Organising Across Divides: The Rise of the Women’s Movement in Maharashtra

You mentioned returning to Bombay after the founding conference of AIDWA, energised to build a strong women’s organisation and movement. Could you describe how the women’s movement was evolving in Maharashtra, particularly in Bombay, at that time? What were the key challenges, dynamics, and breakthroughs as the movement rapidly grew and engaged women from diverse communities and political backgrounds?

After our return from the founding conference of AIDWA in Madras, I became deeply immersed in organising new units and traveling across various districts in Maharashtra. It was an exhilarating period—both personally and politically—as the women’s movement was gaining momentum and beginning to take on a more radical, intersectional character. I found myself at the heart of this growing wave of activism, building local organisations, attending intense discussions, and meeting women from diverse walks of life—workers, slum dwellers, students, peasants—each bringing their own lived experience to the larger struggle for justice and equality.

The political vibrancy of the time was palpable. Alongside stalwarts of the Communist movement like Comrade Godavari Parulekar—“Godutai,” as we fondly called her—I also worked closely with women from other ideological traditions, including Socialists like Mrinal Gore and Kamal Desai, as well as feminist scholars and activists such as Flavia Agnes and Vibhooti Patel. I learned immensely from them. Our debates—particularly those between Marxist and feminist frameworks—were often sharp and heated, yet always thought-provoking and grounded in a shared commitment to improving women’s lives. Despite our ideological differences, we collaborated closely on interventions related to the anti-price rise movement, domestic violence, labour, social welfare and so on. 

(Anti-price rise protests in Maharashtra | Photo Credit: https://keshavgoretrust.org/)

Comrade Godutai stood out as a towering figure—legendary not only for her political clarity but for her tireless organizing among Adivasi communities in Thane and Nasik. She maintained an extraordinarily disciplined life, documenting every meeting and rest day in her diary with precision. Her efforts transformed the lives of countless Adivasis, many of whom had lived under near-feudal conditions. Even after her passing in 1996, these areas remained bastions of Communist strength. For the Adivasis, Godutai represented something deeply personal—freedom, dignity, and a voice. I remember one night while we were painting our election symbol on a wall near the Kurla railway line. A man, asleep nearby, woke up and silently watched. When we finished painting the star above the hammer and sickle, he smiled and exclaimed, “Godarani chi nishani!”—“The mark of Godarani!” He was a Warli from Thane, working as a contract labourer with the railways. Though exhausted, he insisted on helping, proudly carrying our bucket of white paint. That moment symbolized how deeply her influence had penetrated even among the most disenfranchised.

Because she lived in Juhu, close to my home, I had the rare privilege of spending regular time with her during her rest days. Over shared meals, she would recount stories from the field—tales of Adivasi resistance, the strength of their communal bonds, their fierce sense of justice, and the brutal hardships they had endured and overcome. These conversations enriched my understanding of rural struggles and deepened my political conviction.

(Godavari Parulekar I Image Courtesy: Sabrang India)

Simultaneously, we were organizing extensively in Bombay’s slums—battling for basic amenities like water and sanitation, resisting police and goonda violence, and protecting residents from the constant threat of eviction. These struggles helped expand our reach, and we set up several units of the Janvadi Mahila Samiti—AIDWA’s Hindi counterpart—from Bhandup to Andheri, Worli, and Colaba. In Colaba’s fishermen’s colony, directly across from the elegant bungalows of Cuffe Parade, the entire bustee lacked water access. We led a militant protest to the nearby Old Secretariat. Before security could react, we barged into the Minister for Urban Affairs’ office, banging empty vessels and shouting slogans. He was so stunned that he immediately ordered the installation of water lines and hand pumps. Ironically, years later, this same coastline would be the point of entry for the 2008 terrorist attack.

But amid all these victories came moments of deep disillusionment—none more searing than the case of a young Dalit girl who had been gang-raped in Mahim’s Machhimar Colony. The attackers were from the dominant fishing community, while the girl’s family—poor, isolated, and among the few Dalits in the area—was left completely vulnerable. Her mother, who sold vegetables in the local market, reached out in desperation to Ahilyatai.

Ahilyatai responded immediately. She ensured the survivor received medical care and stood by her as she bravely identified the perpetrators, who were then arrested. But what unfolded next shook me to the core. The entire community rallied not around the survivor—but around the accused. The brutal assault was dismissed, overshadowed by the community’s wounded "honour." They began raising funds for the rapists’ legal defense, and the survivor’s family—already marginalized—was vilified.

(Jan Natya Manch performing Aurat on dowry and domestic violence I Image Courtesy: Google Arts and Culture)

What was most heartbreaking was witnessing how identity politics, in its narrowest form, erased any sense of gender solidarity. The same women who had once marched with us, who had benefited from Ahilyatai’s years of advocacy, turned against her. Loyalty to caste and community superseded any sense of shared womanhood or justice. Ahilyatai—who had defended this colony time and again from demolitions, who had fought for their water rights and against police repression—was now branded a traitor for siding with a poor Dalit girl.

I visited the survivor regularly in the hospital, trying to offer comfort. What cheered her most was a small red transistor radio gifted by Zeenat Aman, who was involved in a film project with us at the time. That simple gesture—Zeenat’s recognition and care—brought a rare smile to the girl's face.

This experience was a turning point for me. It revealed that identity politics can never serve as a means of empowerment; in fact, it becomes a tool for silencing truth and defending injustice. So often, identity politics is presented as a way to resist oppression. But in Machhimar Colony, it did the opposite—it defended the powerful, vilified the victim, and shattered all possibilities of solidarity. It prevented the kind of collective moral outrage that is essential to any real transformation.

What I saw there was a microcosm of the larger shifts underway in Maharashtra. Bombay was once a city of workers, of trade unions, and red flags that unified entire neighbourhoods. But that unity was fractured when mill owners and political elites threw their weight behind the Shiv Sena, a party rooted in divisive identity politics. The resulting fractures proved fatal for the working class. The communal polarization we witness today is a direct and devastating outcome of that ideological shift.