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AHMEDABAD, Gujarat — On a hot October morning, an intense discussion was waging between three women in a nondescript beauty salon in the Juhapura locality of Ahmedabad, the city’s largest Muslim ghetto.

While the most common topics of discussion in a beauty salon are fashion, cosmetics and men, here the women were discussing national politics, particularly the prospects of Gujarat’s chief minister, Narendra Modi of the Hindu nationalist Bharatiya Janata Party, or B.J.P.

“Modi should become India’s prime minister; let’s see what road the country takes then. Others will understand the pain we felt,” said Sageera Sheikh, 42, her eyes closed as her face was covered with a walnut scrub.

“What!” exclaimed Tasneem Aslam, 30, whose feet were soaking in warm water, just before her pedicure. “No way! I think the country should understand that he is a tyrant and won’t stop at anything to get his way.”

“Why are you all getting so emotional?” said 18-year-old Zeesha Khan, who was only 7 in 2002, when over 1,000 people, most of them Muslims, were killed during riots while Mr. Modi was in power. “How does it matter who becomes the prime minister? Our state of affairs will remain the same.”

It’s a discussion that can be heard in many places in urban India, but for the women of Juhapura, this sort of informal participation in the political process is rare, as they have very few places where they can freely exchange their thoughts on non-household issues in their area. These opportunities for discussions are limited partly because of cultural pressure on women to avoid political topics, but also because the densely packed neighborhood simply has no room for their debates.

Many of the women who live here chafe at the constraints on their voices and the lack of outside interest, especially from politicians and lawmakers, in this Muslim neighborhood, which is walled off from the rest of Ahmedabad and bisected by a national highway.

Salma Khan, 26, who was one of the many women browsing in a local market, said she has keenly followed the politics of Juhapura ever since she moved into the neighborhood in 2003 from the Old City area of Ahmedabad. “I have an opinion on everything and everyone, but how does it matter? No one wants to hear us,” she said, her eyes welling up.

Juhapura used to be a desolate neighborhood in a western suburb of Ahmedabad, constructed for the victims of the 1973 flood in Gujarat’s capital. But after the 2002 riots in the state, Muslims from across Ahmedabad moved to Juhapura, which had become a Muslim neighborhood by then, changing it to an urbanized ghetto of almost 400,000 people, as big as about 10 football fields put together.

Away from the national highway, tiny houses, crammed up against each other, line the narrow, muddy streets of the second-biggest Muslim locality in India by population, after the old city of Hyderabad.

Twelve-feet-high walls surround Juhapura on all sides, defining its informal border. This border ensures that the interaction of people of Juhapura with the Hindu parts of Ahmedabad is limited. Some men step out for work and travel about seven or eight kilometers, or four or five miles, to the old part of Ahmedabad, which still houses a sizable Muslim population.

Since most women in Juhapura don’t work, they are confined within the walls of the ghetto.

“We live in this strange island, within Ahmedabad, and have little interaction with the outside world,” said Shakeera Imam, 56, another shopper at the market.

As such, politicians see no need to try to woo voters from this area – very few campaigners come out to Juhapura during election season. Several women said they don’t bother to vote at all now.

“Our level of disillusionment is quite high as you can imagine,” said Mrs. Imam. “We can never vote for the B.J.P. because of what they did to us in 2002. And we don’t want to vote for the Congress because they take us for granted. They know we do not have a choice but to vote for them. Gujarat has only two major parties, unfortunately.”

The women of Juhapura said they would welcome more public spaces, like parks or community halls, where they could speak freely about politics and other matters, but it’s a very low priority considering that the ghetto lacks basic government services like water and electricity, even though it is under the administration of the Ahmedabad Municipal Corporation.

The crowded market serves as a more common venue for free-flowing female discussions. After the women finish their household chores at around noon, many step out into the market, where mobile stalls of vegetables, fruits, cheap clothes and plastic utensils are set up.

Here, some women chat with their friends and neighbors, mostly about their families. But on one visit, it took only a little effort to instigate a discussion on the availability of water in Juhapura, and the women who were busy shopping immediately stopped what they were doing so that they could chime in.

“Why does Juhapura not get enough water?” asked a young woman in a gray burqa, who asked to remain anonymous because she feared she would get in trouble for her question, which she then answered herself: “It is because the government has systematically kept this neighborhood from availing even the basic facilities.”

She added, indignantly, “If they don’t want us Muslims, why do they collect tax from us?”

As the women talked about politics, Shazia, 8, who was shopping with her mother, Zahra Mirza, was eyeing the colorful clothes on display. The girl, who was born in Juhapura, admitted she didn’t understand most of what was being said around her. “However, I know about the toofan,” she says. Toofan, meaning a powerful force of nature, is the euphemism that is commonly used for the religious riots of 2002.

The girl’s mother said that the main reason women are pressured to avoid all the political discussions in their house is to shield the children from uncomfortable subjects.

“I don’t think it is a nice idea to keep discussing uneasy topics like the riots,” said Mrs. Mirza. “In doing so, we might deepen the divide. And unfortunately for us, there is no political topic that excludes the riots.”

As the political discussion continued in the market, several men ventured in with their own opinions. When the women were asked why Juhapura was denied basic facilities, the men kept trying to answer the question for them, until a reporter explicitly asked them to stop.

A handful of educated women of the community are working to encourage women to speak up for themselves in the public domain, like Gulistan Bibi, a principal at a local primary school. She has been involved in social work for more than a decade, convening meetings at the Ahmedabad Muslim Women’s Association, a nonprofit based in Juhapura, and training women so that they can become self-employed.

“Everyone is scared to allow women to have their voice,” she said. “It will create fresh problems for the politicians if we begin protesting for our basic rights.”

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The association has helped women like Tahira Shiekh become more aware of the world outside Juhapura’s walls. Mrs. Shiekh, 52, gets 1,500 rupees, or $25, every month from the association, with which she buys some thread and makes a living by sewing clothes.

She said she had no life beyond her husband and children, but she learned about next year’s national elections, the struggling Indian economy and Gujarat’s development outside Juhapura through some informal discussions at the women’s association.

However, when asked who she thought would be the next prime minister or anything about current events, she kept saying, “I don’t know.” At one point she suggested, “You should ask someone with more information or wait until my husband gets back.”

She didn’t have any confidence in her opinions, she said, because women like her didn’t feel free enough to venture out past Juhapura’s walls and had no exposure to the outside world.

“How will we shape our opinions? We have no opinions on any significant things,” she said.

Raksha Kumar is a freelance journalist based in Bangalore.