AS I put down the teacup on the table, a smile hovered on my lips. The cheese omelette was good. Finished with the front page, I turned to the editorial page of the newspaper. Breakfast is the best time of the day. You get up in the morning fresh and optimistic. Gradually, the events of the day wear you out, making you dull and drab. For me, however, the euphoric mood proves to be even more short-lived. The end of my breakfast coincides with the landing of our maid. She brings with her a barrage of complaints against her husband and her mother-in-law. Every day, she sits with me for quarter of an hour, venting her emotions. I do nothing but listen — interrupting her with sensitive words. She always claims to feel better. It is therapy for her. After that, she starts her work energetically.
Like every day, she came wailing with dark shadows under her eyes. Her bruises were hidden in swathes. “Baji, aaj phir uss ne mujhey mara hai (My husband has beaten me up again).” She sat squatting in front of me, hungry for a few comforting words. For some unknown reason, today she looked like an intruder. I felt she had invaded my pleasant mood. “Why didn’t she just leave her husband,” I thought savagely.
I started leafing through the newspaper imprudently. Suddenly, her expression changed. The confiding look was gone within moments. People who suffer a lot tend to feel things very quickly. She had sensed my indifference. With tightly-pressed lips she forced back the words and got up to start work. A feeling of guilt took over me. “Listen, Zarina. You were saying something,” I said with new softness in my voice. She turned, now facing me. A broom in her hand shadows lurking in her eyes. “I forgot,” she said.
Her ego was bruised. But do women like her have any left? She came to us ten months back. Mother of ten children, Zarina never had any say in decisions. Her refusal to bear any more children brought more violence upon her. Not only did her husband beat her, her mother-in-law hit her, too. She works from morning to evening, brings money home and still gets abused verbally and physically. The initial years of marriage were the worst for her as she gave birth to three daughters, one after the other. It was only after the birth of a male child that they ceased torturing her mentally. Once she came to us with a withered onion tied round her neck — an antidote against bearing girls. As I recalled her sad life, I got more and more upset. I felt it was my responsibility to help her. I went to my mother sitting on the divan, munching on roasted peanuts. I asked her to give Zarina some extra money. She scowled at me. “Sara, you will spoil her. I already pay her an exorbitant amount.” I explained that she needed proper medical treatment.
“But for what?”
“Mother, her condition is precarious. This is the third time her family has beaten her this month,” I explained.
I expected my kind-hearted mother to respond sympathetically. But I was wrong.
“So once again she has been complaining about her husband. Why do you have to be overtly friendly with her,” she said sarcastically.
“Don’t you know such women blow things out of proportion.” My mother explained philosophically, adding, “a good woman is one who never complains about her husband.”
It was appalling to hear my own mother say such things. I tried to draw some positive meaning from my mother’s approach but failed. Meanwhile, Zarina swiftly mopped the floor.
“Media has hyped up violence against women. What is violence? A slap or two! Well, any woman should tolerate that. She has to adjust, accommodate herself to the moods and personality of her husband. That is the key to a successful married life,” she deluged me with her thoughts a second time.
“Is there anything else to do,” Zarina asked in a weary voice. She looked withered like an autumn leaf.
“No. You can leave, but come early tomorrow,” ordered Mum.
“Mother, domestic violence is not a momentary loss of temper such as a push or a punch which can be easily accommodated. Can’t you see Zarina is black and blue all over,” I argued.
“She must have done something to turn her husband towards violence,” my mother retorted.
Zarina had left and there was pregnant silence in the room. “Mother, my sympathies are important because she is battered to her soul. She is living with her husband because of her children. Her six daughters would turn into more Zarinas because she has no other shelter to escape to. For you and for many others like you she is a scapegoat. Ironically, attitudes like yours are rampant in our society and it is a pity to hear you say that.”
My stinging words lingered in the air. Before some wayward explanation could be given, I was out of the room as quick as my feet could carry me.
AS I put down the teacup on the table, a smile hovered on my lips. The cheese omelette was good. Finished with the front page, I turned to the editorial page of the newspaper. Breakfast is the best time of the day. You get up in the morning fresh and optimistic. Gradually, the events of the day wear you out, making you dull and drab. For me, however, the euphoric mood proves to be even more short-lived. The end of my breakfast coincides with the landing of our maid. She brings with her a barrage of complaints against her husband and her mother-in-law. Every day, she sits with me for quarter of an hour, venting her emotions. I do nothing but listen — interrupting her with sensitive words. She always claims to feel better. It is therapy for her. After that, she starts her work energetically.
