When did you develop an interest in singing?

As a child, I had no interest in playing with girls my age. I used to spend time with older women, listening to bhajans. After I got married, my mother-in-law, who is part of the Kabir Panth, brought me to nirgun poetry. Kabir Panthis are those who follow the teachings of Kabir. At first, I disliked nirgun singing. I did not even know what the word meant. My mother-in-law used to play cassettes from 5 am and it bored me. My sleep used to get disturbed. I was 16 or 17 at the time.

I used to sit with a ghoonghat and sing bhajans with the other women and my mother-in-law. Once there was a programme in our village where I heard a bhajan and it moved me. Only men used to sing in our village. Listening to those verses, I felt that Kabir’s poetry had a deep power, and I slowly began to understand it. Narayan Delmia visited our house and saw that we could sing well. He offered to teach us, which made me and my mother-in-law very glad. He used to come every eighth day because he knew that women would not be allowed to go out to learn.

Do you write your own songs?

I sing the nirgun poetry our ancestors have been singing for ages. I am trying to write nirgun poetry myself, and my mother-in-law has inspired me. I do not know which verse of Kabir touched me so deeply that I changed completely.

Your journey has not been without struggles. What were the key challenges?

To this day, women are not allowed to step out of the house without their husband’s permission. We (my mother-in-law and I) were eager to learn and we did. But society started questioning us—whether we should be allowed to continue, because it would look bad on the community if women went out to sing. People said terrible things about us, and my husband was also against it. But we had grown attached to the singing of the saints and did not know how to let go.

My husband fought a lot with me, fearing what his friends would say. I used to cry a lot at night. When he came back from the printing press, where he works, I used to make sure all the household chores were done so that there would be nothing to complain about. Even when he got angry, I heard it all silently. Yet he was not convinced. Now he plays the timki when I sing, but this came after much penance and because I was firm about not giving up singing at any cost.

I live by the doha: “Kabeera khada baazaar mein, maange sabakee khair, na kaahoo se dostee, na kaahoo se bair” (Kabir stands in the market, wishing well for all—neither friendship with anyone, nor enmity with anyone).

Geeta Parag says in Dewas, women have started taking singing as a serious choice. | Photo Credit: Nilesh Parag

To what extent is your music a response to the pressures faced by Dalit women in the arts?

Every new thing scares us. All I think about is: when they did not spare Mirabai, then who am I to complain? History does not remember Roopa Bai, Tola Bai, and Karma Bai as female Bhakti saints because they did not fight as much as Mirabai did. People discriminate on the basis of gender and caste. People will pull your leg, but you have to march ahead.

Has the audience always been welcoming?

Once there was an event in my guru’s village and he asked me to sing. The audience’s applause made me very happy. I did not know what singing well meant; I was simply singing bhajans. When people came up and praised me, I saw that maybe I could keep doing this. My husband came to this event but was still not convinced. Whenever there was a programme, he would come with me but sit at the back and hide his face, afraid his friends would see him.

I remember my first performance to this day, because more than knowledge of Kabir, there is a way of living that a Kabir Panthi follows. He teaches us a new way of living. We did not just sing; we also looked into what we were singing about and lived it through practice. Singing was not entertainment for us but a way of life.

Is Kabir taught enough to students? What about other Bhakti and Sufi saints?

I have taught in anganwadi schools for 15 years, and I believe Kabir, Ravidas, and other Bhakti and Sufi saints are not taught enough, even when this generation needs it the most. They appear in class VIII textbooks, but more is needed.

Kabir says beautiful things. For example: “Jaati na pucho saadhu ki, pooch lijiye gyaan. Mol karo talwaar ka, pada rahan do myaan” (Do not ask a saint about his caste; ask for his knowledge instead. Value the sword for its sharpness; let the scabbard be). There is another verse: “Sab kaahoo ka leejie, saancha shabd nihaar. Pakshapaat na keejie, kahain kabeer vichaar” (No matter who speaks, if they tell the truth, accept it. One should never be biased while accepting the truth or doing justice). Kabir’s caste does not matter in front of his knowledge; he deserves to be taught more widely. Kabir taught me how to live without judgement, without bias, and with peace.

What do you want to say to people who fear following their passion in the face of adversity?

It is important to stand by what you believe in. Looking at others, one gets inspired. In Dewas, women have started taking singing as a serious choice. In an area where women wear the ghoonghat, a female-led music festival called the Malwa Mahila Kabir Yatra is held every year and only women take part. The men who used to taunt my husband and say that I sing with males while their wives sit “like queens at home” now ask their wives to follow my example. People will criticise, but until when? They will change one day.

I remember when I was asked to a programme in Dewas by my guru and fliers were put up across the city; many people came up to my husband asking about me. My guru, Prahlad Singh Tipaniya, sat with my husband and explained the meaning of art, nirgun poetry, and singing as something deeper than performance. It was after this that my husband started believing in my talent. I used to be scared, but that fear was nothing next to the thought of being kept away from Kabir.

The single biggest motivation for me is my mother, who has a single child and “unfortunately” a daughter in the eyes of society, saying: “I do not want anyone else; my daughter gave me everything.”