Exhibition sheds light on unsung women freedom fighters

At 16, Bhagya Lakshmi Devi was staring at a future she did not want. Pushed by her stepparents into a marriage she dreaded, the teenager made a choice that would alter the course of her life: she joined the Rani of Jhansi Regiment of Subhas Chandra Bose’s Indian National Army (INA).

“It is better to die for the independence of India than to marry a man I don’t like,” she told writer and filmmaker Sagari Chhabra in an interview years later.

Lakshmi was among the hundreds of women, many of them barely out of school, who left behind homes in Singapore, Malaysia and Burma to fight for a free India. Their names rarely appear in school textbooks, but their stories are now resurfacing at Hamaara Itihaas, an exhibition curated by Chhabra at the India International Centre, Delhi.

Through rare photographs, oral testimonies and archival records gathered over nearly three decades, the exhibition shines a light on these unsung women freedom fighters.

“These women had never set foot on Indian soil, yet they were willing to fight, march for weeks through the forests of Burma and face death for India’s independence,” Chhabra told The Tribune. “Every woman I met inspired me with her courage.”

Among them was Rasammah Bhupalan, who passed away just a few months ago. She recalled how she and her fellow soldiers walked for 21 days and 21 nights with rifles strapped to their backs as the INA retreated through Burma.

“The knapsacks dug into their shoulders,” Chhabra said, pointing at photographs of the young women, their eyes steely with determination.

Some, like Stella and Josephine, never made it back alive. “How is it that we do not know their names? They are our indigenous role models,” Chhabra asked.

Then there were the Supaya sisters, three young women from Malaysia whose father reluctantly allowed them to join the regiment after a family friend convinced him that women taking up arms would awaken men’s conscience against colonial rule.

“They received no pension, no recognition, but they remain proud of what they did,” Chhabra said.

The exhibition also remembers figures like Janaki Bai Fateh Singh, who led a group of Ranis through the bombed forests of Burma, and Pratima Sen and Karuna Mukherjee, who abandoned saris for shirts, pants, and boots as they trained in military drills.

Their testimonies describe not only hardship but also discipline and dignity. “There was no harassment because Netaji made it clear — treat them with respect,” Chhabra said.

For Chhabra, who began this work in 1995 while researching for her film “Asli Azaadi”, the exhibition is the culmination of a life’s mission. She travelled across Malaysia, Singapore, Thailand and Burma, interviewing survivors and collecting photographs, often racing against time before memories faded and lives were lost.

“Unless you have documentary evidence, nobody would believe that this history happened,” she said.

But recognition, she argues, is still incomplete. Many of these women lived and died in obscurity, some even rendered stateless in Myanmar, with neither pensions nor citizenship. “Nobody deserves to be stateless,” Chhabra said firmly. “The government must at least ensure their descendants are given dignity.”

As visitors walk through Hamaara Itihaas, pausing at portraits of young women in military shorts and boots, rifles slung over shoulders, it is hard not to wonder: why did it take us so long to hear their stories?