Old -- almost historical bricks of the house built before Partition, decaying wooden chaukath, deewal*, light on blue home walls, iron rod terrace, and steep stairs to the roof -- Few memories my eyes gather from old pictures like a camel collects water in its hump. My five-year-old self sitting on Papa’s lap next to Amma* and Ma, old black and white TV playing in the background. Papa’s white kurta, Amma’s pastel and Ma’s brown floral saree and my red and white checkered dress. And smiles -- as if that was how we were all to live. Together forever.
*chaukhat – door step; deewal: walls *Amma -- the poet calls her grandmother Amma.
A KEEPSAKE
It is neatly folded, tucked to the farthest stack of clothes in my almirah. Your white chiffon saree -- black and white flowers speckled all over it. I haven’t yet worn it, not even once and I have it for nearly twenty years.
I remember the day you opened your trunk, the only worldly possession you had and said -- have something for yourself.
Did you somehow know Amma, it was to be our last meeting? With hesitation I fumbled through your things till I saw this saree I had always liked.
When you put it on, your tenderness would seep into the texture of the fabric. Its sheerness akin to the spark I noticed at times, in your seldom happy eyes.
Now sometimes I take it out, touch the fabric, rub it against my skin, and put it back inside. Afraid to wear this keepsake, lest it wither away with time.
Rakhi Dalal writes from a small city in Haryana, India. Her work has appeared in Kitaab, Scroll, Borderless Journal, Nether Quarterly, Aainanagar, Hakara Journal, Bound, Parcham and Usawa Literary Review.
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Story by Veena Verma, translated from Punjabi by C. Christine Fair
In the darkest of night, a black car was winding its way along the black, wide, and desolate roads of Germany like a snake. Only the sound of the wind broke the all-pervasive silence. The wind and the car seemed to be competing to outpace each other. Far away in the distance, a glimmer of light briefly appeared and then vanished like a firefly. The silence and darkness returned once more. The electricity poles on the side of the road appeared to be standing with their heads bowed in exhaustion, yawning forth a light so dim that Manjit couldn’t even make out the time on her watch.
But Manjit didn’t even bother looking at her watch. She didn’t know the date, the day, much less the time. She didn’t know whether this country’s time zone was ahead of or behind that of India. She only knew that she had left her home on the 25th of October. She didn’t even have a calendar to look at the dates. But nature had given women one way to know the passing of a month. But that clock gifted from nature had become broken along the way. Manjit seemed to bleed every third day.
Sitting in the car, with eyes half open, she looked at her fellow travelers. There was the Gujarati driver and a white man in the passenger seat. Manjit was in the back with her son, Dipu, who rested his head in her lap. Dipu was the only one she knew. Manjit didn’t know who the others were, where they were taking her, or which routes they were driving. She only knew that she would soon meet her husband, Harjit.
Harjit, to whom she had been married six years ago. After spending only two weeks together, Harjit returned to Germany after promising to take her to Germany soon. The two weeks spent with Harjit felt like two minutes. It was like a beautiful dream which disappeared once she opened her eyes. Harjit promised her that within two months at the most, she would be with him in Germany. But years had passed, and Harjit still hadn’t sent the paperwork to call Manjit to Germany. He only wrote once to say that up to now, he had not yet divorced his German wife. Manjit and her family remained silent.
The Bride by Amrita Shergil (1913-1941). From Public Domain.
In this silence, there was also regret. Why did they marry this tall, slender, beautiful Manjit at the tender age of 20 to Harjit, who was already married? Manjit was faultless. No one ever said anything bad about her character. After finishing the tenth grade in the village, her father arranged for her to do her BA in a hostel in Ludhiana. Pragat Singh lived for his daughter whose mother died while she was a child. She was only five years old and her brother was only one year old when their mother passed away from pneumonia. Pragat Singh brought his young children, wailing like birds, under his wing and accepted God’s will. His relatives tried very hard to get him a second wife, but Pragat Singh was not ready to hear this.
“I will not allow a stepmother to come into this home…My children will not be neglected. What happened has happened. If I had had any luck at all, why did my first wife die? My God will take care of me. My children will grow up. Manjit will leave my home. When Kulbir turns 16, I will get him married. Happiness will return to the house. I’ve lived my life. All of you should pray for my children’s well-being.” Whenever Pragit Singh spoke with sorrow in his voice, the entire family wept.
Manjit remembered everything. Even though she was only five years old at the time, she remembered her mother’s passing very well. Throughout her childhood, she carried this loss in her gut. Without a mother, Manjit had to grow up early. She had to care for her little brother. She had to cook food for her father. All of the household responsibilities fell on her. Even though she ostensibly had a large family, they did nothing to help her other than expressing their sympathies.
Passing the tenth grade was a major milestone for Manjit. She had passed with distinction. Pragat Singh was very excited.
“Who says that daughters are less than sons? My daughter is my son. I will make her a lawyer…” Pragat Singh said with pride.
“Excessive education spoils girls…Moreover, because of her education, finding a suitable boy for her will be difficult. It’s hard to marry off well-educated girls. If the girl becomes a lawyer, you’ll have to find a judge,” the relatives caviled.
“So according to your logic, I should dump my daughter on some run-of-the-mill boy? I am going to send her to America or Canada. There, my daughter will enjoy her life. What is there for her here? Here, she’ll just toil away her life.” Pragat Singh had such lofty dreams for his daughter. He wanted to do everything he could to make up for the fact that the children had no mother. He wanted to give them all manner of comforts.
He enrolled Manjit in a girls’ college in Ludhiana where she stayed in a hostel. Sorrow tempered her father’s nature. With Kulbir, her relationship was more like that of a friend. Both siblings shared their secrets freely with each other. Kulbir paid less attention to his studies. She advised him to focus more on his studies, but he would just shrug his shoulders in response.
One day Manjit grabbed his ear and asked, “What do you mean to say by this shoulder shrugging?”
“Sister…If you leave after completing your studies and if I become a government officer, then Father will be left alone. If we both leave, then people will steal our land.” Manjit was incredulous hearing such a profound thing from Kulbir’s tiny mouth.
“I don’t understand, Biri…” She called her brother Biri from childhood.
“Father is alone, sister…All night he is exhausted…He needs someone to help him…Even though he doesn’t say anything, how long can this go on? Moreover, sons are supposed to take over the responsibilities of the family. Daughters become the assets of another family. You have studied a lot. You’ve studied enough for both of us. I am going to stay with Father. I have no plans for further study.” Manjit sighed upon hearing her brother speak as if he were an old man. It seemed to her as if neither she nor her brother ever got to be children. Both had to become responsible as soon as they were born. Both siblings sat there for some time, sharing their sorrows.
From that point onwards, Manjit didn’t pressure Kulbir to study. Moreover, she was very happy when she got called home right before the holidays to go meet a girl for Kulbir.
Kulbir was married even though he hadn’t even passed the tenth grade. The sadness was lifted. Happiness returned to Pragat Singh’s house. The family had a new member and liveliness returned. Relatives visited the house more often. The empty place of a woman had been filled.
Manjit had completed her BA and preparations were underway to marry her off. But no boy met Pragat Singh’s expectations. The prospective grooms came and went, but each time he found some fault with them. The search stretched out. Finally, Pragat Singh’s brother-in-law, Baldev Singh, said that a boy had come to Ludhiana from Germany. He’s an engineer there. To live in Germany permanently, he married a white woman in a “paper marriage” but they lived separately, and they would get divorced. The boy came from so far to marry a special Punjabi girl. He’s a boy from a very good family. He’s an educated, good-looking, strapping young man. He had no shortage of prospects. But because Baldev was Manjit’s uncle he could persuade them not to see these other girls right away. If they were to take out a matrimonial advertisement in the newspaper, there would be a huge line of girls, and it wouldn’t take long for there to be a bidding war.
Pragat Singh began to think about the boy’s second marriage.
Pragat Singh asked, “My daughter is not lacking anything. Why would I marry her off to a boy who is already married?”
Baldev Singh explained, “Look, it’s different in other countries…No one is virtuous there. People get married to settle there permanently. These white women do not find our sons suitable nor do they suit our sons. My friend’s son did exactly this. He went to England and married a white woman. Then after paying her off, he left her. White women agree easily. They never stay with one man for long. Now that boy is very wealthy, and he has taken a bride from Kapurthala back with him. The girl did a double BA!”
“But what will people say?” Pragat Singh was not convinced.
“How can you convince them? You don’t need to tell anyone…The boy knows and you know…Do what suits you. Don’t make a big deal about it. Fulfil your responsibility while you are still alive. In the future, we don’t know what your son and daughter-in-law will do.” Baldev Singh instilled in him the fear of an unknown future.
“No! My son would never betray his sister…” Pragat Singh was hurt by his suggestion.
“You married off your boy. He’s no longer yours to control. For now, you are the boss of your household. Whether you spend five rupees or fifty. It’s your call. No one would dare question you. Moreover, finding a boy from this kind of family is very difficult. The boy is a gem. A total gem. He is beyond reproach. He even takes care to iron his underwear. For the sake of my dead sister, I don’t want my niece to get caught up in the ruses of a mother-in-law or a sister-in-law. In a foreign country, there won’t be such family fights. Both the husband and wife are educated. They can enjoy life. Here, even the best government employee doesn’t make in a month what this boy makes in a week. And this is not temporary work. He has houses and cars. What difference does it make if he married a white woman to live there permanently? If a jatt [1]has land and vigour, then he can marry twice in one year, during the March and July harvests. These days, no one is a saint like you.” Baldev Singh’s flattery brought a smile to Pragat Singh’s sad face which flickered for a moment then disappeared much like a lightning bolt flashing ever so briefly in a dark cloud.
“Okay. I’ll consider your suggestion. You should do as you like. You are family. My daughter is your daughter…But I am asking Manjit’s preference.” Pragat Singh laid down this condition.
“You talk to Manjit. And also get Kulbir’s views. Even though he’s younger, his opinion still matters. By the grace of God, Kulbir is happily married.” Baldev Singh said his peace and got up.
Even though Manjit never argued with her father, Pragat Singh still wanted to have her consent before taking such a big step. When he raised the issue of Harjit with her, she became very bashful.
“If your mother were still alive, I wouldn’t have to ask you about this or discuss this with you. She would have done this herself.” Today he remembered his wife for the first time in years and his eyes welled up in front of his children.
Bride’s Toilette, Painting by Amrita Shergil. From Public Domain
“Do whatever you want father.” Manjit, crying, hugged her father tightly.
They cried for a long time in each other’s embrace.
The next week, he brought Manjit to a friend of Baldev Singh’s to meet Harjit. Manjit kept her eyes lowered and didn’t look at Harjit. Harjit took a liking to the fair-complected, serious, and shy girl. Five days later, she was married to Harjit. Harjit, lacking vacation time, returned to Germany two weeks later. It didn’t seem like two weeks had passed. Manjit dropped Harjit off at the Delhi airport. She felt as if she had seen off her own soul. Only her body was returning. Harjit’s loving touch awoke her virginal body and aroused a thirst in her. Like the hot earth which, upon experiencing a sudden momentary burst of rain, becomes ever thirstier.
Manjit no longer felt at home in her village. What game is Mother Nature playing that she feels like a stranger in her own home?
“It’s a matter of a little time. Harjit will send the papers…Then this separation will be over.” She was trying to console herself and care for the keepsakes of Harjit’s love. But Harjit had left her a hidden gift that she would realise much later – Harjits’s child. This was the real token of his love. Upon learning of this, a wave of happiness swept over the entire family. Manjit went to Ludhiana for the sole purpose of informing Harjit of the good news via phone. Harjit was very happy to hear this news.
Manjit forthrightly told him “Call me soon as I don’t want to remain alone.”
“I also want this…but I am helpless…That bitch is obstinate. She says that she will leave me and have me deported. She isn’t divorcing me. Just be patient for a while. I will do something,” Harjit assured her.
It was like this every time. She would stay up until the middle of the night writing him letters. She told him about her anxieties, she wrote about their love, and their child. She asked him about a name for the child, told him about the village gossip questioning why she hadn’t gone to her in-law’s family, and the growing burden on her father. But every question got the same response, “I am helpless…The issues are still being sorted….”
Some time had passed. Manjit’s son Dipu, began to crawl. But the paperwork from Harjit still had not come. The hopes and aspirations with which Pragat Singh had married off his daughter failed to materialise. After four years of having his daughter sitting at his home, he began to feel fits of panic. On several occasions, he wrote to Harjit to say that even though there was no shortage of wealth in the house, it still didn’t look good to have his daughter at her parent’s home. But Harjit repeated the same story that he wanted to do something but couldn’t.
In the meantime, Kulbir had two daughters. His wife, who had been an adolescent girl, grew into a woman and she began to rule the house indirectly. That very sister-in-law who out-danced everyone in the village at her wedding now did not speak with her politely. Leave aside not having conversations, she found a way to taunt her even in basic matters. She wasn’t half as smart or attractive as Manjit. But a woman whose husband loves her is the queen. The world will bow down to a woman—howsoever ugly or moronic she may be–if her husband values her. But even the most useless man will consider a woman who is beautiful and intelligent to be irrelevant if her husband is not with her. In our society, a man is like a woman’s identity card without which she cannot be identified.
Manjit was an intelligent girl. She very well understood her husband’s compulsions and her father’s responsibilities. So, she made a compromise with time and quietly waited for the papers to be sent from Harjit. She could tolerate all of this. But she couldn’t tolerate Kulbir’s avoidance and silence. Kulbir’s nature had completely changed in the last two years. Her little brother had been a friend. They spent their childhood laughing and playing together. They supported each other in times of sorrow. Now, he didn’t speak to her. He never spoke to her son Dipu nicely– as if he were some illegitimate child. And he didn’t speak that much with Father either. He usually spent his time away and the rest of the time with his wife.
Harjit occasionally sent a bit of money. But Pragit Singh forbade her from spending that money on expenses and told her to save it. Harjit sent clothes for Dipu a few times but Kulbir’s wife burned with jealousy. When her eldest daughter insisted upon wearing new clothes, she would drag her and punch her.
“Your father did not go to Germany…We are villagers…We have to make do with the little we have. I am not going to pamper my girls. I won’t let them become lawyers….” The sister-in-law let out her frustration that had been festering for several days.
“Sister-in-law, why do you beat your daughter? It makes no difference to me whether she or Dipu wear the clothes. Both are the same.” Manjit took her sister-in-law’s hand.
“How can they be the same? He has a rich father…His father seems to be some bigshot and her father toils all day in the soil. This will spoil the girls. There’s no question of me pampering my girls. I’m going to keep them on the straight and narrow otherwise they’ll make my life hell. We are already screwed because we haven’t sorted out the previous problem and we can’t bear more difficulties. My husband can’t sleep at all at night…” The sister-in-law, having made a mountain out of a molehill, went inside.
It seemed to Manjit that her sister-in-law wasn’t taunting her but simply speaking the truth. She hadn’t realised that Kulbir wasn’t her little brother anymore; rather, he was now the father of two daughters. The burden of Manjit wasn’t just born by her father or Kuldip but by the entire family. And not just by the family, but the entire village. And maybe by the entire country, whose culture views women as a burden or the wealth of another family. Perhaps, Harjit had forgotten his culture having settled in Germany. This was perhaps why he had become irresponsible.
Several such incidents made Manjit feel uneasy. Silence spread across the house. It was as if everyone was sulking at each other. Dipu began going to school. He went along with Kulbir’s daughters. Manjit never dropped him off at school. She had stopped leaving the house because people would pepper her with questions.
One asked, “Girl! Do you have any clue about your husband?”
Another said, “We know about those who live abroad…They do what suits them. We heard that he keeps a white woman. What was the need for your father to make this mess by marrying you off to someone so far away? Were there no boys in the Punjab?”
Because Manjit didn’t have the courage to leave the house, she remained inside. She kept her face hidden like a thief. Pragat Singh began to fall ill. His body was not robust to begin with. But the sorrow of his daughter devastated him. He was bedridden. Manjit’s heart sank when she saw him.
One day, Pragat Singh and Kulbir were engrossed in an argument about something. Just two days before, Manjit had gone to her friend’s home in Ludhiana to call Harjit. Upon her return, no one spoke to her.
“Have you done anything for Manjit or not, father?” This was perhaps the first time that Kulbir spoke to their father in a loud voice.
“What should I do, son? The boy turned out to be a duffer. We took a risk with this second marriage…” Pragat Singh took a deep sigh.
“The boy turned out to be a good-for-nothing. Are there no other boys in the world? Marry her off somewhere…” Kulbir’s patience had run out.
“How can we marry her off? What will people say?” Pragat Singh understood his son’s predicament.
“What are people already saying? You are always inside the house. I’m the one who has to interact with them. It’s going to be six years of her living here. In the future, I’ll have to marry off my daughters.” Kulbir was worried about his daughters’ futures.
“It’s not a big deal. Six years have passed by. So will another four. If he doesn’t call her, then he’ll return. Where will a woman with a child get a second husband?” Pragat Singh began coughing.
“So, you keep her for four more years. I can’t care for her. She frequently goes to Ludhiana. People are talking shit about us. So how long can you keep her here? Until her hair goes grey? Then you’ll marry her off? Right now, you should find someone who has been married twice or even thrice. But you won’t like any of them. You said, ‘My daughter will be a magistrate.’ Has the women’s revolution come? Yet, you gave her more education. Even though our relatives objected to more education, you did what you wanted. Even now if I say something, you are unwilling to listen. You, like mom, are going to die. But I’m the one who has to deal with the problems. If in the future she does something that disgraces us, who will we blame?” Kulbir seemed to be trying to find a solution.
Pragat Singh sat there thinking quietly.
“I am going to call your uncle. You don’t worry. First, we’ll hear what advice he has. He was the middleman.” Pragat Singh wanted to calm the situation.
“Forget this useless uncle. This is his mess. This son-of-a-bitch has never even visited. After getting us wrapped up in this bad marriage, he has stepped aside.” Kulbir abused his uncle profusely.
“It’s not a big deal. Don’t worry. Tomorrow, I am going to send someone to Tutian Ali village to call Baldev Singh,” Pragat Singh said calmly.
“Why will you send someone? I am going to Tutian Ali myself to get that bastard.” Kulbir got up.
And the next day, at the break of dawn, he brought Baldev Singh on his motorcycle.
The three men went on arguing for some time. After considerable discussion, Baldev promised to do something quickly and then left.
Even though Manjit didn’t hear everything, she sensed that something important would happen. She was like a bird in the forest who seeing the direction of the wind can predict a storm.
A few days later, Baldev returned and explained that an agent who lived in Jalandhar would illegally deliver Manjit to Germany for Rs 5 lakhs. Once she reached Germany, she could apply for political asylum just as others did. She could live there till Harjit got his divorce and they could live together.
At first, Pragat Singh was not amenable to this. But, seeing no other way, he relented. When Kulbir and his wife learned about the amount of 5 lakhs, they made it clear that they were not going to pay for it. From that point onward, neither spoke to the father or the uncle. Upon hearing this, Manjit felt as if finally, there was a glimmer of hope in her dark world.
When they discussed this with Harjit, he refused.
Harjit explained, “Coming here through an agent is very dangerous. Women are raped by them. How can a woman come like this? Moreover, she has a child with her.”
“The legendary lovers of the Punjab, Sassi and Sohni, took even greater risk to cross rivers to meet their lovers. I will be coming by plane. Don’t worry. It’s become very difficult for me to live here now. I can’t explain everything on the phone. With great difficulty, God has given us this opportunity.” Manjit choked up as she made her appeal. Harjit relented.
“It’s fine. Do as you wish. I won’t stop you.” Harjit gave the green signal.
Pragat Singh immediately agreed without seeking the advice of the pandit. After speaking with his brother-in-law, Baldev, Pragat Singh sold some land and arranged the 5 Lakhs to give to the agent. He didn’t ask Kulbir. However, he did inform him that by selling Manjit’s share of the land, he had fulfilled his obligation. Hearing Kulbir use such hurtful words for his sister, Pragat Singh felt aggrieved, and he wanted to do anything to bring back happiness to his depressed and hapless daughter.
“Why should this poor girl be punished for our mistakes? I feel like I have had two daughters. I spent five lakhs for the marriage of my second daughter. Parents will do anything to settle a daughter in her own home.” God knows how Pragat Singh managed to summon such confidence despite being ill and frail.
Manjit knew that her brother and sister-in-law would be angry when they heard about selling the land. But there were no other options available. She hesitated to speak to her brother. But a woman could understand a woman’s pain. So, she tried to explain everything clearly to her sister-in-law.
“Sister-in-law, I don’t know why I am so unfortunate that my father had to sell ancestral land to reunite me with my husband. But all of these things are on my mind. This is a loan to me and to Harjit. When I reach, I will return every cent.” Manjit felt like a criminal.
“Sister-in-law, go to your in-laws even if you have to take the earrings off my ears to do it. It’s not a loan. Educated girls take their equal share. Had Harjit intended to send money, he would have done it a long time before. Why does he need to do this? Harjit has artfully extracted his share of the land. Fine. It’s finished. We’ll make do. Father must also be very happy that he gave his daughter her share. But he never even spoke with us politely about this.” Manjit lost her courage to discuss things further when her sister-in-law spoke rudely, nostrils flaring.
She didn’t want there to be a conflict in the house because of her. Whatever relationship that she still had with her brother would also be lost. With a heavy heart, she swallowed her tears so that her father wouldn’t know what she was suffering.
Kesar Singh, the agent, was given Rs 4 lakhs. The remaining one lakh was promised to be handed over once Manjit reached Germany. Dipu, who from childhood had picked up on the idea of flying, would see a plane flying in the sky and say “Daddy’s plane has come! I am going to see Daddy!” With her child in her lap, Manjit said her final goodbyes to her village. In the middle of the night, she left her beloved village, like a thief.
“Father, we will come back soon.” She placed her head upon her father’s chest as he lay upon the bed.
Pragat Singh began to wail. He took $500 and some jaggery from underneath his pillow and gave it to his daughter and grandson as a blessing.
“Child, if your mother were alive…” His pillow was soaked with tears.
“Father, my sister-in-law and mother are the same. Don’t you worry about me. Both Kulbir and my sister-in-law have taken very good care of me.” Manjit paid her respects to her brother and sister-in-law who were standing nearby.
Pragat Singh took a deep sigh. Manjit picked up Dipu and left the house.
She had no idea when she left her house how long her journey would be or even how she would know when she reached her destination. The agent, Kesar Singh, had her passport delivered with a visa for Moscow. Kesar Singh’s man would take her from here. At the Moscow airport, she hid herself among the other passengers and came outside. Standing outside the airport she was looking everywhere frantically. For some 15 minutes or so, she stood there waiting for the agent’s man but no one came. She didn’t have a lot of luggage. She had only three suits for herself and three for Dipu in a handbag. The agent explained that she shouldn’t take a lot of luggage because she would have to walk along the way.
Just as she was thoroughly exhausted and thinking about sitting upon the ground, a South Asian man passed by her.
“You are Manjit, right?,” the man asked discretely.
Upon hearing her name, Manjit was startled. But she quickly got a hold of herself and nodded her head affirmatively.
He instructed, “Follow behind me slowly. Don’t arouse suspicion.” He then slipped in front of her.
Manjit put Dipu down to walk, and they began to slowly follow the man. Outside the airport, a white car was waiting, driven by a white man. When the South Asian man went and sat in the car, she picked up Dipu and walked briskly to the car. She climbed inside and sat Dipu on her lap. The car started with a jerk and took off slowly like a bullock cart.
Manjit looked outside the window. people with strange faces and clothes roamed about. Store sign boards were written in Russian, which she didn’t understand. She prayed to God and sat quietly with her son in her lap.
They arrived at some desolate place and stopped in front of a building. When the old, rusty door opened, a foul odor filled the air. Manjit was seated in a room on the second floor. In the room, there was only one bed, a desk, and a chair. Manjit laid the sleeping Dipu on the bed and began looking for water to wash her hands and face.
The South Asian man explained, “There’s a shared kitchen here, Madam…Boys in your situation are staying in the adjoining rooms. I mean those with illegal papers.”
Confused, Manjit responded, “Illegal? But Uncle Kesar arranged my papers…These are genuine…”
“In our profession, no one has an uncle. Agents and goldsmiths don’t even spare their own fathers…. How did you get this wrong impression?” The man gave a lecherous laugh, his black, filthy teeth glimmered like watermelon seeds.
Manjit was in disbelief. “This is fraud,” she said in English.
“Don’t speak English. You will get caught…And if you get caught, four other men will suffer along with you…Sit here quietly. The kitchen and the bathroom are below. You go and wash your face and hands, and I will bring you something to eat.” And as he was leaving, Manjit handed him Dipu’s empty milk bottle.
“Oh. I forgot to tell you my name…People call me Tony…But this is my fake name, just like your passport.” As soon as Tony said this, Manjit’s whole body began to tremble.
After Tony left, she locked the door to the room. Not only did she not go downstairs to wash her hands and face, but she didn’t even as much as turn on the lights in her room. She shivered as she sat in the darkness.
About an hour later, Tony returned with things to eat and drink.
He was worried. “Something terrible has happened.”
“What happened…?” She also became concerned.
“Because your visa is fake your name is not showing up in the computer at the embassy here. The embassy people told me to bring the woman because they are starting a case.” Tony sat down with his head in his hands.
Fearfully, she stood up from the bed. “Now what will happen?”
“Who knows what will happen…We have a man working in the embassy. I have just returned from meeting him. He is on his way here. Look, maybe this will get sorted out…The man is very useful…If he uploads your name in the computer somehow…Otherwise….” Concerned, Tony shook his head.
“Otherwise, what will happen?” Manjit went and stood next to him.
Tony laid out the possible punishments. “The police will capture you. Jail is also possible. They may send you back to India…and you may spend seven years in jail here. They’ll send your kid to an orphanage…”
“No…No…This cannot happen.” Manjit let out a shriek.
“Shut up, you crazy bitch! You’re going to get caught and you’re going to get me caught.” Tony got up and put his hand over her mouth to muffle her sounds and he put the other hand on her back.
“This can’t happen.” Manjit shook her head in disbelief.
“Why can’t it happen? Everything is possible. In the underworld, everything is possible.” Tony removed his hand from her mouth but not from her back.
An idea came to Manjit’s mind. “Can I call my husband or the uncle in India?”
“I thought you’re an intelligent and educated women. But you seem like a complete moron. Where are you going to find a phone here? What if the police record your voice on the phone? You will bring this trouble upon yourself.” Tony expressed sympathy.
Manjit, out of options, asked him, “So…what should I do?”
“Look. I’m not nuts. I am worried about you. This guy is coming, Peter. He can do a lot of things. If he manages to understand the problem, then he will sort it out. Guaranteed.” Tony grabbed her and sat her down on the bed.
Manjit asked, “How should he understand?”
“Bas[2]. Just watch what is going on…” As Tony elaborated, there was a knock on the door.
“Look, he’s here.” Tony ran to open the door.
A short, obese man entered. It was hard to tell from his colour whether he was white or South Asian. He sat down as he blew smoke from his cigar. He stared at Manjit and then at Dipu, who suddenly got up from his sleep. Seeing the situation, Tony picked up Dipu and carried him outside.
Manjit was stunned. Peter got up from the chair and sat her on the bed. Manjit was terrified and tried to get up, but he had pinned down her arms.
“Sit up. Don’t worry.” When Peter spoke Punjabi, Manjit sighed relief.
“I…I…I…am very tired…I want to relax.” She began to sense some looming danger.
“Don’t make such a fuss. There is no shortage of women in Russia. I have come here only to help you because you are an Indian girl. I have an obligation to help out my own people because no one over here is going to look after us.” When Peter spoke, Manjit could smell the alcohol on his breath.
“I don’t need any help.” Manjit pushed him and she ran towards the door.
“Don’t be so stupid, girl. You entered this country illegally. It’s very rare to come across Indian girls here. If anyone gets suspicious, you’ll get caught. You need a visa for Germany, and you need papers.” Peter pulled back her dupatta.
“I don’t need anything…” Manjit tried to open the door, but it was locked from the outside.
Manjit threatened, “I am going to scream and call the others for help.”
“Screaming happens every day here. No one will bother. Everyone here is a thief. Illegal immigrants like you. They value their lives.” Rather than kowtowing to her threat, he scared the shit out of her.
Manjit felt as if she were imprisoned. She banged her head on the door with all her might then she began to wail.
“Don’t be foolish. In life, nothing happens exactly as a person wants. You have to give something to get something. I am with you…I’m going to help you cross over…” Peter forcefully took her into his embrace and turned off the light in the room.
Helpless and in tears, Manjit sat on the floor with her head in her knees. Peter did not force her onto the bed. He satisfied his lust on the foul-smelling carpet on the floor. Leaving Manjit lying on the floor, he took a key from his pocket and opened the door then put on his coat and went outside.
Injured, Manjit stood up and began looking everywhere for something with which she could take her life. Amidst the things on the table, she glimpsed a long knife. She had just picked up the knife when the door opened, and Dipu came in alone.
“Mommy…” Dipu yelled. The knife fell from Manjit’s hand.
“Mommy. Uncle has given me so many toys…” Dipu showed her a large packet which he held in his small hands.
“My son…If you hadn’t been born, I would have killed myself. How can I go to your father being disgraced like this?” Manjit hugged her son and began to sob.
“Mother, who beat you?” It was very difficult for little Dipu to understand his mother’s suffering.
“No one, son.” Manjit collected her wits.
While feeding Dipu, she thought that some way or another, she would hand over Dipu to Harjit to whom he belonged. After this, nothing else would matter. What had she done with her life? She was living only for Dipu. Otherwise, given all that happened after her marriage, she would have killed herself somehow to remove the burden from her father’s mind. She tried to move on from the rape that had happened. Then she wiped her eyes and began to put Dipu to sleep.
That night, Tony did not return. She spent the entire night awake. The next morning, Tony returned with fresh milk and bread. Manjit wanted to smash Tony’s head with a brick. Tony understanding her mental condition went downstairs with eyes glancing downward to make tea. After some time, he came upstairs. He had a smile on his face.
“Your situation will be sorted out, Madam.” Tony said in a conciliatory tone of voice.
But Manjit did not respond. She looked in Tony’s direction with fury in her eyes. With that same, old lustful smirk, he began to pour the tea into the cups.
“Whatever was meant to happen, has happened…Take this tea. Wash your face and hands and change your clothes…Take a look at how ugly you look.
“Your man lives in a country of white women… Where women stand beneath streetlights and call men with a gesture of their hand. How did your husband pick you, such low-grade stuff?” When Tony exceeded all limits of indecency, Manjit could no longer control herself.
“What do you know about my husband, you bastard? When I tell him of your misdeeds, he will eat you alive.” Abuses shot from Manjit’s mouth like bullets.
“You are going to tell your husband? About my misdeeds? From where has this brave man come who will eat me alive? If he had any feelings for you, why didn’t he come and get you himself? Why are you going through an agent?” Tony laughed sarcastically.
“He had to…” Manjit began to say something but quickly stopped herself.
“Compulsion is just an excuse. Here, men sleep around with dozens of women. What do you know about your husband? What will you get by telling him? Your honour is in your hands. Moreover, no man in this world would keep a woman in his house who has slept with strange men. You’ll just create problems for yourself. You’ll pay the price.” Tony’s words silenced Manjit.
For some time, she went on thinking in silence.
“You don’t worry. You are a married woman. Here, we don’t abandon unmarried girls. What will come of you? So, has anyone compromised your virginity? After all, you have a kid…Who will ever know? Your sacrifice will not go wasted. Take a look. I bought your papers from Peter. You’ll be allowed to travel onwards.” Tony withdrew the paperwork from his pocket.
A sparkle returned to Manjit’s sad eyes. Having forgotten all of her pain and sorrow, she began to eat a biscuit with her tea.
“What else is going to happen to me?” Manjit made herself get up to go to the bathroom to wash her face and hands.
Looking at herself in the mirror, she saw that what Tony said was true. Her face looked haggard. Looking at herself carefully after so many months, she sobbed. Her face was gaunt. Her eyes were sunken with dark circles appearing all around them.
Her face had become skeletal. The veins in her long neck were clearly visible. Her body was emaciated. The darkness of her sorrows snatched her rosy glow and left her face sallow. Her one-expressive face had become a portrait of despair. Her youth had faded.
“Sorrow and anguish consume a person…,” she said to her reflection in the mirror then she washed her hands and face.
Deep inside a person, no matter how despondent and defeated by life they may feel, there is still some glimmer of life that illuminates a path out of this darkness. This is where Manjit was. Somehow, her heart told her that there would be an end to her misery. She, like an ordinary woman, would reach her husband’s house and forget all of her hardships. Holding this thought, she spent the whole day playing with Dipu. Just like a person, who after sustaining an injury is weak but healed by nature and rebounds twice as strong to face down challenges, Manjit too resolved to ford this difficult path.
“What was to happen, has happened. What was my fault?” Holding this thought, she began trying to forget the incident of that night.
She was asleep at midnight when she felt something moving on her chest. Fear seized her breath. When she opened her eyes and looked, she saw Tony stretched out next to her, his right hand exploring her body.
“Bastard.” Manjit grabbed his hand and twisted it.
“Don’t speak loudly, Madam. People outside will hear,” Tony whispered.
“Let them hear, you prick. Get out of my room.” Manjit, with all of her strength, kicked him in the legs.
“Stop it…Stop it. It’s not good to get so angry. Am I any worse than Peter? If Peter could enjoy himself, what’s your problem with me taking a turn?” Tony didn’t mind her kicks of rage and smiled, revealing those black teeth.
“That happened once,” Manjit clarified.
“If it happened once, then what’s the problem with it happening again and again?” Tony now began to show his manliness. He tore Manjit’s clothes. Manjit was helpless and looking all around. Tony spread a blanket out on the floor and put Dipu to sleep. Manjit was grateful that at least her child was not watching him violate her.
But Manjit’s wish would not remain fulfilled for long. On the third day, Tony came with two other men, Pala and Narman.
“These are our men, and they will take you across the border with Russia…” Tony introduced them to her.
Upon seeing these men, Manjit didn’t like them. One could see the debauchery in their eyes. Then Manjit began to shake with some unknown fear. A woman, no matter how simple she may be, is an expert in reading the eyes of men. And Manjit set out on that path where there was no dignity or honour. She put Dipu to sleep then she took a blanket and tried to sleep. The loud drunken laughter coming from the other room kept her awake.
A while later, Pala came into her room and dragged her out from underneath the blanket. He was the rape champion. He didn’t let Manjit put up the slightest resistance and, like Peter, gave evidence of manliness on the floor of the room. When Pala had exhausted himself, Narman came. He couldn’t speak a word of Punjabi, but every torturer understands the language of cruelty and how to use it. Narman was not unfamiliar with this language. This happened repeatedly throughout the night. As if both men had decided their turns. Inside, Manjit had lost her will to say anything. She was not prepared for these sudden assaults.
The next day, Tony stayed with her the entire day. Because of the incident the night before, whatever hesitation he had was now gone. Now he violated Manjit in front of Dipu. If Dipu cried, he threatened to turn him over to the police. Several days passed like this. So, when Tony finally handed over the paperwork to travel onwards, Manjit could not believe it. Tony took four hundred dollars from her, claiming that it was for purchasing things and bribing onward agents.
“Take these jeans and top and put it on. You’ll get caught in Indian clothes.” And then he told her to change her clothes.
The next day, Pala and Narman put her on the train going to Budapest. The long trip took two days and nights and was exhausting. But at all times, on the train, there were checkers and other passengers. Because of this, she was not afraid of those two sadists. At the border with Hungary, the railway employees gathered the passports which, upon reaching Budapest, were returned.
Once they reached Budapest, Pala and Narman dropped her off at a flat and returned.
“So be it. I escaped that hell,” Manjit consoled herself.
According to what Paul said, two men going by the names of Ali and Makhan would facilitate her border crossing into Austria that evening. Manjit stretched out on the sofa and began waiting for these two strange men.
It was now quite dark but the two men had not come. Manjit felt restless. She didn’t know where she was, their ages or even what they looked like. But it turns out that she didn’t have to wait much longer. Around nine o’clock at night, the door to the flat opened and the two young men came in together. One was dark complexioned and the other was wheatish.
Manjit sat up on the sofa.
“It’s okay. Be comfortable. You can stay where you were,” the dark-complexioned man said.
The two men looked at each other and made secretive gestures. Manjit saw everything and ignored it. She had become used to tolerating such filthy gazes and rapacious behavior. The two of them went into the kitchen and began warming something. Then they took out a bottle of booze and put it on the table. The dark one, Ali, filled two glasses with alcohol and offered some to Manjit.
“No.” Manjit answered with hatred.
“Makhna. You take this,” Ali yelled at Makhan who was standing in the kitchen.
“No. I am not drinking,” Makhan answered from the kitchen.
“Drink it, bastard! If you drink, you’ll have the courage to act.” Ali picked up the glass and went to give it to him in the kitchen.
Ali returned and put Manjit’s neck in his right arm and kissed her for a long time. Manjit did not resist. It was as if she had lost the power to fight back. Dipu got up and began to play with the brass statues on the shelf. He had become accustomed to seeing everything.
“You do not have a visa for Austria. The police are very strict here…,” Ali began to strike fear in Manjit’s heart.
“I know. I do not have a visa. I know how strict the police are. However strict they are, compared to animals like you, they will be gentle…” Manjit suddenly boiled with rage.
Ali and Makhan looked in her direction in bewilderment.
“What do you want to say, girl?” Ali asked in an annoyed voice.
“Why are all of you dogs all alike?” Manjit’s voice was also piqued.
“From which jackal and wolf-infested jungle have you come? You should be grateful that they didn’t chew on your bones or your kid’s.” Ali’s eyes had the sparkle of a butcher, and he grabbed Manjit by her braid and yanked it hard. Manjit let out a cry and even Dipu began to cry out of fear. Ali slapped Manjit on the face two or three times and grabbing her braid dragged her into the other room.
Ali said “We have become bored with white meat. These days, we rarely get any Indian women.” He then rendered Manjit helpless and threw her on the bed.
“Makhan’s turn came after Ali’s. Then came Ali’s turn, then Makhan’s. Both of them repeatedly did their duty.
After abusing her like this for some time, Ali demanded one hundred dollars from her so that he could give it to the agent who would take her onward. Manjit withdrew the last one hundred dollars from her bag and handed it to him. In the evening, Ali put her in a car and took her to the snow-covered mountains ahead. Before getting out of the car, he gave some instructions to Manjit.
“The next station after this will be your husband’s house. Once you’ve reached there, you should not talk about us. Even we have a reputation. You also will be disgraced. For this reason, you should forget everything that has happened during your journey.” Then he handed her over to Jack, the driver of the Sky Train, and left.
Jack took her to a guest house. He then said something in an unknown language to the older white woman sitting at the reception and they both laughed. Manjit could neither understand anything nor did she want to.
At night, Jack came to make use of his manliness. Manjit laid quietly on the bed like a corpse.
The next evening, Jack took her on foot along the twisting mountainous route. Ahead there was a dense forest and the darkness of night. But Jack wanted to make her cross the border at midnight, when the soldiers on guard would change shifts at midnight. They spent several hours walking along the uneven path. Both were ready to drop due to the cold and exhaustion. Both took turns carrying Dipu, who was asleep.
“Look! There is Germany…” Jack signaled towards the wire fencing ahead.
Manjit looked ahead with wide eyes as if she were searching for her lost destination in the darkness.
“We must crawl under this wire. There is a current running through it twenty-four hours a day. If it is touched by you ever so slightly, you will be caught.” Jack warned her of the dangers.
She hesitated for a moment.
Jack warned her, “Do it quickly. Otherwise, I will leave you here and go back.” Then she gathered her courage and laid herself out in the crevice that had been excavated beneath the wire. She squeezed herself through to the other side on her back. Jack handed her Dipu in the same way, then ran towards the dark forest.
Manjit, without wasting a single minute, turned towards the left following Jack’s instruction. Around five hundred feet ahead, there was a black car waiting for her in the darkness. Without giving it much thought or consideration, she got into the car. The Gujarati driver started the car without even turning around to look.
As the car sped up, Manjit’s memories came flooding back just as rapidly. She remembered each and every moment of her life like some story. Only she knew what had happened to her, what she had suffered, and what she endured in silence. She could tell no one. She was contemplating the deep extent of a woman’s suffering. She worships like a God the very one who destroys her. She wasn’t even considered worthy of explaining the reality of these so-called gentlemen who have been appointed the caretakers of society. If she were to say the slightest thing in protest of their cruelties, she would be punished. Society would boycott her. She would be exiled from the homes of her father and husband, and the mark of the stigma would always be a target on her forehead. Perhaps fearing this, she would tolerate all of the abuse quietly and would not share her agony.
Up to this point, she had endured in silence. Her heart had already been crushed in her own country, where people and her relatives taunted her and ruined her life. Without any other option, she had to set upon this dangerous path. Otherwise, somehow or the other, she would have remained waiting for Harjit her entire life. She had no objection. But in this way, she was kicked out of her village.
Physically, she had been eviscerated by the monsters of this unknown land. Monsters who roamed around everywhere in the guise of men, whose hunger could only be sated by the flesh of women. They didn’t leave any meat on her body. Ali was correct when he said that if they could, they would chew on her bones. There was no part of her body that did not have the marks of the teeth and nails of those monstrous beasts. Even now, she felt their rough hands probing her body as if they wanted to tear away her flesh. Who knew which hand belonged to whom? There were so many hands, and they all felt the same. It was as if they weren’t fingers on her entire body, but lizards slithering. Filthy lizards, under whose stench, the fragrance of the beautiful moments spent with Harjit were vitiated.
She was thinking about Harjit when she recalled with great intensity all of those incidents that happened to her.
“Should I tell Harjit about this?” she asked herself.
“No. You’ll just cause problems for yourself.” Tony’s words were ringing in her ears.
“How can one keep such an enormous truth away from the man with whom one will spend her entire life?” she asked of the darkness.
“In the entire world, there has never been a man born who will let a woman who has been with another man in his house.” Ali’s eyes glimmered in the dark.
“Then what should I do?” Worried, she clutched her bag.
She found a packet of hard cane sugar, which her father had given her for good luck. She felt as if her hands had frozen.
“When your father comes to know your story, he will kill himself by eating poison. Harjit won’t keep you…How will you go — having left Dipu alone in this cruel world? You have seen the savagery and reality of this world. For this reason, you will remain quiet. Leave the decision in the hand of God…Women tolerate anything to preserve the honour of the family.” The packet grabbed her hand.
“So be it…If this ever gets out, then I will explain to Harjit that I destroyed myself for his son. If it hadn’t been for Dipu, she would have ended her story by leaping into a well in the village. Maybe Harjit will forgive me. He is so educated and gentle. If he cannot understand my pain, then curse this life.” Thinking about this, she began her journey quietly like a train that would stop at several stations, and travelers would get on and off continuing forward towards its final destination.
“In just ten minutes, we will deliver you to your husband.” The Gujarati driver said in Hindi, breaking the silence.
Manjit’s heart began to pound hard and her hands and feet began to tremble. Her mouth was dry. She ran her hands over her hair and fixed her chunni[3].
“Have I really reached my husband’s country? What will be the first words I say to him?” But Harjit wouldn’t let her say anything. He would run to her and bring her into his arms in front of everyone…Maybe he’d even forget Dipu…But she would stop him herself to say, “Take care of your child. With great difficulty, I cared for him these last five years. Now it’s your turn.” All of this seemed to be a dream.
Suddenly the car stopped with a jerk beneath an electricity poll. Manjit looked outside from the window. Some man was standing there with his hands inside the pockets of a leather jacket. Manjit watched with great attention. This was indeed Harjit. He got a little heavier and perhaps this was why she didn’t recognise him.
The driver got out of the car and was talking with Harjit for some time. Manjit began to feel anxious. Why was Harjit taking so long? Why hasn’t he come over to open the door and embrace her? When Manjit could no longer control herself, she slowly opened the door and came outside. Outside there was a frigid wind blowing and her chunni flew off, but Manjit didn’t realise this. Taking soft steps, she approached Harjit and the Gujarati man.
“Who is this,” Harjit asked in surprise.
“This is your wife…,” the Gujarati said happily.
“My wife? Dude, you have brought me the wrong woman. This is not my wife…” Harjit said worriedly.
“Believe me, sir… This is your wife. Look carefully.” The Gujrati was very distressed.
“Do you think that I am looking at my wife for the first time? She is very beautiful. Here. Look at her picture…” Harjit took his wallet from his pocket.
Manjit saw that Harjit was showing the photo of her when she was a maiden with two braids in which she is standing holding a book to her chest…a young girl.
Manjit wanted to say something, but the words would not come out.
“You certainly should be able to recognise your child?” The driver wanted to give more proof.
“When the wife isn’t mine, how can the kid be mine? Go. Go make an idiot of someone else…,” Harjit said in a stern voice and quickly went and sat in his car parked on the other side of the road.
“You…You. Please listen to me.” The driver ran behind him.
But Harjit, with a jolt, turned his car around and disappeared in a plume of smoke.
Just as Harjit’s car turned around, Manjit’s mind began to spin… She felt dizzy, and everything around her seemed to be spinning. It was as if the entire universe was spinning…Manjit lost her footing. Before the driver could do anything, she fell to the ground.
[1] Jat here refers to a person from the farming community. It also could be the caste of the boy
Veena Verma is a Punjabi short story writer based in UK. She has brought out three anthologies of short stories.
C. Christine Fair, the translator, is a professor in Georgetown University’s Security Studies Program. Her books include In Their Own Words: Understanding the Lashkar-e-Tayyaba (OUP 2019); Fighting to the End: The Pakistan Army’s Way of War (OUP, 2014); and Cuisines of the Axis of Evil and Other Irritating States (Globe Pequot, 2008). Her translations of Hindi, Urdu and Punjabi stories have appeared in the Bombay Literary Magazine, Bombay Review, Muse India, Kitaab, The Punch Magazine, and Borderless Journal. She reads, writes and speaks Punjabi, Hindi, and Urdu.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
By Jyoti[1], translated from Hindustani by Lourdes M Supriya
Songs of Freedom bring stories from women — certainly not victims, not even survivors but fighters against the patriarchal status quo with support from the organisation Shaktishalini[2].
–Sanjay Kumar, founder, pandies‘
Painting by Amrita Shergil (1913-1941)
What are the Options?
“So then what happened?”
Nothing. My father came and took me back to his house. My nana-nani[3] didn’t stop him. He put me in a good school though, so this time I didn’t mind going back there. Last time he took me, I hated it.
“Why did you hate it?”
He wasn’t a nice man. I think that’s why my grandparents took me in. They knew what kind of a man he was. I loved being at my grandparents’. My mama, mother’s brother, he would take me shopping during holidays. I could pick anything in the entire shop, he’d never say no. Whenever I wanted new clothes, my masi, mother’s sister, took me to the markets\. She was like my mother. I was so loved there. But then my father took me away…
He had too many restrictions. My mother and I weren’t allowed to leave the house. I couldn’t leave after I came back from school. He kept an eye on us from his shop, it was down the street. Then the drinking got too much, the yelling, the swearing. I was afraid of his footsteps. I could tell from the sound of them what the night was going to be like. My mother was very scared of him, she couldn’t protect me from him. She felt helpless, I felt really bad for her. Then I was sent away again to my grandparents. I liked it there. I was studying in a government school. I did well in studies. I liked it. But then he came and took me back to the village. I had to repeat my third standard[4] there. I cried a lot at first, but it was a private school, better than the government one in Delhi.
“So this was the second time you were going there?”
Yes. I’ve lived at my father’s a couple of times. Sometimes I ran away and came back to my grandparents’, sometimes my mother brought me with her and stayed. But she always went back pretty soon. The first time he took me, I used to cry to my grandparents every night to take me back. I had to repeat classes so many times, I’m really behind on my studies. This has ruined my education. That’s why I hate it.
“What about the last time you were there? What happened then?”
Nothing. The same. But worse. He was more violent. My mother herself asked me to go with her to my grandparent’s. But I had exams in a month. I was a good student. I’d worked so hard. That year was especially bad at home; I’d put all my energy into school. I didn’t want to just drop it all and repeat the class again. I begged my mother to stay till the end of the term. He would beat her over everything. So I had to beg her. I promised her I would support her if she’d just let me give those exams. I was 14. I was old enough to start working.
“So did she stay?”
Yes. And then I came back to my grandparents’. But she went back the second day. Then she stopped taking my calls. Finally, I called her from someone else’s phone. She recognised my voice. I could tell. She didn’t say anything for a long time. I kept asking her to come. Then she said, “Aaj se tera mera rishta khatam; you’re not my daughter anymore. Don’t call again.”
I felt very alone. Things at my grandparents’ were also changing. My aunt was getting married. Everyone was busy with the preparations.
Nana[5] used to drive the auto 15 hours a day to save up for it. But he first had to pay back the loan he took out for the auto before he could save for the wedding. It was his last installment and they were really breathing down on him. One day he came home and told us he was short of 1000 bucks and it was time to make the payment. He asked my uncle, who was married by then, but his wife said they couldn’t spare it since they were also paying for the wedding and saving for the baby they planned to have next year. My uncle didn’t even have the balls to refuse his father himself. His wife had to do it. My grandfather turned to my mother, but she said, she couldn’t spare it either, she’d spent it all on me.
“Wait, your mother was there?”
Yes. She’d come eventually, some two months after me. She was working as a cook. It was really nice. For the first time, it felt like she was there. But that day she had used me as an excuse. I didn’t see any of that money. She wasn’t even paying for my school fees. I took tuitions and paid for it. I was starting to resent her too, I could see why the rest of them hated her.
“Wait, who hated her? Why did you resent her, you just said she was there for you.”
She was. When she came. She got a job. She got offs on Sunday and she would spend those with me. On Sundays, I didn’t have to cook for the family, she did. She even gave me money for school supplies, like new copies or pens, whenever I asked for it. She got me a small phone too. But this didn’t last long. She met someone. She used to take the same rickshaw to work everyday. He’d take her from one place to the next, they used to talk, then she’d talk to him at night too. She kept to herself. She started spending her Sundays with him. He wasn’t a good man. One day, he went to the village.
I thought it would end but her late-night conversations continued. They hated her, my grandparents and my uncle, his wife, even my mother’s sister. She knew her sister was to get married soon but she was roaming around with a man. All the neighborhood knew about it. What would they think? And then she stopped contributing to the house. How much could my grandfather do? She didn’t even give me any money anymore. Not even for notebooks. I had to work. And it was so difficult. I had to make breakfast for everyone in the house in the mornings, pack my lunch, rush back and do all the cleaning of the house, make lunch for everyone, then clean up the kitchen and wash the vessels. Then my kids would come. But everyone was selfish then. They were angry with my mother, and then with me. I gave my grandmother a part of my earnings, and I paid for my school. I did everything. She’d stopped staying home on Sundays too, so I had to do the work. That day, when my grandfather asked for money, she said she didn’t have any. He got so angry with her, he called her a slut, a leach, a parasite, draining him, killing him slowly, he slapped her. She ran away. I noticed that he didn’t react the same way when his daughter-in-law had refused to give him the money. But he was just so upset, he started crying. I couldn’t bear it. So I took one thousand from the money I’d saved for all those months and gave it to him. My grandmother took me aside and told me I shouldn’t have done it, that she could have dipped into the money I gave her. I told her that was for her. She didn’t have any money at all. And she’d been so kind to me. She was the only one who didn’t resent me. But she respected my grandfather too much to contradict him when he called me names.
“I thought your grandparents were supportive, that you’d felt safe in their house?”
I did. But my aunt was getting married, that changed everything. And I understand why they were angry with my mother. She brought us so much shame. One day, that man that she’d been having an affair with, he went to her workplace and started beating her up. He forced her onto his rickshaw, holding her hair throughout, and then brought her to our neighborhood and dragged her through the streets by her hair to his friend’s house. She’d started an affair with his friend when he’d gone to his village, and he found out about it. All the people heard him that day. She was so scratched up when he finally let her go. I took her to the police station but they didn’t file a complaint. My grandparents also encouraged her to file a complaint. But she didn’t. The new man she was seeing told her he was going to help her. So she listened to him, trusted that he would get her justice. I’ve never seen him, none of us had. But she really trusted him.
One day my aunt was really anxious. She came into the room when I was taking a class, and she asked me to go to the terrace because she needed the room. I had to move all the kids upstairs, take all the chairs. When I came back after the class, she started yelling at me, telling me I’m a burden, then she started beating me, abusing my mother too. I didn’t say anything to her when she was beating me; she left me in the room. I waited for my mother to come and comfort me. But she didn’t come. So I went looking for her, thinking this could bring us together. But I found her on the terrace, talking to her new boyfriend, telling him about all this. I felt really abandoned. She couldn’t even bother to check on me but she wanted his sympathy. Then they got into a fight. At one point, I overheard her begging him not to leave her or she’d kill herself. It made me so angry, I felt like I could break something. I didn’t like this man at all. One day, she just got up left. I asked my grandparents to file a missing person’s report but they didn’t want to do it because it would bring shame to the family and my aunt was getting married. So they waited till it was over and then filed it, three years later. But I haven’t seen her since. I think she’s missing, we need to find her.
“How long ago was this?”
I don’t know. I can’t tell.
“What happened after your mother left?”
They all blamed me, they said I drove her to do it, that I hated her, that I was like her. They asked me to start contributing to the house, to stop living like a freeloader. I started giving all my tuition money home. I couldn’t continue school anymore. But they were so angry. One day, after my aunty’s marriage, the police came to our house in response to the missing person’s complaint I’d made them file. They wanted to ask questions about my mother and her boyfriend. I think she planned her escape. She’d been staying overnight at his house 2-3 times a week, and slowly taking her clothes there. The police pointed this out, how she couldn’t have taken a big bag when she escaped, or we’d have seen her packing. I think they’re right. She abandoned me.
“Do your grandparents believe she’s okay, living somewhere else?”
Yes. It makes sense. She didn’t like it at home. They felt so ashamed by the police visit. They were angry that I’d made them file the complaint only to find out that their daughter had run away willingly. My grandfather was livid that day. He beat me up, then tried to drag me down the stairs. But I fell down at the 3rd floor landing so he started kicking me. Then he left me lying there. My grandmother didn’t come to help me. I was so distraught. I couldn’t even go to school, everyone hated me. What future did I have? No one wanted to help me, I didn’t know anyone who could help me or even who to turn to. I jumped off the landing there. I tried to commit suicide. That’s why I’m here now. Now I go to school.
[1] Note: Loosely based on the writer’s lived experiences
[2] “Establishing itself as a premier women’s organisation in India from 1987, Shaktishalini has spread out and deals with all kinds of gender based violence. A shelter home, a helpline and more than that a stunning activist passion are the hallmarks of this organisation.
“pandies and Shaktishalini – different in terms of the work they do but firmly aligned in terms of ideological beliefs and where they stand and speak from. It goes back to 1996 when members of the theatre group went to the Shaktishalini office to research on (Dayan Hatya) witch burning for a production and got the chance to learn from the iconic leaders of Shaktishalini, Apa Shahjahan and Satya Rani Chadha. And collaborative theatre and theatre therapy goes back there. It is a mutual learning space that has survived over 25 years. Collaborative and interactive, this space creates anti-patriarchal and anti-communal street and proscenium performances and provides engaging workshop theatre with survivors of domestic and societal patriarchal violence. Many times we have sat together till late night, in small or large groups debating what constitutes violence? Or what would be gender equality in practical, real terms? These and many such questions will be raised in the stories that follow.” — Sanjay Kumar
Post-humanism and the Anthropocene epoch have undermined the notion of human exceptionalism, the feeling that as a group or a species, human beings are superior to other species. It is time to interrogate the hierarchy of human/animal where we understand the category of the human as undoubtedly superior. One view is to see the human as a posthumous category, not just post-human. Most civilisations and philosophies across the world have privileged one set of values/qualities at the cost of another-thus categories like human-animal, man-woman, reason-passion, good-bad have become binaries where one term is considered better than the other.
It is in this context that I turn to Catherine MacKinnon’s work, Are Women Human? (2006). In her book, she poses the question of women’s relationship to the category of the human.
After almost a century from the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, which defined what a human being is and is entitled to, Catharine A MacKinnon asks: ‘Are women human yet?’ If women were regarded as human, would they be subjected to the privations and oppressive practices perpetrated in cultures? Would they, for instance, be sold into slavery and sexual slavery worldwide; would they be “veiled, silenced, and imprisoned in homes; bred, and worked as menials for little or no pay; stoned for sex outside marriage or burned within it; mutilated genitally, impoverished economically, and mired in illiteracy–all as a matter of course and without effective recourse?”
In the wake of recent events which have once again highlighted the scant regard in which women are held across nations and in societies, it is instructive to revisit the fundamental questions posed by Mc Kinnon. The Nirbhaya, Asifa, Unnao, Priyanka Reddy, Hathras cases in India, events that unfolded recently in Afghanistan and innumerable instances the world over, are traumatic and traumatising as they are instances where violence has been unleashed, consciously and deliberately, on women, children and whole communities. These significant events can be called ‘critical’ since they raise some crucial questions on the category and definition of the notion of the ‘human’ itself.
The category of the ‘human’, as Yuval Noah Harari and many before him discussed, became associated, in terms of evolutionary biology, with a large brain, an upright gait and other specific characteristics. Whatever its genealogies in scientific or anthropological parlance, the word acquired a specific set or cluster of meanings. The notion of ‘human’ gets associated with a set of inalienable rights(as in human rights), a set or cluster of affect/s such as kindness, compassion and sympathy/empathy. And yet, this is a term we revisit time and again, at important historical conjunctures. Sadly it is a term which emerges more in the breach than the observance. Further, it is one that seems to be taxonomically problematic and perplexing and shores up the category in a peculiarly exclusionary way. To substantiate and cite an instance, inter alia, were the Jews admitted in the category of the human by the Germans, the Dalits by upper castes and women by men? The problem here is not just of ‘othering’ but the fact that the persistence of asymmetric power relationships robs one group of a sense of agency and the power to name themselves and their experience. The other group, which calls the shots on how humanity is to be defined, becomes blind to its own oppressive behaviour, perpetuates atrocities and is condemned by posterity. It becomes a case where, in a manner of speaking, all of us are human but some are obviously more human than others. Thus the suspicion that peppers our mind when we come across liberal terms like ‘equality’ and ‘freedom’ also extends to the ‘human.’
Working with issues that are sited on the cusp of law and culture and that are a vital aspect of transnational feminism affecting the status of women, McKinnon in her essays takes her gendered critique of the state to the international plane. Her book/essays is/are a trenchant critique of the inequalities of international politics, which turns a blind eye to the consequences and significance of the systematic maltreatment of women and its condoning by a skewed system. Her sharp critique points toward fresh ways—social, legal, and political—of “targeting its toxic orthodoxies”.
McKinnon takes us inside the workings of nation-states, where the oppression of women is the common factor that defines community life and distributes power in society and government. She takes us to Bosnia-Herzogovina for a harrowing look at how the wholesale rape and murder of women and girls there was an act of genocide, not a side effect of war. She takes us into the heart of the international law of conflict to ask—and reveal—why the international community can rally against terrorists’ violence, but not against violence done to women. A critique of the transnational status quo that also envisions the transforming possibilities of human rights, this book makes us look as never before at an ongoing war too long undeclared, unspoken and relegated to silence..
It is important to recover voices like that of McKinnon since the self-appointed custodians of the ‘human’ are more often than not dyed-in-the-wool liberals, paternalists, self-appointed purveyors of law and morality. Most of them are so entitled that they are entirely blind to their own privilege as they declare themselves to be the champions of human rights, having practised and perpetuated the wrongs that need to be set right.
As we ‘celebrate’ the month of the Woman in March, we need to revisit these questions which have gained a new urgency in our time. Only then can we perhaps understand the full implications of the human and work towards making it a truly inclusive category.
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Dr Meenakshi Malhotra is Associate Professor of English Literature at Hansraj College, University of Delhi, and has been involved in teaching and curriculum development in several universities. She has edited two books on Women and Lifewriting, Representing the Self and Claiming the I, in addition to numerous published articles on gender, literature and feminist theory.
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