CHOTI MADHAIYAN, India -- Savitri Kabirdas, a short, lower-caste woman in a torn pink sari, had just squatted on the mud floor of her kitchen to grind curry spices when a bicyclist came to the door.
"Mechanic Sir?" the man called out to her.
Savitri Kabirdas, bending over, repairs a village pump assisted by Sundhi Kolin, left, and Bhuri Raidas. Pump repair used to be a male preserve, but women from India's lowest castes are working as mechanics.
(Rama Lakshmi -- The Washington Post)
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Kabirdas, 50, sprang to her feet and came out of her thatch-roofed hut.
"The water hand pump in my village has broken down," the man said. "There has been no water for a week. Come with me right away and repair it."
Asking her daughter-in-law to take over the cooking, Kabirdas loaded some tools onto her head, atop which rural Indian women often carry heavy loads. She was joined by two other women, also mechanics, and within minutes she was walking along dirt tracks, past rows of sorghum farms toward the bicyclist's village, five miles away.
Kabirdas and her team are among 45 illiterate lower-caste women in this district who were trained 10 years ago in pump repair, traditionally a male preserve. It is a sign of change that the man seeking help from Kabirdas referred to her as "sir," -- the job of mechanic is traditionally a male role. But Kabirdas is a pioneer not only for breaking stereotypes about women's work but also for taking a job previously barred to members of lower castes in India's still-rigid class system.
Keeping the pumps in good working order is an essential task in rural India, because villagers depend on them to draw safe drinking water from deep wells.
In taking on such an important role, the female mechanics have challenged feudal notions of gender roles in village society, after centuries of prejudice and discrimination by members of upper castes.
"For a long time people taunted us when we arrived with our tools," Kabirdas said. "They shooed us away. The upper castes would say, 'You untouchable women, stay away from our hand pump. What do you know other than making bread and collecting cow dung?' "
But when the women began repairing the broken pumps promptly, they carved themselves an important niche in the hierarchy of the water-scarce village.
"These were the homes we could never enter. Our pots could not touch theirs when they filled water," she said. "Now they make us sit on the cot and offer us tea and food. They even call us Mechanic Sir."
Today, Kabirdas's team maintains and repairs more than 1,600 hand pumps in 144 villages and has trained 800 other women.
Not long ago, in this rocky, drought-prone region, a broken hand pump meant a long, frustrating delay. The villagers' petition had to pass through labyrinthine processes of bureaucracy. The area had only three government mechanics for 900 pumps.
"We had to wait for months for the government mechanic to come," said Balkesh Yadav, a rich farming landlord. "Women had to walk miles to fetch water from open ponds. The water was not always safe and made the children sick."
