When we first established our operations to produce Coir Atlas units a few weeks ago, we encountered an unexpected difficulty in getting a steady workforce of women. It seems like a simple equation: Decent Salary + Clean Working Environment + Lack of Employment Opportunities = Loyal Willing Workers. We had spread the word around the surrounding villages and poor colonies and expected to be flooded by eager employment seekers. We were quickly taught how wrong we were. The first day, we had one girl show up. We diligently trained her in the assembly process and taught her how to stitch and knot. She didn’t come back the next day.
We kept getting new women each day who would stay for one day of training never to return again. “Why?” we asked. We found that there wasn’t enough traction and the women were hesitant about working in a newly established organization with no track record and no steady employees. It would seem shady to me too if I showed up to a workshop and I was the only girl working. Finally, when we managed to get three women to show up together, they all bunked the next day. They complained about the compensation structure, which was Rs. 50 during training days (the first week). Given our payment incentive of Rs. 15 per unit after training, the women who produced more than 3 units during training felt that we were cheating them out of their rightful earnings. So we changed our payment structure to whichever was higher, either Rs. 50 per training day or Rs. 15 per unit made, and also shortened training to 4 days instead of 7. We introduced a Friends & Family policy, where anyone who introduced a new worker who stayed received a Rs.50 bonus.
To assuage their fears of this unknown workshop, I used my physical presence as a female and someone they could relate to. For the entire first week, I sat with the women, teaching them the assembly process and making units alongside them for encouragement. Believe me, this is far from glamorous nor instantly gratifying. Training was difficult given my limited Hindi, ergo it became more of show than tell, which frustrated all parties involved. In the afternoons, our public electricity would often experience load shedding and the fans would come to a dead halt. Together, we sat in sweaty solidarity, sewing jute.
I find that people, particularly in the developed world, like to romanticize the poor and the notion of poverty – emphasizing the generosity which the poor show each other or relating how they instantly felt akin to a poor woman they worked with. The reality is gray. While our women helped each other out, teaching someone who was new, or lending a hand to finish a unit, they were also competitive and possessive of limited supplies because they were paid by the units they made. Similarly, the women and I didn’t start out fond of each other; some of them were in fact quite difficult to work with and they viewed me as their boss who was not thinking on their behalf. They were also hesitant of each other, as everyone was competing for their own interests. Generosity and mutual understanding can’t come if it’s at the direct cost of potential income.
Camaraderie only developed over the course of our days working side-by-side. While our hands tied knots, we talked and learned about each other. Standard topics of conversations included: marital status, number of kids, age of their kids and what kind of food they cooked. I learned that Ratna, one of our best workers, is Tamilian but raised in Jamshedpur, so she likes to make South Indian dosas for her 2 sons on Sundays, her day off, because dosas are only good when they’re hot. Other days, she cooks a day’s supply of rice and daal before coming to work so that her husband and kids have meals during the day. Asha was someone I initially had difficulty teaching, but who has developed into a solid Coir Atlas maker; she is Bengali and so likes to make Bengali curries for her husband and two daughters. The women also developed friendships amongst themselves, joking with each other, and walking home with each other at the end of each day. But none of this happened overnight; it took time to build this mutual respect.
It was from the friend groups that formed that we decided to implement a group production model. We divided our 12 women into four groups of three. Each group is given a common supply of jute fabric, bamboo, thread, etc. and would be compensated for their total production rather than their individual production. Without our direction, the groups developed division of labor on their own. E.g., a particular member who was better at the finishing process took over that task while the other two women prepared the structural parts for her. It was incredible to watch them help each other within their group, but also develop a friendly competition with other groups. In the first three days of individual production, four women produced 14 units in total, which was frustrating when I could produce 8 units on my own in a day. Now, the groups are making 100+ units per day and they proudly and eagerly tell me how many units they’ve made each day.
***
Saturday was our first official payday, and the women were excited to find out how much they had earned. Our payment model is simple, Rs.15 per unit produced or Rs.100 per day, whichever works out in their favor. All of the women who were making units earned more than Rs.100 per day, which is often1.5x what they were previously earning. Four of our women workers come from Bagbera, a slum near the railway station. They used to earn daily wages of Rs. 60 rolling agarbatti (incense sticks), a common trade for poor women. Heera, our top performer, was an agarbatti roller who now earns an average of Rs. 130 per day, which supplements the income that our husband, a construction site worker makes. For Puja, another worker, this is her first job and the income she earns helps her family of 6 siblings to make ends meet because her father isn’t around anymore. It was eye opening for me to hear the story that each of our women had to tell for why she was here earning what equates to ~$3 a day.
As each woman was paid her salary, she was asked to sign her name in the ledger and it was then that I discovered that a number of our women were illiterate. Several of our top performers, who are deft in stitching and bright learners, were unable to sign even their own names, providing their thumbprints in place of a signature. Even many of those who could write their own names, did so laboriously in the handwriting of a child. 
Manju, who was a fast learner and made 6 units on her first day, couldn’t write the 3 letters that form her name in Hindi. She also wasn’t interested when I tried to teach her to write her name, because there was no income generation value in knowing it. It was hard for me to grasp how these smart and competent women, whom I respect, could not know how to sign their names.
***
Setting up operations was and is challenging and taxing. There are constant setbacks and disappointments in the production performance. And when all the women appear each day, clad in brightly colored saris, with gold earrings and nose rings, I often wondered if these were truly women in need. I doubted the social impact that our operations had. For me, these uncertainties have been laid to rest. Even though our impact is small right now, the employment that we are providing is giving our small group of women a meaningful amount of extra income. Over the last weeks of working with and getting to know them, I came to develop a sense of kinship with and responsibility for them. My only worry now is on the business side of how to keep sales coming so that we can keep them employed. Because now that I know them, I don’t want to disappoint them and have them return to rolling agarbatti for $1.50 a day.
