Jamuna, our Kolkata sweeper used to be my grand-fathers favorite. My most enduring image being of her pressing down on his frail shoulders, humming a sad tune. In another tongue. Her forehead tattooed. There was something formidable about her. To me, at least. Bapi made up stories about her often. Calling her a princess. Fallen on hard times. A queen sans a castle. Or a kingdom even. Married at thirteen to a man nineteen years older, Jamuna didi went on to have eleven children. Two died. Both boys. This morning, she wept copiously, sitting by my mothers feet. If Babu had been alive today, I would not have had to extend my hand in front of anyone. My youngest is about to get married. They have asked for a fat dowry...my husband is so old now...and me...after that tumor...I have lost all my physical strength. Its only a few houses that employ us...still... she whispers almost incongruously. Are you happy about this marriage? I interrupt, helping her up. Little Geru staring at the tattoo of a serpent on her left forearm. The way I did. Once. Didi...I was fifteen when I had my oldest...I bled for days after...I never knew a womans body could endure so much pain...I hated my child. At first...I still consider her bad luck in some way...all my ill luck, perhaps. Then before I knew it, I was pregnant again...another daughter. I was not even eighteen. My mother-in-law cursed me. Blamed my stars. I was taken to a Baba. He gave me a lot of jaribootis. I had no milk in my breasts. I hated the way he stared at me. I wasnt ready for motherhood, but my husband was determined to produce a son, threatening me, at times, when he drank too much, that hed bring another wife. After my son died, we moved to Kolkata...we needed to make more money. There were always so many mouths to feed. The first day he left for work, he lied saying he had got a job in a Government office. I was so happy. By the next year... she falls strangely silent. Didi...what is this? Geru asks softly. This...this is a nishani of where I am from. All the women in the village got their foreheads tattooed. Maybe, they tried rewriting my fate or something...the wife of a common sweeper... a woman who wipes commodes... cleans shit... daily... she wipes her eyes, swallowing slowly. Jamuna didi is one of the last remaining symbols of my childhood. A reminder of my grand-parents. 116 Jodhpurpark. Hazy winter mornings. The laughter that came easily. Once. But, in another way, she is also a metaphor of the millions of women in our country who are forced into motherhood. There is nothing fancy in their choices. Victims in a sense, of centuries of rigorous unfailing patriarchy reinforced by a bunch of blind superstitions and religious mumbo jumbo. Men. Maharajs. Mother-in-laws. All saying the same thing. A womans womb worth so little. In the end....
Posted on: Thu, 08 Jan 2015 05:10:33 +0000
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