http://www.thequint.com/women/2015/09/25/for-police-women-like-nisha-working-24-hours-is-a-way-of-life
I met Nisha Gaur for the first time a few weeks ago.
The first time I met her, I felt a little threatened. Her frame was bulky, and her face stern. Even the surroundings were a tad intimidating – it was after all, the first time I had been to a thana. Busy in her paperwork, Nishaji was sitting in one corner of the Sector 39 Mahila Thana in Noida. Nishaji, as I call her, didn’t want to talk; she was afraid that one wrong word could spell trouble for her and cost her her sarkaari job.
She did open up later, though. She told me lots, in fact – about her frequent 24 hour shifts, where she comes to work at 8 in the morning, and leaves at 8 the next morning; resting in the dilapidated barracks in between if she gets the time. The barracks, made up of tin, heat up pretty quickly in the summers, have a barely functioning cooler, and are infested by mice.
But Nishaji wasn’t daunted by this. Not at all. She’d been living away from her husband, she said, for a long time – a husband who runs a shop in Bijnaur, 150 kms away. She cannot meet him for several weeks as it isn’t possible to travel that frequently when you only get a day off from work. The in-laws often taunt her about her inability to be by her husband’s side. Nishaji takes it all in her stride, she told me.
As more conversations followed, I found out that beneath that heavily starched khaki exterior rest stereotypically female indulgences. Nishaji loves to go shopping; visiting the parlour, and dressing up. Her face also lights up when she speaks of her kids – particularly her elder son – who works as an engineer at an “American company” in Hyderabad.
As I, a young mahila myself, chatted and laughed with the other lady constables at the Mahila Thana, I realised all at once that even though they were in uniform, and I was in plain clothes, we were all bound by the same, empathetic female spirit.
One of the women I met there was Mithlesh, a heavily pregnant constable who travels 50 kms one way in buses, coming in from Dankaur for the sake of her job.
Then there was Anita Chaudhary, who is scared every time she has to report for duty at 11 in the night. With no cab facility available, she comes alone in an auto-rickshaw at that time of the night. What keeps her protected, she says, is the authority that she exudes through her uniform; the khaki guards her from miscreants who try to muscle women out and about at this time of the night. That her job itself is protecting citizens, is rather ironical.
One thing that these policewomen were constantly inquiring about was my salary. Constables, over 50 years old, were slightly surprised to find that I made more money than them. Private pays more madamji, they said.
As I pressed them further with more questions, they lost patience, saying
Overworked and understaffed, these women have no office timings, excessive work pressure and very little support from authorities. In fact, sometimes they have had to pay from their own pocket while travelling on duty. One woman officer jokingly said that she once had to pay for the criminal’s auto fare too!
Although the scope of this story is small (it talks about just a handful of police women), the fact remains that the total woman police force in India is shockingly just 6.11 % of the total police force. The Sector 39 Mahila Thana, where I went, has just 15 policewomen, but being the only thana for women in the whole of Gautam Buddha Nagar, has to cater to a population of over 7.57 lakh women.
With such low numbers, and state and public apathy, where will the mahila police constable go?
I met Nisha Gaur for the first time a few weeks ago.
The first time I met her, I felt a little threatened. Her frame was bulky, and her face stern. Even the surroundings were a tad intimidating – it was after all, the first time I had been to a thana. Busy in her paperwork, Nishaji was sitting in one corner of the Sector 39 Mahila Thana in Noida. Nishaji, as I call her, didn’t want to talk; she was afraid that one wrong word could spell trouble for her and cost her her sarkaari job.
She did open up later, though. She told me lots, in fact – about her frequent 24 hour shifts, where she comes to work at 8 in the morning, and leaves at 8 the next morning; resting in the dilapidated barracks in between if she gets the time. The barracks, made up of tin, heat up pretty quickly in the summers, have a barely functioning cooler, and are infested by mice.
But Nishaji wasn’t daunted by this. Not at all. She’d been living away from her husband, she said, for a long time – a husband who runs a shop in Bijnaur, 150 kms away. She cannot meet him for several weeks as it isn’t possible to travel that frequently when you only get a day off from work. The in-laws often taunt her about her inability to be by her husband’s side. Nishaji takes it all in her stride, she told me.
As more conversations followed, I found out that beneath that heavily starched khaki exterior rest stereotypically female indulgences. Nishaji loves to go shopping; visiting the parlour, and dressing up. Her face also lights up when she speaks of her kids – particularly her elder son – who works as an engineer at an “American company” in Hyderabad.
As I, a young mahila myself, chatted and laughed with the other lady constables at the Mahila Thana, I realised all at once that even though they were in uniform, and I was in plain clothes, we were all bound by the same, empathetic female spirit.
One of the women I met there was Mithlesh, a heavily pregnant constable who travels 50 kms one way in buses, coming in from Dankaur for the sake of her job.
Then there was Anita Chaudhary, who is scared every time she has to report for duty at 11 in the night. With no cab facility available, she comes alone in an auto-rickshaw at that time of the night. What keeps her protected, she says, is the authority that she exudes through her uniform; the khaki guards her from miscreants who try to muscle women out and about at this time of the night. That her job itself is protecting citizens, is rather ironical.
One thing that these policewomen were constantly inquiring about was my salary. Constables, over 50 years old, were slightly surprised to find that I made more money than them. Private pays more madamji, they said.
As I pressed them further with more questions, they lost patience, saying
Maidam, police waalon ke liye koi fiqar nahin karta, aapki to story ban jaayegi, agar aapne kucchh galat chaap diya, to humein suspend karne mein koi time nahin lagegaI assured them that wouldn’t happen, and they retorted by telling me how their colleague – who had complained about the thana once – had been under suspension for seven months. This, even as their internal joke remains police ki naukri.. public se bhi maar, sarkaar se bhi maar.
Overworked and understaffed, these women have no office timings, excessive work pressure and very little support from authorities. In fact, sometimes they have had to pay from their own pocket while travelling on duty. One woman officer jokingly said that she once had to pay for the criminal’s auto fare too!
Although the scope of this story is small (it talks about just a handful of police women), the fact remains that the total woman police force in India is shockingly just 6.11 % of the total police force. The Sector 39 Mahila Thana, where I went, has just 15 policewomen, but being the only thana for women in the whole of Gautam Buddha Nagar, has to cater to a population of over 7.57 lakh women.
With such low numbers, and state and public apathy, where will the mahila police constable go?
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