It was a lazy rainy day in a tiny little village of Dhauli. The trees swooned and prided themselves with that heroine-ish sweep of lush greenery seen after ages. The breeze was gentle on the face, the views were spectacular, and as the raindrops fell on the concrete, the critters flew into the broken windows of a dilapidated building, lit with dim yellow bulbs and a couple of tube lights. It was a bank branch. A big deal indeed, in that tiny little village.
Inside, was a cacophony of sorts. Old widows in sarees as white as the sky just before it rains, labourers in dhotis drenched in sweat and muddy waters, a middle class family draped in fine cotton, and a couple of teenage kids in their half wet uniforms and totally wet school bags.. It was hard to say if all of them were customers or just people seeking shelter. The branch reeked of sweat, wet mud smells, and probably some “beedi”. Maybe a bit of country liquor too. I was one of the metro-raised kids, one of those “good-girls” that parents raise, girls with their world limited to school and home, and maybe hence those smells felt foreign and repulsive to my senses.
Irritated at the slow network at my system, I kept tapping my pen on the forms the customers handed me ten minutes ago. The cursor blinked once a while, and just like the occasional roars of lightening, it responded moodily. I couldn’t whisk away the customers that their work will be done today. Neither could I resolve any of their naive queries regarding the three-digit balance in their accounts. I sat with a poker face, tension slowly building in my body language though. I breathed hard, tugging at my engagement ring nervously. I was scared of my wedding. I felt, like everyone my age, that this will be the end of this world. It’s a weird world to ask for guidance regarding marriage. Men never cease to make fun of their wives and the ironies of married life. Their women smirk, yet push us to the idea of marriage with a confidence so unparalleled, that you will feel sold at once. It’s a weird, weird world..
“Madam, I wanted to open a savings account for my wife. But she will not operate it, I will.” I looked up, lost in my frustrations, and saw that middle-class family in front of the counter. Like, full family. Like you see in front of cinema-hall counters. A moustached middle-aged husband, three four-feet boys and a two-feet girl in frilly frock and large shy eyes. And a, wait, where is the wife? “Sir where is your wife? Need her for the account, not these fellows.” The kids giggled, while the man of his house yelled at a timid woman standing at far corner of the room. I blinked in the sudden shock of that high-pitched sound, and made a funny face at the kids while looking at their father. Inside, I felt pity for that woman, and also wondered if she too, like her female ancestors, will convince me to get married. Ooof, I was obsessed with my pessimism..
“Madam we need 3 passport sized photos of yours, I have marked the form wherever it needs to be filled. Bring them with copies of your identity documents.” I blabbered in a robotic manner, and handed over the form. The husband chuckled, “Madam, she will not be able to sign, she will use her thumb impression. I will operate her account. She isn’t very educated.”
You could see the woman feeling a tiniest tinge of sadness about her introduction in a place so big a deal for this village. I insisted to hand over the documents to her, and she said, “I’m 5th pass.”
5th pass..I remember this from all the widows of my own village. My great-grandmother, Daai, lived in the times of colonial India. Folks regarded her as a local ob-gyn and a healer. She died very old, and I remember stroking the letters on her tattooed arm, asking if she even knows what marks she bears. In my arrogance, I never saw those little sparkles of ambition, that I carry with me so loudly. Years later when I grew up, my mother told me the fascinating stories of Daai learning to write on sand and mud, and preserving every little piece of literature from newspapers or wrappers. What more, she was the one to teach my father how to read and write. A girl who had no formal education, who was a self-taught genius even before it became a hot trend for us on the Internet, a girl who flew within her boundaries, her mind soaring far beyond, she was my ancestor..
We women have been raised in a very restrictive world. For us, dreams are defined by our fathers and male relatives. We study hard, we score well, we do all things right as being told to us, and yet one of our first heartbreaks happen when we start dreaming for ourselves. One day, it just happens. Without much noise. Without much of a mess. Sometimes it is the conditioning, sometimes it is someone’s dream, sometimes it is a chain of events..one day, a butterfly is told not to fly anymore, despite the life left in its wings. Do I feel scared of getting married, yes. Does my boss feel scared of me getting married, hell yes.. Okay but for different reasons. Bosses feel that marriage and kids make a woman “unprofessional” whenever she seeks a work-life balance. The angry woman in me went all defensive mode against this silly world, looked at the timid woman in front of me right in her eyes, and asked, “Madam, can you read and understand your ration receipt?”
“Err, yes madam.”
“You know alphabets?”
“Yes..”
“Cool. And why Sir needs to operate your account?”
“Because I’m not educated Madam.”
Trust me, I see this almost everyday. The difference is that sometimes women fight back and I give up. But today was a different day. Today, it was raining in Dhauli after ages. Wait, no. Today I had lots of time owing to network connectivity issues. And I found a goat.
“Madam, you will operate your account on your own. Sir, kids, sit on that bench and teach her how to sign. Complete the form and come back.”
You could see a burst of energy erupting on the husband’s moustached face. You could see that he desired his wife to be independent in some way, you could see that he held a lot of pride in his family and he adored his wife. You could see that he felt that he has the best wife ever, who was educated, and on her way to learn financial-literacy. You could see how his kids beamed up too, and looked at his mother with love you could only envy for. But there was a tiny glitch, the subject of pride was panicked to the core. The woman didn’t deny, but didn’t even acknowledge her capabilities we all expected from her.
The critters kept flying into the room, circling around bulbs, then on the floors. The rain refused to die, and my cursor refused to blink. A few customers lurked around, discussing my conversation with the family with vigour. Others had left the premises, running towards their nearby destinations with a polythene bag wrapped on their heads. The family was huddled together, making the woman sign with hints of bribery. Samosa party on the way back, or Sunday rest offer. The woman started to blush a little, and kept trying. I looked at my ring, but this time, I felt that it didn’t restrict me. I felt like I needed a chance to define myself and my marriage again. Fears and broken dreams had emotionally paralysed me for a while now. But it wasn’t the end of the world. Maybe things can change..maybe..
“Madam, I can’t do this.” The woman came up to me, blushing softly. She had a subtle glow of confidence trying to make its way on her face. The husband laughed behind her, gazing at her beautiful little attempts to write her own name. You could see the tiniest bit of tears of pride being born in his eyes. The scraps of paper bearing his wife’s handwriting meant the world to him.
“No Madam, keep practising. We all are stuck here only. I think it will keep raining for a while.”
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