"Bye Di.(short for didi ). Take care." My daughter turned around surprised. "Salma, that was good English." The short, stocky girl standing in front of her beamed, her face lighting up at the praise. All of fifteen, she worked alongside her mother, helping her to clean the house. We had moved into the new home since the past few months, and the mother daughter duo had sought employment with us. A chirpy little thing, she looked wistfully at my daughter as she paced the home, studying for her exams. "Main bhi English tuition leti thi, aunty. Ab time nahi to chhor diya. Aap mere se English main hi baat karo. " My daughter immediatly offered to teach her and Salma jumped at the offer, gleefully appearing in the late afternoon, after finishing her chores in other homes she worked for. During the day, her eyes would follow my daughter as she read or studied. She would listen avidly to all our conversations, occassionall surprising us with her one liners.
Gradually i noticed that the first question she asked me every morning was " Di uth gai ?" At first, i mechanically answered "No." absorbed as i was in my chores. Then one day, irked with her constant chatter, i snapped back, "Arrey! koi aur sawaal hai ke nai, tere paas ? Ya fir tu jalti hai us par ? " As soon as i had retorted, i bit my tongue, specially when i turned to see her crestfallen look. Had i touched a raw nerve ? I had. Later on in the day, i heard her mother ticking her off : " Tu der se uthti hai na, isliye tera kaam ho nahi pata. Jaldi uth subah. " The mumbled protest was " Main raat ko sub kaam kar ke barah baje soti hun, fir paanch baje kaise uthun ? Thand lagti hai na, mujhko." I sat wearily contemplating an unjust world. She was an only daughter in the midst of three sons. Her father was a paralytic, her mother was a housemaid, her grandmother was a cantankerous old woman. After seeing to all their ablutions and meals, she left home with her mum for work. Together they earned about ten thousand a month, most of which went towards the interest on a loan they had taken for the fathers' illness.
" Good Morning, aunty." her cheerful voice would greet me every morning when i opened the door to her. "Good morning Salma. " the words became a morning ritual. Paradoxically, i never knew when she was lying or when she spoke the truth. She sported a cell, and probably knew more about its features, then i did mine. Sometines she would come in and tinkle around the place showing off her payal. "Dekho, dekho, Aunty. Idd ke paise se kharida.. " she would simper hurriedly.
She took the longest time dusting my daughters' room. Often we would find her posturing in front of the mirror. sometimes she would rearrange all her trinkets on the dressing table, lovingly placing each in a different way. My teen was at first furious, then indulgent, shrugging her shoulders and retreating with a "Whatever, but jaldi kar !" She always worried about her mother's debt, coming up with grandiose schemes for paying it off. I tried to reason with her, " Tu kyun fikr karti hai ? Teri amma ke upar chhor de. Woh karegi bandobast." But my words fell on deaf ears.
It was raining heavily, that fateful day. My doorbell rang. I opened it to find her mother outside. " Salma nahi aayi ?" I asked. " Nahi bhabhi. Uska kal shaadi ho gayi." she said with a downcast face. As I stared at her shell shocked, she refused to look at me. Then with downcast face, a suspicion of a tear in her eyes, she said " Koi chara nahi, Bhabhi. Garib hai, hum log. Biyaah to kum se kum hua uska. thora umr zyada hai uska dulha ka, vidhur hai, (widower) par bachcha nahi hai. " The fact was that she was married to a widower, who had paid off their debt. I contemplated reporting her mother to the police. Surely they would rescue her. Before that her phone came. I insisted she come see me. The doorbell rang. I opened it to find her standing outside. Buxom body clothed in bridal finery, heartbreakingly young. A woman-child. I stood stunned, looking at her. She came in, and looking at my face, laughed. Was their a trace of bitterness in her voice ? No ! She was actually happy ! " Itna kyun udaas ho, aunty ? " The innocence in her voice, broke my heart. " Dekho. Usne mujhe, kitna gehna diya. Aur bolun ? Ab mujhe kaam bi nai karna parega. Picture dekhne le ke gaya woh. Barrey mall main. English aati hai na mujhko, " her voice was smug even. " Mera khud ka kamra bhi hai, aur aaina bhi. Bahut khush hun main, such aunty, aur kya chahiye mujhko ? " Indeed. Defeated i stared at her. Who was i to break her bubble of happiness, her ticket to freedom.
Child of destiny. Face of Poverty.
Gradually i noticed that the first question she asked me every morning was " Di uth gai ?" At first, i mechanically answered "No." absorbed as i was in my chores. Then one day, irked with her constant chatter, i snapped back, "Arrey! koi aur sawaal hai ke nai, tere paas ? Ya fir tu jalti hai us par ? " As soon as i had retorted, i bit my tongue, specially when i turned to see her crestfallen look. Had i touched a raw nerve ? I had. Later on in the day, i heard her mother ticking her off : " Tu der se uthti hai na, isliye tera kaam ho nahi pata. Jaldi uth subah. " The mumbled protest was " Main raat ko sub kaam kar ke barah baje soti hun, fir paanch baje kaise uthun ? Thand lagti hai na, mujhko." I sat wearily contemplating an unjust world. She was an only daughter in the midst of three sons. Her father was a paralytic, her mother was a housemaid, her grandmother was a cantankerous old woman. After seeing to all their ablutions and meals, she left home with her mum for work. Together they earned about ten thousand a month, most of which went towards the interest on a loan they had taken for the fathers' illness.
" Good Morning, aunty." her cheerful voice would greet me every morning when i opened the door to her. "Good morning Salma. " the words became a morning ritual. Paradoxically, i never knew when she was lying or when she spoke the truth. She sported a cell, and probably knew more about its features, then i did mine. Sometines she would come in and tinkle around the place showing off her payal. "Dekho, dekho, Aunty. Idd ke paise se kharida.. " she would simper hurriedly.
She took the longest time dusting my daughters' room. Often we would find her posturing in front of the mirror. sometimes she would rearrange all her trinkets on the dressing table, lovingly placing each in a different way. My teen was at first furious, then indulgent, shrugging her shoulders and retreating with a "Whatever, but jaldi kar !" She always worried about her mother's debt, coming up with grandiose schemes for paying it off. I tried to reason with her, " Tu kyun fikr karti hai ? Teri amma ke upar chhor de. Woh karegi bandobast." But my words fell on deaf ears.
It was raining heavily, that fateful day. My doorbell rang. I opened it to find her mother outside. " Salma nahi aayi ?" I asked. " Nahi bhabhi. Uska kal shaadi ho gayi." she said with a downcast face. As I stared at her shell shocked, she refused to look at me. Then with downcast face, a suspicion of a tear in her eyes, she said " Koi chara nahi, Bhabhi. Garib hai, hum log. Biyaah to kum se kum hua uska. thora umr zyada hai uska dulha ka, vidhur hai, (widower) par bachcha nahi hai. " The fact was that she was married to a widower, who had paid off their debt. I contemplated reporting her mother to the police. Surely they would rescue her. Before that her phone came. I insisted she come see me. The doorbell rang. I opened it to find her standing outside. Buxom body clothed in bridal finery, heartbreakingly young. A woman-child. I stood stunned, looking at her. She came in, and looking at my face, laughed. Was their a trace of bitterness in her voice ? No ! She was actually happy ! " Itna kyun udaas ho, aunty ? " The innocence in her voice, broke my heart. " Dekho. Usne mujhe, kitna gehna diya. Aur bolun ? Ab mujhe kaam bi nai karna parega. Picture dekhne le ke gaya woh. Barrey mall main. English aati hai na mujhko, " her voice was smug even. " Mera khud ka kamra bhi hai, aur aaina bhi. Bahut khush hun main, such aunty, aur kya chahiye mujhko ? " Indeed. Defeated i stared at her. Who was i to break her bubble of happiness, her ticket to freedom.
Child of destiny. Face of Poverty.
She got married?! Unbelievable!
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