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ShareAhmedabad: She started working for me a few months ago. Unlike many others she was cheerful and energetic and seemed happy with my unusual household - and not afraid of the seven dogs. At last, I thought to myself, someone who won't complain about doing the work they are supposed to.
Till one day a few weeks later. She was hiding her face as she went about her work. I noticed that her shoulders were slumping, that she hid her face from me. I gently took her by the shoulders and turned her towards me. Her face was bruised and her eyes puffy.
"What happened?" I asked.
She started sobbing. The usual story poured out after much coaxing.
Her husband drives a rickshaw. Intermittently. But he had always been violent. When there was no food in the house, she started working in a shirt factory making button holes. As soon as her income started coming in regularly he stopped working. Then, he started getting jealous and would come to the gates of the factory to see with whom she came out, whether she seemed happy or not. If she seemed cheerful he beat her up accusing her of having an affair at work. Then, he started complaining of her timings, that he wasn't getting food on time, and that he wasn't getting hot chappatis.
The beatings increased, both in frequency and intensity. He started having an affair with another woman and threatened her that he would leave her and their son and daughter as the other woman was more accommodating of him. One day she had the courage to say, leave.
"I knew you were having an affair. Otherwise you would never dare to say leave to me," said the husband. A brutal beating followed. She quit her job. Once again there was not enough in the family to eat. She pulled her daughter out of school. By now she was 17 and fearing that her husband would now turn to beating their daughter, she arranged for her marriage. At least she was out of the house and there was one less person to worry about.
When she joined our household their pecuniary situation was desperate and the landlord was threatening to throw them out. Our home, with the laughter and the music, the constantly dancing feet, must have been a haven for her for the eight hours she was there.
So what had provoked him the previous night, I asked. That she hadn't had time to cook before he sauntered home, was the reply.
"Why do you put up with it? There are institutions that can help. There is a domestic violence bill under which he can be arrested."
I hit the block I so often do with Indian women.
"What can I do? After all there is my son to look after. And what would the samaaj say? Better to just keep a low profile and tolerate it."
I tried reasoning. I told her tales of other women who had decided that they wouldn't take it, that it was their right to not be subjected to daily fear and violence. She listened. And looked away. I let her go that day requesting that she gave it some serious thought.
It happened again yesterday. And will in the future.
What fear have we instilled in generations of our women that they can not take a step away from brutality? What kind of hidden messages do we continue giving them, despite the education available, the NGOs that help, the TV and cinema that they see, that they still feel the burden of criticism from samaaj and think that violence is the lesser of the two evils?
More importantly, can a nation where half the inhabitants live in fear, violence and degradation, ever be free?
