sarpanches, exploiting loopholes to consolidate power.

Victims of Vested Interests

Men and women in rural governance often have different priorities, needs, and perspectives. Women frequently became collateral damage because of the male folk interests.

For instance, Jarta Rambabu, a tribal sarpanch in Peda Mallapuram village, East Godavari district, was killed by the members of a Naxalite organisation, the People's War Group (PWG), for resisting its attempts to control thrift societies run by women. Nimma Lingavva, the Kamareddy Mandal Parishad President in Andhra Pradesh, was assaulted by PWG members for not paying heed to their words.

Uttar Pradesh, Baghpat district, Iimon Devi, a 60-year-old woman sarpanch, was brutally murdered by the deputy pradhan and his armed men. Why? They disapproved of her style of functioning. What was the easy way out? Implicate women leaders in false corruption cases who refused to surrender. Many women were accused of misusing funds and deceiving unemployed youth, though these allegations were never proven.

The Game of Power

The election of women leaders was a challenge to established gender hierarchies. Their rise symbolised a disruption of traditional power structures—within families, villages, and beyond. To many, this was a threat to cultural values and male authority. Even the elderly women sometimes resented younger women leaders for upsetting these dynamics.

This resistance stems from a belief that leadership is a male prerogative—by men, for men, and of men. Many rural men devise strategies to oppose their participation, including obstructing their right to contest elections.

Caste and gender biases often intersect, leading to violent conflicts in local governance. Scheduled caste women sarpanches frequently face assaults and humiliation from upper-caste and dominant-community men.

In Madhya Pradesh, Tikamgarh district, Gundiabai Ahirwar, a scheduled caste sarpanch, was attacked while hoisting the national flag on Independence Day. The upper-caste deputy sarpanch, Shankarlal Yadav, and his supporters verbally abused and physically assaulted her. In the same block, Kumni Devi, another scheduled caste sarpanch, was systematically silenced during panchayat meetings dominated by the Lodhi community. The panchayat meetings took place on their premises, and they did not care about her presence and authority.

Where Are They Now

Women stood up in their pockets to defend their rights. In Bangalore Zila Panchayat, women members took a stand against oppression and humiliation in public office; they threatened to boycott meetings unless allowed to speak and voice their opinions. Led by Lakshmi Devamma, these women defied male hegemony, refusing to be mere puppets in proceedings.

A similar tale of defiance unfolded in Jalgaon, where Indirabai, president of Samagra Mahila Aghadi, broke societal norms. Her short hair, five-yard saris, and fancy footwear drew criticism from her Gujjar Samaj community. Initially terrified, Indirabai persevered despite ridicule and conflict with her husband. Over the period, her relentless efforts earned her respect, and today, she walked through her village confidently, engaging with anyone she pleases.

Not all women withstood the pressure. A few succumbed to systemic oppression, with some even resorting to self-harm. Still, their courage remains a beacon of hope. These stories highlight the resilience of women leaders battling against entrenched patriarchy.

Tragic incidents, like that of Gubrail, a tribal sarpanch in Betul district, underline the grave challenges faced by women leaders. On February 11, 2003, Gubrail self-immolated after corrupt officials demanded their cut to reimburse the funds she had personally raised for the development of the village.

Transitioning from the confines of their homes to public space was not a cakewalk. Women leaders often encounter hostility. Male panchayat members employ non-cooperation, especially in regions with women sarpanches or presidents. These women face indignities, verbal abuse, and even threats from male colleagues and family members.

However, during the past many years, women have learned to navigate public life with resilience. Many fought back through legal channels, challenging their unjust removal from office. They faced a no-confidence motion driven by caste sentiments. A few took their battle to court and fought to reclaim their rights.

But after twenty-five years, the rise of women leaders lost its steam. Today, they have faded into obscurity. Why? The pertinent questions remain unanswered. Did they truly achieve what they aspired to? Is their potential stifled by systemic barriers, slowly and systematically? Or did they retreat into their old fold?

Social change moves at a snail's pace. A quarter of a century is about to elapse, but women in Rural India have to go miles before the sunrise of their dreams.

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