I’m starting away a new series of blog posts under the heading of ‘The Unsung SHE’, the following post is part of the chapter ‘Domestic Maids’.
Her day always
started a little before daybreak. She stretched her skeletal body for the last
time and left whatever little comfort her charpai had to offer. Mounting down the
stairs to the small courtyard of her rented one roomed house, she looked at the
never-ending tasks waiting to be done.
The buckets and tubs are to be dragged under
the only tap, before it once more runs dry for the entire day. The water would spurt
out in a stream of filthy and stinky water only for this hour. Her 8 year old son
needs to hurry and fetch clean water from the public filter- the sole free
drink they are granted with. She was never bothered with the question of ‘what to cook today?’ Like always the choice was left on the price
list of tarkari hawker, least priced sabzi will be on their plates, tonight.
Her husband had to go and earn his ‘dehari’
for the day. Her four daughters were already up busy in chores of the small
household. Her son would be leaving soon for the small eatery in hope of pocketing
more ‘tips’ than yesterday, while his school bag remains abandoned in the
corner of their house.
At 9:30 she placed
her foot out of her quarter to the distant territory where riches flowed out
from the very ground and jewels of luck hung low on the glassed ceilings… the
place where babies were born with silver spoons and deceased were laid down to
graves in gold caskets. Off she left her twelve year old daughter at the gate of
a palace and watched her crawl to the realms of slavery - the only place where
she proves to be useful for her father.
As usual her every
step was worried, her every breath was heavy. Back in her small village of
Ludhan, her brothers despised her husband. The man who after years of marriage
and four daughters and a son, felt no shame in bringing a girl, no older than
his eldest daughter, as his second wife. After months of arguing and battling she
finally surrendered to his outrageous call for second marriage. They moved to
the implacable city of Lahore, a home to tremendous opportunities and downright
denial.
In her world the
fights of hungry bellies were louder over frail wails of basic rights
violation. Her building torments had to be endured by slicing her tongue off. The
unforgiving days turned into sleepless nights and her worries only into
headaches. The air of despondency would upset something deep in her. The waves
of endless worries would hit the shoreline of her deteriorating patience;
mocking her tolerance; questioning her sanity… plunging her down; choking her
up. But she would put up a frail defense for her children, helplessly fighting
her way with her life drained limbs. She would always break through and come to the surface before
it was too late, but not tonight.
Her family heard
awkward noises escaping her mouth- sounds of drowning. She was shook hard by
her daughters and hugged tight by her eight year old. An ambulance escorted her body to the General Hospital
where doctors announced that she was liberated from her troubles, once and for all.
Her daughters screeched; her son felt the burden swelling up, becoming
unbearable for his young shoulders to carry; her husband stood there stunned,
worrying about the money required for funeral rites.
The ambulance took
off, carrying ‘Shafqat’ to her final
destination. They stopped by the palaces of their employers asking for financial
help. Soon they knocked on the gate of my friend. Her eldest daughter shaking from head to
toe with puffed eyes uttered the words, ‘Baji
meri A-a-a-ami ney jitney din kaam kiya hai uskay paisay dey dein. Meri aami
faut hogai hain.’ Her plain words
took several minutes to register.They handed over the money to them and watched the ambulance hurrying off.
I was horrified when I heard the account of begging
for money on corpse of your own mother. Passing any sort of judgment on such a small piece of information felt quite imprudent to me, hence I tried fishing for further information regarding this unknown lady 'Shafqat'. I evolved this story on the bits and pieces I was able to gather. Only by imagining myself in her shoes, I feel more conscious than ever about the wild society thriving around
me; where women’s position as a wife is dishonored so easily; where poverty
drives them out to seek work as domestic maids; where their problems from basic
health issues to employee-employer relationships are hardly ever addressed.