IT'S a vocation few women would opt for. But the 10 women who train as two-wheeler mechanics at the Loyola Industrial Training Institute, on the outskirts of Bangalore, think otherwise. And act so too.
Dressed in blue overalls, spanners and screwdrivers in hand, they are perfectly fitted for their unlikely role—tinkering with carburettors, clutches and brakes of two-wheelers. Yet it's a unique dream that drives them on: that of opening the first all-women garage in the country, in Bangalore.
Enterprising, you might think. Even more so because at least three of these 10 women are unlettered; the rest are Class 8 dropouts. Most of these women had resigned themselves to taking up menial jobs, till three NGOs provided them with a cause they might want to work for.
It all began when the NGOs started working on ways to train women in vocations other than the stereotyped ones of tailoring. NGO Vimochana first hit upon the idea of establishing a two-wheeler service station. Last fall, they sponsored the training of two women at the facility in Madras on how to take apart and put together two-wheeler engines. When Skills for Progress or SKIP, an association of private technical schools, began scouting for a training centre in Bangalore, it found Loyola ITI to have the necessary infrastructure for such a course. Once the training centre was ready and a course for school dropouts announced, Janodaya, an organisation working for the rehabilitation of destitutes and women prisoners, sponsored six women for the course. In addition, it sponsored two more women for training as electricians to service household electronic gadgets.
But though only four girls enrolled for the electrical engineering training course, ITI's two-wheeler mechanics course attracted 15, of whom 10 are now training under the guidance of two women instructors. Besides their regular training, the institute also conducts literacy classes for those who can't read or write and concentrates on their overall personality development by instilling motivation and leadership. "The emphasis," says I.B. Rosario, principal of the institute, "is on the empowerment of women. The course is only for school dropouts, so we also provide value education and how to deal with customers. After the six-month course, these women can find employment in any showroom or service station."
It hasn't all been a smooth ride though. Says Rosario: "We started with 15 students, but five left because their families thought it would be difficult for the girls to work in service stations." For instance, 25-year-old Ashrafunnisa, Ashrafi to friends, and now one of the instructors at the institute, defied her traditional background and braved the wrath of her grandparents to step out to pursue her dream of establishing a service station. A Class 8 dropout, her grandmother told her to discontinue her education and stay at home like other Muslim women in the locality. And when Ashrafi did enrol as a trainee for the course, she did not speak to her for a year while her aunt would tell visiting relatives that her niece was away at a friend's place because she feared badnaami, and perhaps ostracisation.
But it was Ashrafi's stepping into a male preserve that attracted the most hostility. At the two service stations where she was sent to train, Ashrafi was taunted for leaving the kitchen. Says she: "At the first place where I worked, I was asked to leave as soon as I completed my six months of training. At another showroom, the men tried to mislead me rather than train me about the skills." Many of her colleagues, apparently insecure about their own position, even complained to her supervisor about minor goof-ups, hoping she'd be asked to leave. But there was little to drive Ashrafi off course.
EQUALLY driven are the other trainees at the institute, many of whom have put behind them traumas of poverty or harassment to bask in their new, improved self-image.
Like Kamala, who was married off when she was six months old. No sooner did she finish Class 10 than her parents began compelling her to join her husband. But Kamala refused to leave home. "They had not taken my permission when they married me off. So why should I have bowed to their wishes? I wanted to go to college and stand on my feet."
But that wasn't to be. Unable to bear the parental pressure, Kamala set herself ablaze. After recovering from her burns, she came to Bangalore and joined a shelter run by Janodaya where she was encouraged to take up vocational training.
Bhagya, 18, walked out on her husband two months after her marriage because she was being constantly harassed for dowry. "We gave him Rs 30,000 because he wanted to set up a furniture shop. But two days after I moved to his house, he wanted another Rs 25,000. My parents said they'd raise a loan. I thought I'd earn that money and spend it on myself," she says.
Spurred by their enthusiasm, Janodaya has decided to support the next batch of trainee mechanics as well. Says Umme Ayesha, its coordinator: "We're spending about Rs 25,000 on these girls and two others who are training for the electronic services course." Vimochana has already moved the government for sanction of a stipend for the trainees and salary for the instructors. Soon, they plan to make a formal application to the Karnataka State Financial Corporation (KSFC) for a loan to establish the two-wheeler service centre which they hope to set up in six months.
Things are definitely revving up for these women mechanics. And if things stay in top gear, Bangalore will see its first service station manned by women.
