The Strength of a Woman

chillibreeze writer — Maya Das Pillai

The silent night was slowly giving way to dawn that was peeping out of cracked clouds. Sunlight broke free through darkness as if manifesting its rights over the skies. Kamala was woken up by the screech of a passing vehicle. She rose and went about her chores like any normal house wife, her mind ticking like clockwork- water to be filled before the water authorities decide to put the cork, morning brew to be made, cooking to be done, kid to be dressed. The morning routine was akin to any regular household in the city. The only difference was that everyone was invited, literally. Kamala’s home was open to public scrutiny, her most private moments with her family was a free for all. There was nothing to hide, no family skeletons to be shoved into the cupboard, no dirty linen to push under beautiful Kashmiri carpets.

Kamala and her family lived on the pavement that laced the city’s tallest residential building- Luxury Heights. Considered an architectural beauty, the 50-storeyed Luxury Heights put the business capital of the country on the international map. Arguably the most expensive residential area in the metropolis, it was every yuppie’s dream to have Luxury Height’s as his postal address.

Kamala and her husband had moved in from their village near Kumili on the Kerala-Tamil Nadu border the day the first pile of cement and mortar was mixed at Luxury Heights. Kamala’s husband was a stone etcher who migrated to the metropolis, nurturing a dream like any other common man to make a living.

Kumili, unlike Mumbai, was a far cry from modernization. It had woken up to a pukka road just a year ago and the celebration in the village had not yet died. Mumbai was buzzing with the hum of machines and computers and it certainly did not require a stone etcher. Kamala and her husband wandered for days till they found the wall of the construction site of Luxury Group as a ‘safe’ place to rest a while. Rest became permanent and soon the penniless Kamala and her husband had the most envious address in town!

Murugan, Kamala’s husband was a stone etcher by profession, his only inheritance. Since nobody wanted a stone etcher, he made ends meet by doing odd jobs like being a coolie and cleaning dishes at weddings. He changed roles with much ease and élan. Kamala did her bit to pitch in, but with the arrival of their little one prevented her from bringing her share into the family kitty.

My first brush with the family with the most enviable address in town was when I moved to Mumbai on a new job assignment. My office was near Luxury Heights, but was not a patch on this architectural beauty. It was a cubbyhole and paled miserably in comparison. Being new to the city and lacking an office canteen, I frequented a nearby restaurant for lunch. Enroute I would always see Kamala’s little family and her open life - what was cooking for lunch, how she bathed her new born under the broken municipal pipe and how she cradled him to sleep amidst blaring horns and traffic fumes. Seeing this made me think of the obsessive cleanliness and hygienic conditions under which we bring up our children. But I could never muster courage to go beyond the typical benevolent thoughts. In a way I was ashamed of myself, but somehow my steps always crossed Kamala’s home and never stopped there.

It was one of those usual days when I was on my way to lunch. Just as I passed Kamala’s home where she was rustling up a princely meal of rice and watery daal, I heard someone calling out, “Oh! Madam, madam.” I turned around to see Kamala frantically trying to get my attention in the noisy traffic. She was flaying a black thing that looked like my wallet. She came running after me and gave the wallet and said “Madam, your purse fell as you walked. I don’t think money has fallen out. Be more careful.” Saying this she walked back to tend to her chores and her crying child. I was stunned. I never expected to see honest people especially in a city like Mumbai where money spoke volumes. I quickly rustled my wallet to fish out a twenty-rupee note and shoved it into Kamala’s hand. She returned it like an angry woman whose pride was hurt and said, “No madam, we are not beggars. My husband earns to feed us”. I was embarrassed to say the least. Here was an illiterate woman teaching me a thing or two about humanitarianism and that everything did not have a price tag attached to it. That was the first day I crossed the threshold of Kamala’s open house into her open world. We did not share a great camaraderie, but I always stopped to smile or ask her how she and the baby was whenever I passed by. Not that it was not visible to me!

As the days passed, I got busy with work and the baggage that came with it. One of my first friends in the organization was Shubha, an out and out Mumbaiya girl full of confidence and verve. She had an inter-caste marriage and being newly married she was coy and dreamy eyed whenever she spoke of her husband. We bonded well and I became her confidante. One day Shubha came to the office swollen eyed and bruised. I knew she was bursting to tell me something and when we got some time alone she told me everything. Her perfect husband had started to show his true colours. He was envious of her success and that lead to character assassination everyday. One thing led to another and he gradually became abusive, first verbally and then physically. I was horrified as Shubha unveiled the horrors. She being a journalist who opposed and passionately reported atrocities against women was taking it lying down. It hurt me and angered me to know that the logic behind it was that she has known him for seven years and now it was difficult to let go. I ended the conversation on a note of anger telling her that she was a city bred girl with so much exposure and education and was allowing this to happen to herself.

I was pained seeing Shubha trying to piece her life together despite being treated like garbage. I took my usual walk to the restaurant for lunch and looked for Kamala and her family. She was going about her chores mechanically. She saw me and came towards me and asked, “Madam, where were you all these days? I thought of coming and seeing you where you work”. My first instinct was that she was trying to sell some sob story and weasel some dough out of me. I became defensive instinctively and asked her what the urgency was. “Madam I will be leaving for my hometown tomorrow and I wanted to tell you before I left”. Gosh! Maybe she wants me to sponsor her trip! “Why Kamala what’s wrong? Did Murugan get a job back home?” I asked. “No madam it’s a long story and I don’t want to burden you with my problems.” The journalist in me wanted to know more and I probed her. And she gradually took me into confidence. Murugan had got a regular job as a cleaner with a caterer and had started bringing regular income to the house. When money came so did bad company and slowly he took to drinking. One night he came home stone drunk and created a scene with Kamala. When she protested he raised his hand against her. “That was it madam, something snapped in me. A man who can raise his hand against a woman is not worth my time. So I have decided to leave and go back to my village with my son. If he lives in this environment he will be influenced by his father’s ways. I don’t want my son to think a woman is a piece of furniture to be kicked around.” I was dumbstruck. Here was a woman who has probably never seen the portals of a school let alone exposure to the world and was not just talking of women’s lib, but actually applying it. I tried to talk it out with her asking her to think of her child, but she just had one thing to tell me, “If my husband can raise his hand once he will not hesitate to do it again.” My respect for Kamala grew leaps and bounds and I was ashamed of having harboured thoughts earlier that she stopped me for money. We parted wishing each other luck. I mused at the irony of Shubha’s and Kamala’s life. It set me thinking. Does education and exposure actually made a difference in our lives? At the end of the day it is each woman for herself and how much self-pride she is willing to sacrifice. Had education failed in Shubha’s case or a woman’s pride won in Kamala’s case? I do not know.

From the next day I felt a void in my usual lunch routine. I was robbed of the pleasure of seeing Kamala’s open home and her trying to manage hundred things at a time between the maddening sound of traffic and pollution. Instead I saw a miserable Murugan who lazed the whole day. And one day I didn’t see him too-the pavement was clear. Maybe the municipality had cleaned it up so that Luxury Heights got the elite look it deserved or maybe Murugan decided to go back home to seek Kamala’s forgiveness. I for one wished it was the latter, for Kamala had humbled me and taught me something that no textbook ever could.

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—About our writer:

Maya says, "A writer and artist at heart and telecom professional by profession, I love anything that will tickle my creativity.There's so much to read, write, see, observe and learn that 24 hrs is not enough!"

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