by Parth Pandya
Seema was one of the teeming hordes that migrate to Mumbai. She and her husband Vinay had just moved into their rental apartment in the noisy bylanes of Malad. Mumbai was now home to them and their two kids Aarav and Myra, who at their tender age of nine and six respectively, were quite a handful for Seema. She had always thought of Mumbai as an “akshay-patram”, an inexhaustible vessel that could always provide whatever one’s heart desired. How difficult would it be to find a reliable domestic help? Back in their house in Ranchi, there was Jamuna tai, who had lived with them for the past 30 years and was practically family to them. Now this opportunity to live in Mumbai had come their way and they had embraced it with a radiant positivity that allayed their own fears as well as that of their parents. Her optimism had not budgeted for the commute she would have to do each day. Living in Malad and having her office in the Bandra Kurla Complex meant that she spent a lot of time getting to and fro from work.
Between hailing rickshaws and hanging on to dear life in local trains to trudging down a 1,000 odd steps inside her office building complex, she was turning into a hardened Mumbaikar, swatting away exhaustion, heat and the stress that such a life would bring. Seema would have settled for it if that was the only worry. She however also had the unenvious challenge of ensuring that her kids had safe harbor before she got home.
Unlike Ranchi, the grandparents were not always around to take care of the kids. And so, in pursuit of an independent life, Seema had no choice but to become dependent upon others. She let in two new people into her life without whom her life would fall apart. Rashmi and Lata were now integral to her plans.
Rashmi swatted the fly that was buzzing around her. She waited while Aarav puzzled over the total of 23 and 45. She had no particular love for her neighbor Seema. In fact, she had no particular love for anything anymore. She worked a dead end job at a bank all day and was bored to death each evening after she came back home. She did not have any particular inclination to baby sit children, but had in a moment of rare weakness and compassion, offered to Seema that she could help out with that. Looking back, she could not point out why she did. Maybe it was the sight of Seema’s handsome husband, maybe it was the prospect of having some adult conversation what with her husband out to sea for months on account of being in the merchant navy. Or maybe it was some latent rage against the machine that expected her to fold up and sit tight and not do more than what is required to survive. “58”, Aarav exclaimed. Rashmi raised her eyebrows, smiled and asked him to check his answer again.
“Lata, make some tea no?” Rashmi said, welcoming Seema into her own house.
Lata wiped the sweat of her face with her saree pallu. Her poker face did not let on the exhaustion she was feeling. It had only been 30 minutes since she had made tea for Rashmi and now this! Her days started at 5 in the morning and ended at 11. She had realised long ago that if she let the irritation of small things get to her, she would not survive the day. Whether she was called a “servant” or a “domestic help” did little to alleviate her struggle with her circumstances.
“Yes, bibi-ji”, she said and sped on efficiently to the kitchen.
Seema had been fair to her. Lata did not ask for more.
They had formed a triumvirate of convenience. Seema, Lata and Rashmi were settled in together, like a stubborn spell of monsoon in Mumbai.
Aarav seized the moment when his teacher and his mother were distracted and ran away from there. He switched on the TV hoping it would play Chota Bheem but left it on in a huff when his mother yelled at him for having turned it on. Just as well because all he would have been treated to was a dry discussion on the state of women in the modern world.
“In countries around the world, the ways in which men and women spend their time are unbalanced. Men spend more time working for money. Women do the bulk of the unpaid work — cooking, cleaning and child care.”, the “expert” on the TV panel droned on
Lata brought out the tea and laid it on the table in front of Rashmi and Seema.
“Lata, did you have some?” Seema inquired.
Lata shook her head and sped back into the kitchen. Now that Seema was home, she wanted to rush home. She had her own kids to cook for – her husband was unlikely to move a muscle. She had long since suppressed pangs of guilt that she got on having only two hours in the entire day for them. Mumbai was an expensive city to live in.
“This unpaid work is essential for households and societies to function. But it is also valued less than paid work, and when it is women’s responsibility, it prevents them from doing other things,” said the TV in the background.
Lata came out from the kitchen and announced, “Everything is done, bibi-ji.”
Seema let out a sigh.
“Tired, bibi-ji?”, asked Lata, with a smile.
“Aren’t we all?” asked Seema.
The three women looked at each other and smiled. They weren’t listening to the television. They quietly sipped chai from their half-filled cups. There were many universes in motion at the same time. Theirs had progressed a little more than the one talked about in the show. Their today was not shy of a struggle and tomorrow would not turn into a blessing overnight. And yet, they each marched on, two steps forward in independence and one step backward in their overarching need to balance their lives. The chai was emptied and the night lost to the dreams they allowed themselves underneath the shining stars.
Pic by https://www.flickr.com/photos/cutey5/
