Hazra Chitrakar
Paintings: Chandi
Mangal, Bin Laden – 11 September, Tsunami, The
Abduction of Sita
Artist: Hazra Chitrakar
My name is Hazra. My life had an exciting but frightening start. After I was born, my mother was unconscious in the hospital for ten days. The doctors told my father that she had tetanus and that my birth had strained her body seriously. But I came to know later that my father had been upset at me not only because I had put my mother in such danger she gave birth—but it did not help that I was a girl, too. This is the kind of attitude with which my father has approached our relationship. A number of years later, my mother was pregnant again, and my father had to run our family alone. We were incredibly poor, and my father and I used to go out begging for rice while my mother rested at home. I think my mother felt bad for us: she was always concerned about me, saying that a dog might bite me or a car might hit me. We had a hard life.
Sometimes my father would take me along with him and teach me to sing scroll songs. I would accompany him to sing songs of Manasa Pat, Sita’s Abduction, Kaliyug and Independence from the United Kingdom. I’d tell him, “Baba, you always go and show scrolls alone. I want to come with you. Give me a scroll, and I’ll sing about it.” He told me not to be silly—a woman, singing? People would ridicule both of us. But I continued to learn from him anyway. When I was 12 or 13, it was time to begin considering marriage. I was prepared to marry anyone to try to escape the poverty that plagued my family. In the end, my father-in-law paid for me and my family to travel to the home of my husband. For that, we were grateful but rather embarrassed. There was nothing we could do, though, and we thanked my husband’s family.
I was pretty lucky—my in-laws really liked me, but my husband and I didn’t have any land or a home to call our own. No home, hardly any food—I remained in a rather impoverished situation even though my husband’s family was so kind to me. He couldn’t keep a full-time job to support us, unfortunately, so eventually my father-in-law sent my husband away from our home to work.
Around the same time, I had my first child. She was a beautiful baby girl. After she had been alive for about three weeks, I noticed that she was becoming unhealthy. My parents suspected that she had jaundice and needed ritual cleansing. Her symptoms were terrible: fever, cough, and mouth ulcers. She couldn’t even breast feed, and I was upset. My husband wanted to sell his trolley to take her to the doctor. I told him “How will we survive if you do that? My parents will find a way.” We pawned a bell metal plate and got some money. Then, we showed the baby to a witch doctor we used to know called Gora Chand Das. He treated her in all of the traditional ways. As in Islam, the witch doctors say Bismillah (in the name of Allah) then read the Kalma, and then they bless us. He read the Hindu scriptures and blew air on my daughter for three days. Almost magically, the poison like blue tinge disappeared. When she was cured, I couldn’t lift her, she was so fat! It was a miracle, but he cured my daughter!
After having another child, I delved into the business of scroll painting and singing. I made up the songs, and my daughter Jyotsna wrote them down since I can’t write. Then, I compose the music. It became a prosperous process, and we gained so much confidence that there was a possibility that I would be able to support my family We were convinced that would be able to have two square meals every day from then on. We would be able to spread awareness about our scrolls and sometimes even our villagers would demand our scrolls when they would see our advertisements on television. It was amazing: the prospect of not having to go from village to village to sell our work was fantastic. I became a member in the women’s committee for scroll painting and singing, and they also helped me so much. Compared to a lot of the other women, I was just a shy housewife and felt like I knew little about their work. But my husband encouraged me: a lot of husbands don’t allow their wives to go anywhere, but he sent me everywhere. He told me that if I went to the committee meeting and participated, I would become well-known like the others. He supported me, and the women’s committee did too.
It was funny how I came to be involved with the committee. Rani had done a program in Calcutta, and she came back and told us we would form a committee together. If all of us worked together, she reasoned, we would progress. She told us that we could have a better life and not have to live in dire poverty. We’d have proper meals, and we’d take our children to the doctor when they fall sick. All of us agreed. At that point, there were more than 15 of us. We had been receiving health pamphlets—about HIV/AIDS, diphtheria, water pollution, and other issues that were prevalent in Naya. We would go around the villages singing about these issues—typically four of us at a time.
My husband continued to support me in my efforts with the committee, and we even saw some social changes. Even the Hindus who used to turn their noses earlier, saying “You don’t change your clothes after going to the bathroom! We won’t touch you!” have now changed and accepted us as Muslims. The Hindus say that we’re all brothers and sisters. We’re all united, and they understand that we paint because it is our profession, and we all deserve respect. Now my daughters are learning to read the Koran Sharif and Bengali language. I’m also teaching them to sing.