Silent field

Chandipur in West Bengal’s Malda district is small enough to cover in an hour, by foot. Given its limited expanse, no one here had imagined that the village would make national headlines. Unexpectedly, it was a game of football that threw Chandipur into the spotlight. Scheduled to have taken place on March 14, a seven-a-side exhibition match was called off at the last minute. Several reasons have been cited for its cancellation, but the most obvious one is also the most regrettable — the 14 players who were to represent Kolkata and North Bengal in Chandipur were women.

Over the past weeks, residents of Chandipur, 390km from Kolkata, have been trying hard to accommodate hordes of journalists. Sabu Razi, who works as a chemist, is quick to caution, “You’ll find that people are being handpicked and pushed forward to give the story a different colour.” Razi strokes his greying beard while recounting a recent interaction with a female reporter. “I had to tell her that the sharia forbids me from speaking to her face to face, and it is the same sharia that stops girls and women from wearing little shorts and playing on a field. That’s what our imam had said.”

During the Jummah Khutbah (Friday sermon) on March 6, Chandipur’s imam Mufti Maqsood Alam had told his audience that the sharia does not give its adherents sanction to watch women play football. In a predominately Muslim village (11 out of 12 Gram Panchayat members are from the Muslim community), his prescriptions dominate public opinion.

The cancellation of the game has exposed the fault lines in this village of around 5,000 people, with some believing that the imam was justified in his actions, while others, especially the women, voice their resentment against this orthodoxy. In Chandipur, girls are allowed to run but not play sports. Cancelling a football game means preventing the schoolgirls from knowing that they can tackle, defend and even run free.

Whims and fancies

Sitting near the playground outside Chandipur High School, Reza Razi tries not to look despondent. The president of the Progressive Youth Club talks of how national- and state-level players had all assembled in Kolkata, excited about making their way to this very field. “They were coming here to help us celebrate the club’s golden jubilee. They weren’t taking any money. We had to turn them all away.” Branding the edict of the village imam “whimsical”, 80-year-old Razi says, “The things said that Friday are improper for a man of my age to repeat. Women footballers are not half-naked on a field. Moreover, I’m a practising Muslim and I follow Islam’s instructions, but my religion is my own. I can’t force my understanding down someone else’s throat.”

A crowd soon gathers around the octogenarian. As the former biology teacher begins to detail the sequence of events that culminated in the cancellation of the women’s football match, there are others who fill in his blanks. Some speak of local rivalries and some decry political meddling. Razi talks of mud-slinging in the marketplace, while others accuse the district administration of apathy.

An examination of each charge can help one unravel the trajectory of the recent turmoil in Chandipur, but as Razi himself adds, its ramifications tell of social fissures. “We have long moved past the age when a woman’s place was in the kitchen. Women are our partners in development, and we’ll have to ensure that they are independent and self-sufficient. We cannot keep them bound any longer.”

Razi is distracted by the ringing of a bell, which sees the students of Chandipur High School gather in the playground for their morning assembly. Physical education teacher Masoom Safiqi admits that though 60 per cent of the school’s students are girls, they don’t always enjoy the freedom they should. “These girls have never played football. A women’s football match would have been very inspiring.” He points to 15-year-old Anaj Khatun. “She is one of the best athletes we have.” Khatun promptly confesses an interest in sports. “I only get to run, though. Girls don’t play football and cricket.” Does she know why the women’s exhibition match was disallowed in March? Her answer is pithy — “Because this village is very backward.” The likes of Reza Razi wouldn’t have liked Khatun to arrive at such a damning conclusion, but her opinion is only warranted. In Chandipur’s clash against religious orthodoxy and patriarchy, narrow-mindedness clearly appears to have a headstart.

The long and shorts of it

Mufti Maqsood Alam sits in a dark room. Upset by journalists who had reported that he had issued a fatwa against Progressive Youth Club’s football match, the imam says he first wants to set the record straight. “No fatwa had ever been issued by me. I had never questioned the propriety of women playing football. The people of my village had asked me if they should watch women play football. In my sermon, I had simply said that according to the sharia, it is best if they didn’t.” Given his influence, doesn’t such a precept essentially prohibit women from playing football? The imam hedges his answer. “There are people who ask if they should drink alcohol. I tell them they shouldn’t, but if they still do, how can I stop it?” He is as evasive when asked if the sharia allows girls to play football. “I can only answer that when a parent asks me the question.”

Perceived by many to have been the epicentre of the Chandipur fracas, Mufti Maqsood Alam is aware that his eminence in the village has been challenged. “Members of the Progressive Youth Club weren’t happy with what I had said. Some of them abused me in the marketplace and this created a huge furore in the village. Interestingly, however, the administration didn’t allow the match to take place because of Higher Secondary examinations. These problems weren’t even a factor.” Reza Razi says that not only had Block Development Officer (BDO) Biplab Roy allowed his club to host the match, he had also promised security. Soon after the imam’s injunctions, this permission was hastily revoked. Since Roy says that he has been “instructed to not speak on sensitive matters”, the motive behind his reversal is unknown. Darajuddin Ahmad had walked to the BDO’s office to garner support for the March 14 game. “Everything is in the hands of the administration, but they did not take any interest at all.”

Walking down the kilometre-long road that connects much of Chandipur, Ahmad returns to the crux of the imam’s opposition — the length of the shorts that women are seen wearing when playing football. “There are girls who are playing football in Pakistan and Bangladesh. These are Muslim-dominated countries. I don’t see anyone stopping them.” Last month, Arjuna-awardee Shanti Aich Mullick was packing for her stint in Chandipur from Kolkata. A month later, she continues to be livid about the sudden recall. “If we aren’t expected to wear shorts while playing football, should we wear burqas instead? People should be looking at my foot. That’s what I will hit a ball with. Not my shorts or my skirt.”

Mullick’s views are possibly too radical in Chandipur’s marketplace, where conservatism and liberties continue to battle it out. Insisting that he only opposed the women’s football match after his religious sentiments were hurt, Inamul Huq asks, “Why haven’t the members of this club made any effort to form a girls’ football team in Chandipur? Why are they bringing in women from the outside?” The 23-year-old tailor looks up from his sewing machine to answer his question. “This is only because they are hypocritical. They think the women of their homes are respectable and others are not.”

An obstacle course

Wearing an embroidered white kurta, part-time activist Abid Anjum Razi looks almost regal in a roadside shed. “Porn films are made in Europe and America. Are they made in India?” He pauses for effect, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “They are not. Porn stars and prostitutes are accepted in Western societies. They have no place in India.” The self-styled activist’s equation of pornography and women’s football is befuddling and he is quick to clarify, “Every country, you see, has its own moral context. The imam simply pointed out that women’s football is not fit for this village. Some people want to build a society. Others sadly want to break it.”

Social worker Shakil Siraji is within earshot. He looks peeved by what he has just heard. “If my understanding of Islam forbids me from watching a game of football, I’ll refuse to go, but how can I support a ban?” Siraji makes a rather impassioned point, “The chief minister of this state is a woman. We have had a woman prime minister. Women are leaders in the Zila Parishad. If women can be so visible in public life, can’t they be allowed to play a simple game of football?”

When the same question is put to Shammi Akhtar, a Trinamool-affiliated member of Chandipur’s Gram Panchayat, she resorts to equivocation. “There is no deeper meaning or impact hidden here. The Progressive Youth Club just hit its own foot with a hammer.”

The women of Chandipur, however, choose to differ. Bina Roy, a 26-year-old postgraduate, sees the cancellation as a cruel reminder of her place in society. “I’d like to stand on my own two feet one day, but I can now see how people want me to think of myself as weak. Women here are constantly being stopped from realising their potential.” Munsifa Razi is mother to a son and daughter. The 30-year-old says enthusiastically, “Boys and girls are equal. There is no stricture or verse in Islam that stops women from playing football. I wanted my daughter to watch women play this sport. I want her to be evolved, to be independent. I want her to be free.”

Ten-year-old Tausif Alim Razi snuggles in his mother’s lap as she articulates her views on women’s empowerment and feminism. A homemaker, Jasmin Ara Begum believes she should choose her own career. “There will come a time when women leave the house, and they can do so with dignity while staying within the limits of purdah.” A keen footballer himself, Tausif smirks at the idea of playing the sport with a girl. His mother laughs and tenders an apology. “Change must now begin at home.”

Back on the street outside, girls hurry out of Chandipur High School. Some ride cycles and one even rides pillion on her brother’s motorbike. Reza Razi, for his part, smiles hopefully. “I will make sure they can all play football one day. Before I die, I’ll make sure. I’ll do everything that I possibly can to guarantee that Chandipur is not Talibanised.”

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