Aseema comes in late today. Ma has left for school and I pass on the instructions for the food that is to be prepared. I find her strangely quiet without the usual torrent of explanations for the delay.
Something is not right and I sense it but seeing her rapidly clearing the ‘war zone’ of dirty dishes in the sink I retire to my room. After a while as I entered the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea, I notice her red eyes and she quickly averts my look by busying herself with cutting the vegetables that are lined up for today’s lunch.
“What happened, Aseema?” I ask tentatively as I put the water to boil.
“Didi, what is there to talk about,” she responds after a while dicing the vegetables with a firm hand.
“My husband has made another girl pregnant, the good for nothing haramzada.”
The words seem raw but the quiet determination in her tone lends a certain dignity to her speech. Apparently this is the third such instance in her 15 year old marriage. The old bastard had lost his job because of his drinking habits and works now as a driver to a gentleman in the neighbourhood.
“I set up the job for him, supported his years of idle tomfoolery hoping that he would mend his ways. But he continued his afimkhori and drinking.” She sniffled.
“The only way he could sense a feeling of lost power was to go around wooing and sleeping with the young maids he met while waiting in the car.
Didi, these girls are also stupid. They fall for his sweet words and sob story of a dying marriage. He dangles the carrot of marriage to them and then when they get pregnant he starts withdrawing citing an old father, young children and family responsibilities.”
“So what happens to these girls?” I ask, my brain reeling with the information received.
“Oh if they are lucky they get married to someone else. Otherwise we have an old man who takes care of things.”
“Abortion?” I ask surprised at the fact that I was still capable of being surprised.
“Haen. Aar ki korbe, didi? (What else can they do?). Last time a girl came to me, I confronted him and he said that it was all written in Fate and he is just an instrument of God. He fell in Love. Ha! Does he even understand what that word means!”
I have such an intense surge of hatred towards this pathetic sorry apology of a man.
‘Why don’t you leave him Aseema?” I blurted out angrily unable to control myself.
“Didi I’m pregnant again and my old parents will be devastated if they find out everything. Fifteen years with this man- I’m not shocked or hurt by anything. As long as he keeps to himself, lets me do my work, bring up my children, doesn’t beat me up, I let him be.”
I am confused now and totally agitated. What drives this insane arrangement in our society? My blood boils at the thought of the escapist wimp of a man, at the stoic resignation of this beautiful strong woman and at the stupidity of the girls who lose themselves in the web of a self-absorbed impotent old goat.
And feeling utterly impotent myself, I take my cup of tea, sit down and type. Fast and furious my disturbed mind takes out the venom on the keyboard. I have no feelings of empathy. It is a moment of pure animal hatred. So much for my meditation and Vipasana!
Something is not right and I sense it but seeing her rapidly clearing the ‘war zone’ of dirty dishes in the sink I retire to my room. After a while as I entered the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea, I notice her red eyes and she quickly averts my look by busying herself with cutting the vegetables that are lined up for today’s lunch.
“What happened, Aseema?” I ask tentatively as I put the water to boil.
“Didi, what is there to talk about,” she responds after a while dicing the vegetables with a firm hand.
“My husband has made another girl pregnant, the good for nothing haramzada.”
The words seem raw but the quiet determination in her tone lends a certain dignity to her speech. Apparently this is the third such instance in her 15 year old marriage. The old bastard had lost his job because of his drinking habits and works now as a driver to a gentleman in the neighbourhood.
“I set up the job for him, supported his years of idle tomfoolery hoping that he would mend his ways. But he continued his afimkhori and drinking.” She sniffled.
“The only way he could sense a feeling of lost power was to go around wooing and sleeping with the young maids he met while waiting in the car.
Didi, these girls are also stupid. They fall for his sweet words and sob story of a dying marriage. He dangles the carrot of marriage to them and then when they get pregnant he starts withdrawing citing an old father, young children and family responsibilities.”
“So what happens to these girls?” I ask, my brain reeling with the information received.
“Oh if they are lucky they get married to someone else. Otherwise we have an old man who takes care of things.”
“Abortion?” I ask surprised at the fact that I was still capable of being surprised.
“Haen. Aar ki korbe, didi? (What else can they do?). Last time a girl came to me, I confronted him and he said that it was all written in Fate and he is just an instrument of God. He fell in Love. Ha! Does he even understand what that word means!”
I have such an intense surge of hatred towards this pathetic sorry apology of a man.
‘Why don’t you leave him Aseema?” I blurted out angrily unable to control myself.
“Didi I’m pregnant again and my old parents will be devastated if they find out everything. Fifteen years with this man- I’m not shocked or hurt by anything. As long as he keeps to himself, lets me do my work, bring up my children, doesn’t beat me up, I let him be.”
I am confused now and totally agitated. What drives this insane arrangement in our society? My blood boils at the thought of the escapist wimp of a man, at the stoic resignation of this beautiful strong woman and at the stupidity of the girls who lose themselves in the web of a self-absorbed impotent old goat.
And feeling utterly impotent myself, I take my cup of tea, sit down and type. Fast and furious my disturbed mind takes out the venom on the keyboard. I have no feelings of empathy. It is a moment of pure animal hatred. So much for my meditation and Vipasana!
No comments:
Post a Comment