Discovering the Extraordinary in an Ordinary Day

 
 

 

Housekeeping has become the focus of my life, for a while now. Its taken precedence over almost everything else. I did manage to make it to Couture Week and also do research and write a couple of articles. And I'm currently engrossed in discovering the story of Muslin, whenever I get time after the housekeeping chores. But work isn't happening in quite the same way as I've been used to. The mundane act of drinking tea, which inspired an enormous body of textile art, has now been overtaken by much more mundane tasks necessary for everyday living. The ordinary is demanding my attention.  I am finding creative ways to tackle this facet of being, but not without my fair share of griping and bitching, yelling and crying too. But it's got to be done, there's no-one else, so I've got to do it and relegate needle and thread to another life-time, it seems.

 

What I find the hardest to handle, is the staff. The thing I've discovered is that no-one listens. If you give instructions, the attention is clearly someplace else and things never get done as specified, which is soooo annoying!  It’s not really a workable solution, but I now insist they look at me while I speak and then make them repeat my instructions back to me. In doing so, whenever I remember to do it this way, I have found some reprieve. I'm reassured that I've been understood and black will be black and white, white.  I've been used to writing down what needed doing but at this point none of my staff are literate and it is getting very difficult. But, having said that, there are also some fun moments in the midst of all the frustration. 

 

This evening, I needed to get some packing tape. I was expecting someone to come see my work, which had recently returned from my exhibition in Kolkata. I would need the tape to repack the art-works, once I had shown them. I'm not a frequent visitor to the local market, so I wasn't sure where to go to get this. There is a Vyapar Kendra close by but it  is very strangely built and on the odd occasion that I have gone and discovered a shop that's useful, I've not been able to locate it on my next trip. And, I almost always get lost on my way out. Not wanting to go on a wild goose chase when my energy is not quite up to speed, I looked up Google for a shop I'd been to with a neighbour and knew that they stocked stationery items. There was a number to call, which I did. Thankfully, they had what I needed and kindly said they'd send someone to the outer gate once I got to Palam Vyapar Kendra. My neck and shoulder had been playing up and daily physio was helping but I was advised to cut down the swimming. I hadn't felt like swimming this evening, in any case, so I decided to cycle to PVK, as the market is commonly called. It's about a 12 - 15 minute walk, so it didn't take me any time at all cycling there.

 

When I called the shop, as planned, the call wasn't answered. I tried four times and eventually got a female voice who said it was the wrong number. Strange, I thought abhi toh meri baat issi number se toh hui thi. I walked into the only shop I know in this market and asked for directions for Memory Point, the stationery store. They very kindly sent someone to escort me there, which was gratifying.

 

I got my tape, clarified the phone conundrum, got their card for future reference and was heading out, when I spied a fruit and veg store. I didn't have my wallet with me, but there was some change left over from paying for the tape. It was enough to get 6 peaches, 1 kg Mussambi's for juice, a large beetroot to make a cold soup, some inspiringly aromatic pudina, ½  Kg pumpkin to make a delicious roast pumpkin salad with, some kundru for lunch tomorrow and drumsticks for sambhar. I just love drumsticks and the rest of the sambhar is incidental. I picked up an ample bunch, paid my bill and headed out with my bhajji shopping to my cycle which was parked outside Suraj Store where I generally buy the electronic stuff I need. I stuffed up the painted pink basket that my cycle has upfront, it was packed tight. The long drumsticks sticking out quite awkwardly.

As I hopped on the seat and began to pedal, I giggled to myself, imaging what I probably looked like to passersby. I mean it isn't exactly your everyday sight is it, to see a curly grey-haired  woman in culottes, cycling down the streets of Gurgaon, her pink cycle-basket stuffed to the brim with veggies, is it?

 

It was dark but even though the white culottes must have been clearly visible, sleepy Palam Vihar didn't seem to blink an eye. Or if they did, I didn't notice.

 

I've been feeling quite frustrated at having to give so much attention to things I hadn't done for over a decade. In order to function with some measure of equanimity, I've been telling myself : " I love housekeeping!" Repeating it over and over, allowing myself to feel a sense of pleasure doing the chores as I meditate each morning. Sometimes, like this evening, I surprise myself by doing things I haven't done for decades - and bhajji shopping is one such, where I've either ordered over the phone since the 1990's or someone's been around to do it. Today, I picked each peach myself, making sure they were just right to eat. I savoured the aroma of the mint leaves as I lifted a bunch off the shelf and realised that in telling oneself that you enjoy doing things you don't relish in the normal course of living, and you do end up doing just that! I had enjoyed the veggie shopping and loved cycling back home with my basket, full to the brim.

 

An ordinary became extraordinary, not just because I've not done bhajji shopping for a while and thus savoured it. But for being reminded just how one can work successfully towards mastering the mind in small but significant ways. It was this which made an otherwise uneventful, ordinary day, into a memorable one.

Does Every Cloud Have A Silver Lining?

 

I enjoy the monsoon sky, at the best of times, but more so when I’m tied down by household chores and drained by housekeeping woes. Then its nature and keeping company with her that lightens my heart. The best part of my day is 5.00 pm when I go down to the pool for my swim. It's usually after I've done sixty laps that I walk around the garden and reflect on the birds and ants and other little things that catch my attention. They refresh the mind, allowing it to go beyond the mundane - finding something of beauty, something to cheer about, in an otherwise ordinary and often frustrating day.

 

But today, as I was showering before entering the pool, I found myself staring right up at a grey cloud which had a delicate, silver lining. In that moment, I forgot that I was in a swimsuit in the central courtyard of the condominium where three towers overlooked the pool, and almost every domestic staffer or labourer and driver or resident had a ringside view. I dashed towards my swimming bag in my wet costume and water dripping of my limbs. I quickly wiped my hands on the towel hanging off the back of the chair, and took out my phone. I just had to capture that delicate, silver line behind the grey cloud. And I spent a good five to seven minutes, attired in a wet swimming costume, craning my neck this way and that, angling my phone and head to get just the right view. And with the sun in front of me, no matter that there was cloud cover, getting that silver lining to look as ethereal as it was to the naked eye, was a complex affair. Besides, clouds do not hang around, so the formation changed, the silver lining became even more fascinating and me and my phone-camera were enchanted and fully engaged. It was only later that I realised that it may well have been quite a spectacle for any onlooker. I was too absorbed to have noticed anyone around and hoped that it didn’t look too crazy. But alas, even if it did what could I do about it now?

 

I'd had an annoying day. I've been struggling to run my home and also do some creative work, without my home cum studio support of twenty-four years. In a huff, he'd called it quits and I'd had enough of his threats so I duly accepted without demur. But it's been tough. Today, Laxmi, my maid whose been with me for about three years and is the only one aside from me now, who knows the drill, pulled one stunt after the other and I was all but tearing my hair out. She has this terrible attitude of never really listening when I tell her things. We'd had a good start to the day, because I'd made her repeat the instructions as they were numerous. She handled that part well. It was silly things that she was getting wrong and instead of asking or informing was taking decisions she had no business to. I was right there, just a knock on the door, away, for her to ask, but it's anybody's guess why she didn't. I was thinking about this on my way down and thought that she's terrified at the best of times, it's just the way she is, and in the bargain she's always tense and therefore doesn't seem to get things right.

 

 

As I did my laps, and stroke after stroke in free-style, as my palms sliced into the water sending bubbles towards my face, I thought about the silver lining behind that dark cloud. I have heard the phrase 'every cloud has a silver lining' for the better part of my life - the implication being that there's always light, or wisdom, behind the darker moments of being. But more often than not, in those moments, it's hard to see the lighter side. Revisiting the cloud-view that I had seen as I’d showered, a realization dawned that the cloud itself can't see the lining, but an observer, someone standing a distance away, can. It gives us a better perspective to view things. In that guise, as an observer, I thought to myself, that maybe if Laxmi would just let herself feel her fear, maybe she'd find her way through life in a more constructive way, allowing her innate intelligence to come into play.

 

I swam a few more lengths with this thought, my head bobbing up and down, limbs splayed frog-like as I did a length of the pool using the breaststroke, moving northwest, in the direction of  the silvered-clouds, which had predictably moved on. As the cloud-cover darkened, and grey pigeons hovered around the pool dipping their beaks, the mood turned grey and even the aquamarine waves now carried a greyish tinge.  And in that sombre moment, submerged in an otherwise empty pool – I was the only one swimming at this hour, I voiced out loud “but how many of us really do that” - letting ourselves feel fully every moment, every experience and every feeling. And is it possible to live that way and also lead a productive and meaningful life?

 

 

 

I know that I don't always let myself 'feel' things fully enough. As a child, I'd retreat into my inner space to allow myself to wallow in whatever feelings came up. I would just wallow and the feeling would pass but it was said that I was sulking and too intense, and the implication was derogatory. As I grew up and started voicing feelings, I'd be told, let it be or get over it and more in that vein. So, in many ways, I've trained myself to get past the feelings as quick as I can, using positive affirmations or expressing them through my art or whatever. But what I have discovered, of late, is that it only works temporarily; the feelings do not get resolved in any substantial way. I find the silver lining or think that I have found one or something distracts my attention. But I have realised that trying to find a positive outcome, to a situation that one feels negative about presently, is not always the best way forward. The mood may be raised philosophically but the feeling hasn’t really had its say, so it comes back to haunt me. Actually it never really leaves, just transfers from the mind onto the body in some way. So, I have been wondering if there is a more efficient way, such as sulking – allowing oneself to wallow in the feeling, swim in it for a while, till it passes of its own accord?

 

I lay on my back, doing a back-stroke this time around, as I contemplated this idea, looking up at the large expanse of sky now turning quite dark. There were patches of white in between but the clouds were much darker than the cloud that I had spied earlier on, the one with the silver lining. These clouds just merged into each other and there was no silver lining to them. It may have something to do with the fact that I was now looking South-East and the sun was behind me, but it made me realise something: that it may well be best to just let the feelings be, because not every cloud does have that silver lining.
 

 

 

 

Not every story ends like a fairy tale, happily ever after or with some positive outcome arising from a negative situation. We cannot always find some wisdom to draw on from unpleasant experiences and while it is useful to think positively and try and find that silver lining, it does not always work, does it?  New age ideology is full of positive thinking and I’ve seen the benefits of it too, but the truth is that not all clouds have a silver lining.

 

The promise of rain was thwarted and the dark clouds pulled away and it seemed as though a vortex of white was churning, within the circle they formed around the lighter coloured clouds. Gradually, they too moved apart and an untarnished, unfazed, bright azure shone through. I took that as a sign to say that whether or not we could find that silver lining wasn’t relevant, what is significant is that moments pass, moods change, feelings alter and life goes on. Finding meaning in everything may not always be the most efficient way.

 

 

 

I sat on my favourite bench in the park and thought to myself:  As humans we have many feelings, there is sorrow and pain and there is fear and anger and this is the story we need to focus on, for the narrative to move forward in any evocative way. Our feelings carry meaning for our lives, they tell us how we feel in any given situation and acknowledging them, allowing them to tell us what is wrong takes a lot of courage and requires us to spend time, with the feeling without judging it. I wonder how I could convey this to Laxmi, but in the meanwhile I decided it was worthwhile exploring this for myself. Could I step back from the business of things, the world and connectivity and all that keeps my mind distracted and allow myself to be that child again, and sulk for a while?

मैंने तो इसे use ही नहीं किया

Laxmi is pint sized, not even four feet tall and is thin as a stick. She barely speaks. She's very shy and nervous and yet, paradoxically, she works in a quietly self-assured sort of way.  She came to work for me about two years ago and I wasn't sure she was old enough to be working but was told that she was 18 years old and that everyone in her family was extra petite. The man who brought her to me was her cousin brother-in-law and he said she'd done a stint at the Ansal's club, here, in Palam Vihar. I figured they must have got their paper work in order to put her on their rolls, so it was all right to take her on. Not having been to school there was no way to verify and I don’t think that in the villages they bother with things like a birth certificate, so I had no choice but to just take his word for it. .She was raw from the point of experience of working in a home. Training her was Mahipal's job because she was really green and I couldn't have done it. She basically cleans the apartment and other chores like washing clothes and dishes that don't really require her to be educated.

For the better part of two years, I have really had very little to say to her and vice versa. Gradually, I noted, every time Mahipal was on leave, she had really picked up quite a lot of other chores and was doing them quite adequately. She's learned to make the beds, dust and even lay the table for lunch. She doesn't speak much, not even in response to questions. She has this terrified posture all the time that I've often wanted to (but I don't) take hold of her tiny frame and shake her up - everything is so tightly held within that she just can't speak.

She's a decent enough worker. Although sometimes a bit of a shirker, quite unpredictable and she does things is a maddening way without using her brain. A shelf was wobbling in my meditation room so the music player had been left on the bed. A carpenter willing to undo and re-install the shelf took a while to find as Ansal's, the builders, have built very kaccha walls. So it sat on the bed for over a year. Last month the shelf was repaired and I put the music player back on it. For a week, I found that when she went to clean the room each morning, she'd remove it from the shelf to put it back on the bed. I'd put it on the shelf in the evening and she'd do it again the next day. It went on for a full week because each day I'd forget until I saw it removed from the shelf in the eveing, and by then she had left for the day. I had to make special note tell her that its rightful place was on the shelf and not on the bed! It's something I took for granted that she'd have understood, since the shelf was repaired in her presence; common sense? But she didn't figure that out.  That's how limited is her capacity to think. And adding to this, her lack of communication skills also really irks. She's totally illiterate. She cannot read numbers or even count change accurately.

These past two months Mahipal has been away so I have been very short staffed and had to do a lot of housekeeping chores I would not otherwise deal with. The persistent doorbells with delivery of stores and supplies are very disturbing, not to mention the numerous phone calls that I have to make to order them. So, each day I make an effort to teach her to a to tell the vendors who do the deliveries at home that she cannot read and ask them to show her what they have brought - “क्या लाये हो”  and where is the item mentioned in the bill and how much do they have to be paid – “बिल में कहाँ लिखा है और  कितने पैसे देने है” and somehow we've come to a point that she has understood the merit of doing this and tells them she's अन्पड़ [illiterate] so please do the needful. They don't really have a choice, so when she does ask, they take her through each item in the bag and thankfully we've figured it out such that I don't have to open the front door with every doorbell and she's now learning to take on this responsibility - more relevant is that in talking to the vendors, she's more confident about dealing with them. It's quite sweet how they oblige and show her. I actually watched the sabziwala [vegetable vendor] do it the other day, taking out one thing at a time and pointing it out to her on the bill. Today, she actually came with a vitamin I normally take, to check if it was the right one, because the packaging was different and she didn’t recognise it.  So, it works. I am not certain that she does follow this process of checking all the time, but at least some of the time I have proof of her conscientiousness in this regard.

But, despite all the strides we've taken, the lack of language skills and her innate reservation about speaking is intimidating. I'm scared to leave her alone in the apartment because if there's a mishap she cannot even call the guard on the intercom as she doesn't know how to use the phone and can't read numbers. And I don't like her leaving the front door open when no-one else's around because however safe the condominium may be, she's still a young girl who just can't stand up for herself well enough.

However, there are times when this near-mute, unlettered, intense, well-intentioned girl surprises me. She'll remember to make my tea on time every afternoon and bring it on the dot at 4 pm sharp, on a tray that's perfectly laid.  She'll show the new staff the ropes even when I'm not reassured that she knows them herself. And yesterday was the icing on the cake.

I like my morning tea light and it needs precisely four minutes to brew. When she looks at the clock in the kitchen, each day, it ends up an approximation of the necessary 4 minutes, so it's a different shade of brew with too much flavour or too little. So, I got her, what I thought would be, a foolproof kitchen timer. You had to turn it anti-clockwise to wind it up and then clockwise to 4, and it would ring an alarm in 4 minutes. On Sunday, I'd taken to using it myself. A pale blue, plastic teddy bear shape with a nice round tummy it was a cute toy in the kitchen and I always smiled when I set it up. This Sunday, the one just gone by, I found something was not quite right with the timer. The alarm didn't go off.  The next day I asked Laxmi what had happened why the timer wasn't working. Had she broken it? She said something in her usual muffled incomprehensible nothingness. I got a bit stern and repeated myself. Sometimes that's the only way to get her to open her mouth and get the words out coherently. What I heard stopped me in my tracks.

This unlettered, village girl, who frustrated me with her unfathomable ways, confounded me with her irrational fear and more said to me: “मैंने तो इसे use ही नहीं कियाI” I was stunned. I wasn't sure I'd heard right, so I asked her to repeat what she had said. And she said it again: “मैंने तो इसे use ही नहीं कियाI” [I haven’t even used it] Uneducated as she was she’d somehow picked up and used an English word, constructing a sentence using two languages, perfectly. How was that possible?  I was flabbergasted. It really made me think about the idea of intelligence versus education.

How does it work that someone so unlettered, who didn’t know the meaning of words could use them with such accuracy?  And then, what causes her to feel so much fear despite this innate intelligence that enables language skills in the absence of any formal education? It says a lot for our capacity to be present and channel the flow of our natural intelligence. Of how, when we want to learn things we pick them up with ease and when the same things become a chore, then we plod and make the stupidest of mistakes. I’ve observed this even with myself that when something comes from the heart, where there is passion, it not only flows but comes forth in the most brilliant ways, which I know that I could not have managed had I used my mind and its limited knowing.

I do realise the value of education in whatever field one pursues for this engenders confidence to enable the higher intelligence to come into play, especially in challenging scenarios. I find it particularly true with spiritual principles which most of us do not study and where most of it is innate. But when you hear people talk about it, because you may not have analysed it for yourself in quite the same way, confusion reigns and the urge to study and figure it out through observation of oneself and correlation with what the masters say becomes a must, just to enable a conscious understanding of what actually comes very naturally to all us. There are other benefits, but this facility to correlate is crucial to one’s confidence levels, even though the actual process is innate. And illiterate Laxmi with her competent usage of language in saying “मैंने तो इसे use ही नहीं किया”, provides a perfect example of how the absence of formal learning does not preclude intelligent comprehension and use of complex dual language skills through observation and application.

How she learned to use this word in this way, where and when, is something that I will probably never know because asking her would be expecting the impossible – because even if, even if she understood my question, which was highly unlikely, but even if she did understand, she would, more than likely, silently walk away because articulating was always such an effort.Soon after she'd joined, I found she that was an अँगूठा छाप। So I asked her if she'd like to learn to sign/write her name. In her predictably unpredictable way, she'd hesitated and then agreed and so I requested Mahipal to teach her. The next month, when it came to pay day, instead of the stamp pad to put her thumbprint on the receipt, Laxmi came with a ballpoint pen in her hand. I was impressed. I waited patiently - she took aeons to sign. I finally left her alone to do it as she was shaking with nervousness. When I got back to my desk, I found that she'd signed LAXMI in bold capitals, in English, across the page. Trembling letters that didn't stand up straight in a line. And, some two years later, they shake and wobble as much, even though she's more confident about signing and does it as quick or slow as anyone else.

But “मैंने तो इसे use ही नहीं किया” is something else, isn't it? I still cannot fathom how she manages to get some things right and sometimes does the craziest things that defy the possibility that she can use her mind intelligently. Not unlike the rest of us who may be highly educated and lettered, this seems a perfect reminder that education does not necessarily facilitate intelligence and neither is a degree in any subject a prerequisite for intelligent enquiry into it. It’s innate; if only we have the confidence to channel it.

 

 

 

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One Woman's Choice

She is shy. She never looks me in the eye when she talks, but neither does she look away either, just tilts her head to one side, looks down, then up and asks some oblique question. Often when I addressed her, asking her to do something, she’d nod silently in a way that made me doubt my request had registered, but it would be done without a fuss. And it took a year for me to understand how much she processed in her mind, without articulating, or letting you know what she is feeling.

The other day, when reprimanded for taking too much time off from work, she revealed she had been sick for the better part of the month, but had come to work nonetheless. I felt guilty; knowing her temperament I should have realised there would be good reason. It was about ten days later that I was apprised of what was troubling her when she said “mera pati mujhe pareshan kar raha hai, vo kehta hai ke naukri chod do, kisi ne shikayat ki hai, ke mein aur mardon se zyada baatein karne lagi hu![i]”He had apparently been pestering her for a while and she could not deal with the tension anymore.

Her husband Ranjeet works with the local municipal department as a sweeper and earns a modest salary of about four thousand rupees. He and Priti live in Shankar Vihar, on the periphery of Palam Vihar, across the railway line that comes down from Gurgaon to Bijwasan. Isha, her neighbour, had brought Priti to work for me. Ranjeet had accompanied them for the interview and seemed a decent sort of guy, so I was surprised at the things I kept hearing about him.

 A few months ago, the cook’s temporary replacement Neha, had been making erotic calls to Ranjeet while Priti listened in. This came to my knowledge because of some other issue When Ranjeet discovered that I knew, he demanded that Priti leave the job. She didn’t want to. I suggested she assert herself and not refer to the incident again, as most likely he was not proud of what he had indulged in. She never brought it up again and work continued as per normal until this morning, when she said that someone had told her husband that she was cavorting with Mahipal, an old hand who has worked with me for twenty years.

I was as surprised to hear this as she was, not because Mahipal is a saint, but because Priti was reserved and I had not heard her speaking much to the other staff. There had been an incident a couple of years ago when Mahipal and another maid had got romantically involved, creating a major upset in my household and his marriage. But I thought that I had given him such a hard time as had his wife, so he must have learned his lesson, at least as far as my maids were concerned.

Priti is petite and pretty, is about twenty years old and her daughter is four. She dresses decently in clean and colourful salwar kameezes with matching dupattas. I’d see her walk into the complex, alone, every morning while Mahipal rode in on his ‘Scooty’. They came to work independently but at the same time. However, Priti left earlier and the chance of anyone seeing them chatting together, except those who work inside my apartment, was really an off-chance. It troubled her because she said, “Mein toh kisi se baat nahin karti hu”[ii], all the other women chat up the drivers and guards, but I just sign in and take the lift up.”

She also revealed that Ranjeet would drink and beat her up in his inebriated state, and often walked around the colony in dirty clothes even though she had new ones stitched for him. The neighbours would taunt her by asking what his problem was, why he behaved this way, citing that she earned as much as he did, kept a good home and they ate well too. I too thought the same: Why would any man do this?

Why was he insecure? Did he think she was too beautiful for him? Today, he finds fault with a male employee in my home, even though he had no qualms about flirting with another woman under his wife’s nose, indulging in erotic sexual tele-talk. Tomorrow he’d find fault with someone or something else. I asked if my talking to him would help, thinking I could explain that these situations could come up wherever she works and that he had to find the capacity to trust her. But is the problem really about trusting her, or his lack of confidence?

She kept saying, “Aadmi toh aadmi hota hai, guzara toh karn hai[iii], I’ll have to do what he says” elaborating that “my mother says phir koi kaam nahin karna, ghar pe he baithe rehna[iv]” I asked if she was okay with this and she responded saying, “Last month, I saved my salary to pay for my daughter’s school admission. How will I educate her, if there is only one income? He’ll send me to the village to stay with his mother and in all probability my daughter will not be educated in the way that I want her to be”.

I asked if she’d talked to her father. She said, “Mein toh papa ke samne kuch nahin keh sakti hu[v]” There was a tattoo on her arm that said ‘Priti and Ranjeet’ in Hindi, prompting me to think that she had married him of her own choosing but she revealed that he was twelve years older and her parents had arranged the marriage. Ranjeet apparently sported the same tattoo on his arm too. I could see a gentle blush on her face and glint in her eyes as she shyly recounted when the tattoo was inscribed. They had clearly shared some special moments despite it being an arranged marriage.

The status of women in India has had a chequered history from enjoying equality with men in ancient times to female infanticide and dowry deaths in recent times. Many women were part of India’s freedom movement but many wives, sisters and daughters were also burned alive to protect them from the rape and violence that took place during partition. Annie Besant[vi]  and Sarojini Naidu[vii] both served, independently, as Presidents of the Indian National congress and Vijay Lakshmi Pandit was not just the first Indian to become the President of the United Nations General Assembly in 1953; she was also the first woman in the world to hold this office. Indira Gandhi’s tenure as Prime Minister, of almost fifteen years, is the longest for any woman in the world.

In addition, the current President of the nation and Speaker of the Lok Sabha are both women. However, despite according women such high office and prestige, we also indulge in bride burning, child marriage and domestic violence. The Constitution of India guarantees equality to all women but there is wide gender disparity in literacy between men and women which has a negative impact on family planning and could contribute to women like Priti lacking the confidence to stand up to their husbands. Yet one has also seen women from the same social strata make bold choices to remarry with children from their first marriage. Some even chosing to abandon them to remarry.

There is a great deal of development around us where large tracts of farm land have been sold to build multi-storied urban housing, creating a lot of wealth for farmers and villagers around the metros. Mobile phones have made telephonic connectivity accessible to all parts of the country and all income groups. All of this has brought about a lot of change in the social profile but is the issue of how women are regarded within personal relationships really a social issue or an individual one? And how much does the social environment influence personal choices?

Priti earns, but that’s a threat. She can be financially independent, but does not have the will to leave an abusive husband; paradoxically she has the courage to want to deal with this but not to fend for herself and her child. Yet neither does she seem able to assert herself within the marriage, maintaining her independence and being respected as an equal partner. She has to find the courage to tackle him one way or another. It can’t pay to give into his insecurity, but for someone as reticent as Priti, asserting herself may not come easy. I know from my own experience that this is easier said than done. Personal ‘Mahabharata’s’ are fraught with subtle dilemmas that are hard to unravel. It can get ugly and emotionally stressful. However spiritually enlightening these experiences may end up being, no one comes out of them in shining armour.

 Her husband did not come see me, her mother came instead. The woman seemed intent upon separating them but her daughter was not keen. Priti left the job abruptly, coming to collect her dues a couple of weeks later, when she mentioned to my other domestic help that she would like to come back. When I called, she said Ranjeet had been treating her better and indicated she could resume working, as they do miss the extra income. She then handed the phone to Ranjeet who said he doesn’t mind the money, but the problem was that when Priti was earning “bolti bahut hai![viii]”

The dynamics of this equation were complex. I thought it was best to let them sort it out on their own.The woman was quiet but no walk-over. She had a mind of her own and, although generally reserved, I am told she was capable of a sharp tongue and that working here had given her some confidence to stand up to Ranjeet. And when she did, she gave as good as she got. This did not strike me as a woman who had given up her job to sustain her relationship because she was afraid to stand up to him.

She earned as much as he did and if she had walked out of the marriage, she and her daughter would live off the kind of money he was presently earning and one less mouth to feed. Her mother had tended to her child while she was at work, so this too would have been taken care of. When her mother had asked me to ascertain the legalities of her moving out, I called the women’s cell in Gurgaon, but Priti did not want to know what needed to be done. She struck me as a woman who may not like confrontation and contention, but did not lack confidence either. The choice she made was not determined by logic but her heart and this eventually requires a lot of faith. She had talked as though the situation bothered her. She had dilemmas but looking at various options presented and discussed with her, she ascertained what she wanted to do, or rather what she did not want to do.

Can she be faulted? In this day and age when women are encouraged to take a stand and walk away, prove their mettle in the world rather than within testing relationships, Priti was going against the tide. What she was doing could be lot harder than walking away. From what I have heard, she is not keeping well. She is sacrificing a lot and it must be uncomfortable to deal with a choice that defies reason. But personal issues involve personal choices and while social conditioning may play a part, for someone as silently strong willed as Priti, perhaps there could have been no other choice.

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[i] My husband is harassing me, says leave the job, someone has tattled, saying that I have become very chatty with other men.

[ii] I dont’ speak to anyone

[iii] A husband [man] is a husband,  have to endure/compromise/make do

[iv] Then don’t plan on working, you will have to stay at home

[v] I cannot say anything in front of/to my father

[vi] 1917

[vii] 1925

[viii] talks to much [is vocal about her feelings]

Voting Right

 Election time is when the circus comes to town. Auto rickshaws with banners and loudspeakers start blaring unintelligible gobbledy-gook, drowning the Koel’s lilting ‘cuhoo’, ‘cuhoo’ with unnecessary noise. The phone beeps incessantly with sms’s asking me to vote for the glass, spectacles, cycle, radio and other such symbols, Most, I didn’t even bother to read. The ex-sarpanch[i] of a nearby village, whose symbol was the glass, even though he professed to represent the Congress party [whose official symbol is the hand], announced his candidature for the Municipal Elections in Gurgaon with drumbeats that deafened. And his supporters seemed to do little more than litter the street in front of the building that I live in.  When I pointed out the mess to him, he said “Oh, don’t worry, we clean up everyday!” “Wouldn’t it have been better to provide dustbins for them to throw their litter, in the first place? “ I asked.

I take pride in exercising my franchise and always talk to my domestic help about fulfilling their civic obligations and this time was no exception. Taking cue from the drumbeats, which made it impossible for me to do any work, I walked into the kitchen. Isha, Mahipal and Priti had just made themselves a steel tumbler of tea each. It seemed like a good time to chat, so I asked what they thought about the upcoming elections. I expected to be greeted with the usual glum silence and downward, evasive glances and after persisting, hear the usual, “what’s the point, we don’t count” along with a host of complaints and excuses which I am no stranger to, or be told that they had not been able to register as voters. However, to my surprise, I found them not only looking forward to the election, but that they had devised a rather ingenuous system in their respective colonies to ensure their right was not subverted by the financial might of various candidates, unashamedly tempting them in return for their votes.
 

The day after elections when they came to work, I asked who they had voted for. Both Isha’s and Mahipal’s ‘teams’ had voted for the same candidate. Religion and caste had not been considered but what the candidate had done to better their locality. He had won, so excited at their victory, they opened up to reveal how they had been wooed by the various candidates.

They divide the area by ‘Jaati’[ii] which is not necessarily healthy, but it’s clearly a system that works. So Isha said that their ‘team’ had all the Muslims from the area and his wife was the ‘agent’ of the candidate they had decided to support. Mahipal added that his ‘team’ had been meeting for the last three Sundays, to debate who to vote for. And when campaigning started in earnest, they had to ensure that no member of their ‘team’ succumbed to temptation. Something had really changed. I had never heard any of this before. Maybe it was the municipal elections where they felt they had greater clarity, but I also considered that the propaganda via television had contributed to this changed attitude and maybe the recent spate of scams from telecom to the commonwealth games had made them want to take greater responsibility in governance. I was impressed.

Isha is a decent, honest guy. Mahipal is too, but he’s more complex. He likes to be the leader and often bullies me as well as the rest of the staff. Isha and his family didn’t take any of the gifts offered, but Mahipal did. He had told me a few days before that they were being feted in all sorts of ways and ‘sharaab’[iii] was being freely distributed. He likes to have a peg or two over the week-end, so I said, “one doesn’t know what kind of booze it is, so please don’t take chances”. With palpable excitement in his voice, he replied: “Madamji, English sharab hai, ‘Bagpiper’ baant rahe hai![iv] I shut up because did I really know of what went on at that level. No-one ever came to give us such stuff. The only candidate, who did campaign visibly, came a year ago to assist in the processing of our voter identity cards. The initial attempt failed, but he persisted and finally it’s thanks to his effort that I was able to vote this year.

 

There is clearly a distinction in the mind of the politicians with regard to what passes muster where. In addition to the whiskey, they were also offered unlimited Pepsi’s and money. And for about six to eight weeks prior to Election Day, some of the settlements were distributed free drinking water. Given that water in Gurgaon is virtually undrinkable unless you process it and for most, water is a scarcity, drinkable or not, it was a wonderful idea that dried up the day after elections because the said candidate lost.

I had listened to Isha and Mahipal regale me with stories that seemed so unreal but Priti my maid, corroborated. She and her husband are registered voters in U.P. and therefore were not offered or took any gifts, but witnessed many receiving them.

Mahipal got four bottles of Bagpiper whiskey. I was quite appalled to hear all of this, but I wanted to know more, so I asked Mahipal how much money he had received. He replied saying that he did not take any. I asked why not, if he could take the whiskey he could take the money too. He had been considering investing in a second-hand air-conditioner, [which he’d estimated would cost about two thousand rupees] so I said that the ten thousand rupees offered would have taken care of that and the running costs for a while too. Mahipal is what I would call a very strange mix. He likes the good things of life, owns a cooler, a TV, family-sized fridge, DVD player, a mobile phone that has two sim cards and also a TV. He drives a ‘Scooty’ wearing sun glasses, not the prescribed helmet and dresses in the latest fashion, albeit from the local bazaar. He must possess at least 6 pairs of jeans, with their back pockets all embroidered in different ways. He does not like hand-me-downs and has a lot of pride in accepting help even when needed. However, he is not so keen on education and although has studied till class 8 himself, has been diffident about adding to this or his son joining school, even though I’ve offered to pay.  

                                                                                         

I reiterated my question. Both Isha and Mahipal chorused in unison. “Money is another matter altogether and those who give money employ thugs to ensure that you cast your vote for them”. I said “How can they? No-one can know who you’ve voted for.” Mahipal replied, “Yes, but if you take money, you are bound, but booze and other stuff does not make you beholden”. I asked “How, what’s the difference?” He replied very quietly but firmly, “Paisa paisa hota hai, Madamji.  Imaan bhi toh koi cheej hoti hai![v]

He’s worked with me for almost twenty years and neither he nor Isha is more than 35 years old. They live in rented rooms, which often don’t have a proper roof but what they call a kacchi chath,[vi] problematic in the rains, the blistering summer heat or bitterly cold winters. They both earn about eight thousand rupees per month, accrued through moon-lighting in addition to their regular day-time jobs. Both work 12-14 hours a day, seven days of the week. I give them Sundays off to rest but they prefer to work  elsewhere instead.  
                             

 

They enjoyed being feted. With great pride, they outlined the system whereby they keep vigil on members of their designated ‘team’ to see that no-one defects from the plan and votes only for the candidate they have all decided upon. The man they voted for this year had worked to get the street lights and roads in order. They defined their priorities; often had heated discussions and worked hard to ensure no-one was bought over.  If someone had been thus inclined, they all worked to convince him or her of the larger interest.


We live in a country that is developing haphazardly. Technology and a growing consumer oriented culture have challenged traditional values and modes of communication. There is aspiration in everyone’s heart, including people like Mahipal and Isha. They may own mobile phones and that ilk, but they still can’t afford better housing. They are not well educated, barely literate at that, but they seem to have moral values that could put many to shame. They know that election time is the only time politicians pay any attention to them, but they voted for what benefited the larger interests of the community and not what enhanced their personal wealth by being bribed to vote with notes. They may not be rich but neither are their votes for sale to the highest bidder.
 

These were the people I probably interacted with the most, for I depended upon their daily presence and effort to cook, clean and take care of my plants and home but I had not been able to stand back and see them for who they were. Times had changed and they no longer needed me to educate them. They had a strong sense of what they considered right and wrong and were willing to take part in something that earlier didn’t interest them. Development may be disorganized; the technological revolution may be crowding our minds with information we cannot process adequately, but these factors, however chaotic, had empowered them in small, but definitive ways. They had found a voice. They were, it seems, standing up for themselves.

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[i]Village elder

[ii] Caste [in this case religion]

[iii] alcohol

[iv] distributing

[v] Money is money, madamji, self-respect also counts for something

[vi] Temporary structure/roof