Ganga
It had been almost eighteen years since Ganga had been working as a maid in my house. Ganga was an immigrant from Murshidabad–the place which in her memory is always ‘desh’, a desh where she goes every alternate year but has no plans of ever returning. Memories of her old desh before the partition are something that Ganga relishes. When nostalgia grips her and in moments of expansion she sits down to narrate to me how many cows they had at their place, how big her house was, how rich their land was and she would go on endlessly cataloguing her past prosperous state.
There was no hanky panky about Ganga. She was an honest upright woman. She had a strong sense of her rights which included going on a holiday whenever she desired. On Sundays, she considered her birthright to take leave. A complete novice in the art of housekeeping I often welcomed Ganga’s expert comments forthrightly extended on all occasions about how to cook leafy green vegetables, how to clean bottles, how to set the tables and almost anything where she saw my incompetence, she was more than willing to broach on a long ‘how to do it’ lecture. I had long given up the idea of employing any other maid as Ganga knew the ways of my house.
It was a Sunday like any other Sunday’s–unexpected guests coming for lunch –“How am I going to manage it all?”
I thought. I got up with a heavy feeling. Ganga had as usual sent her husband Prafullo, with the information that she wouldn’t be turning up. I cursed Ganga under my breath: “Of all the days!”
Really, Ganga had a penchant for choosing the most awkward of days. Anyway, Prafullo was there to help me clean up at least. The rest I would have to manage somehow. Her reasons for not coming for work were varied - neighbors sons marriage , a boy fell from the tree nearby and had his head fractured , a murder in the vicinity, a holy man’s visit and many more ingenious excuses. It would be a sacrilege on my part to expect Ganga to come during the Pujas, fasts, and any other religious occasion. It used to amuse me no end that whenever Ganga did not come her husband would come to help out, I marveled at the power she wielded over her husband Prafullo, my mind would inadvertently forge connection with my own case, would my husband Arun ever do this if I were in her shoes. She would intrigue me no end.
I have always abhorred having tea all by myself in the evenings, so with two cups of tea I would often sit with Ganga in the inner veranda as she was engaged in her work of peeling, cutting, kneading. At such moments she would invariably tell me of her troubles in her household and would often encourage me to speak of mine .What troubles had I to report to her or to anyone? By god’s grace everything was well with me. The worst I could think of was how my children were not doing well in their studies, how my job required me to put in more hours of study which I was unable to do. When I told her of such things Ganga would say: “Alas, that is the way of the world.”
And that would start her on a discourse regarding her experience with hints of managing this world of refractory ways. Ganga and I came to share our lives in a weird and wonderful sort of way.
As I was making tea one day, she lifted her head from washing utensils and asked me: “Bibijee, I see you work hard in the kitchen, look after the children’s breakfast then rush off to teach, come home back and cook and make endless cups of tea for Bhaiyaji and his endless friends and again you sit down with heaps of books–spoiling your eyes, look at the dark circles round your eyes – studying always – god knows what. Why don’t you ask Bhaiyaji to help you .They are his children, aren’t they? You too go out and work and earn like him. Why can’t he share the responsibilities? Look at Prafullo, I make him work, that is why I go on leave time and again; otherwise you know that old man will become very lazy. I have told him you have to cook one meal a day I am not your servant to cook and feed you day and night. I love seeing movies – you know Bibijee it keeps him on his toes when I tell him how I admire those heroes in the films, he feels jealous – husbands are like that. Bibijee if I don’t wear good saris and look pretty he will go to another woman.”
She stretched forward and added conspiratorially: “Look Bibijee, I have been meaning to tell you this for a very long time. You too must be careful, wear pretty saris at the time your husband comes home. Men are inconstant you must snare them with pretty dress or blouse, buy jewelry and perfume and make yourself attractive.”
Saying all this she glanced at the dress I was wearing and shook her head: “This is all right when you are alone and working in the kitchen but you must change it towards evening and wear something pretty.”
I laughed. It was sound sense all right. She would administer such advices on and off.
Of late the pressures of my job was mounting I used to get exhausted mentally and physically. I tried to remember when was the last time I sat down and relaxed. Sumi’s performance in the class was also eating me up. My household work was in topsy-turvy. Every evening I would roll out disinterestedly thick chapatti’s much to the dismay of my daughter who always insisted on having them thin. Anyway in the midst of the disarray I was determined to resolve the current crisis in my life agreeably. Hadn’t I seen Ganga resolve her problems in a jiffy?
I remember, one morning, a fortnight ago, she had come in a miserable mood.
“What is the matter, Ganga?” I had asked her.
“Nothing pleasant, Bibijee, why talk about it?” she had said wiping her tears with the edge of her saree.
“What happened? Had heated words with your son?” I insisted .It was very unusual for Ganga to be in such a state.
“Words enough, Bibijee. He had the temerity to abuse me! He said he was trying to put sense into me, indeed! Didn’t I give birth to him just as you have done to your daughter? Now he thinks he has become cleverer than me. He and the wife of his wanted money out of me”. Shrugging her shoulders in annoyance went on: “I have had enough of these bickering. I told them clear and straight that I will set up separately.”
Ganga burst into tears as she ended her narrative. I did what I could to comfort her. The next day she appeared to be a little more composed. I asked her if she had made peace with her son: “Peace! Do you think this daughter in law of mine would permit mother and son to be on good terms?"
For a day or two Ganga did not broach upon the subject again. Sometimes after this she came to me with a request: “Bibjee, I trust you. I have some money laid by. Could you put it in that place they call bank? It is attracting people’s attention.”
However I noticed that the squabbles did not last long. Their differences were soon settled amicably. They came to an arrangement. Ganga went back without loss of face, in her own terms. The real reason of the quarrel was that Ganga wanted the purse strings in her own hands. She asserted her position as the head of the family nothing less. However I know the struggle will go on in her household. The last act of the play will never be written. But knowing Ganga there may be tumultuous storms in her tea cup but she will come out unscathed from these difficulties.
But what about my own hydra headed hurdles which stared at me with its monstrous mouth wide open. Like Ganga I too resolved to stop being an escapist and jump headlong into my difficulties and resolve it once and for all.
Sultry Sumi had become difficult to deal with. She was almost thirteen years old and now must take her responsibilities seriously, I mused. That night I gave my daughter a talking, tried to draw out what was worrying her. I kept on stressing the importance of education: “See, Sumi”
I said earnestly: “I am able to shoulder the responsibility of this household, and see I earn almost as much as your Dad does. Could I have done all this without education? Don’t you see I still have to study night and day? See how I enjoy studying. Why don’t you too make studies your hobby? See how it empowers you. Now look at poor Ganga how much she has to work; clean the utensils do all the drudgery. The choice is before you what kind of future do you want. Don’t you want to be like your mother working, financially independent and all that?”
For once I noticed my firebrand daughter Sumi did not say anything. I was secretly congratulating myself for settling everything so amicably. I decided to allow her to sleep over the facts and got up to leave the room when Sumi blurted out: “Mummy, you said education makes us financially independent, liberated and not dependent on anyone, and we can lead our own life as we want. We can rest, relax and enjoy. But mom, you hardly seem to rest, relax–I see you slog the whole day–you hardly go for movies, you do not have any leave, you carry a lot of homework every day-you do not go out with your friends.”
She added with disgust: “What a life of drudgery you have. Look at Ganga–she takes leave whenever she desires and she has more holidays than you have. Sees movies, has frequent social gathering, has her Husband at her beck and call. Look at yourself. Can you ever get Dad to do anything for you? Other than being at his beck and call and as for the choice of my life is concerned-my choice is clear.”
She added with a note of definiteness: “I can never be like you.”
So saying Sumi left the room banging the door behind her, leaving me sitting in the bed dumbfounded.
Anita Singh works as a Professor in the Department of English, Banaras Hindu University, Varanasi. She has a number of articles, translations, book reviews and short stories published in various journals, anthologies and magazines. Her published works include Arthur Miller: A Study of the Doomed Heroes in his Plays (1993); Indian English Novel in the Nineties and After: A Study of the Text and its Context (2004); And the Story Begins: My ten Short Stories (2008); and 1857 and After: Literary Representations, edited R.N. Rai, Anita Singh, Archana Kumar, New Delhi: Pencraft International, 2009.
It had been almost eighteen years since Ganga had been working as a maid in my house. Ganga was an immigrant from Murshidabad–the place which in her memory is always ‘desh’, a desh where she goes every alternate year but has no plans of ever returning. Memories of her old desh before the partition are something that Ganga relishes. When nostalgia grips her and in moments of expansion she sits down to narrate to me how many cows they had at their place, how big her house was, how rich their land was and she would go on endlessly cataloguing her past prosperous state.
There was no hanky panky about Ganga. She was an honest upright woman. She had a strong sense of her rights which included going on a holiday whenever she desired. On Sundays, she considered her birthright to take leave. A complete novice in the art of housekeeping I often welcomed Ganga’s expert comments forthrightly extended on all occasions about how to cook leafy green vegetables, how to clean bottles, how to set the tables and almost anything where she saw my incompetence, she was more than willing to broach on a long ‘how to do it’ lecture. I had long given up the idea of employing any other maid as Ganga knew the ways of my house.
It was a Sunday like any other Sunday’s–unexpected guests coming for lunch –“How am I going to manage it all?”
I thought. I got up with a heavy feeling. Ganga had as usual sent her husband Prafullo, with the information that she wouldn’t be turning up. I cursed Ganga under my breath: “Of all the days!”
Really, Ganga had a penchant for choosing the most awkward of days. Anyway, Prafullo was there to help me clean up at least. The rest I would have to manage somehow. Her reasons for not coming for work were varied - neighbors sons marriage , a boy fell from the tree nearby and had his head fractured , a murder in the vicinity, a holy man’s visit and many more ingenious excuses. It would be a sacrilege on my part to expect Ganga to come during the Pujas, fasts, and any other religious occasion. It used to amuse me no end that whenever Ganga did not come her husband would come to help out, I marveled at the power she wielded over her husband Prafullo, my mind would inadvertently forge connection with my own case, would my husband Arun ever do this if I were in her shoes. She would intrigue me no end.
I have always abhorred having tea all by myself in the evenings, so with two cups of tea I would often sit with Ganga in the inner veranda as she was engaged in her work of peeling, cutting, kneading. At such moments she would invariably tell me of her troubles in her household and would often encourage me to speak of mine .What troubles had I to report to her or to anyone? By god’s grace everything was well with me. The worst I could think of was how my children were not doing well in their studies, how my job required me to put in more hours of study which I was unable to do. When I told her of such things Ganga would say: “Alas, that is the way of the world.”
And that would start her on a discourse regarding her experience with hints of managing this world of refractory ways. Ganga and I came to share our lives in a weird and wonderful sort of way.
As I was making tea one day, she lifted her head from washing utensils and asked me: “Bibijee, I see you work hard in the kitchen, look after the children’s breakfast then rush off to teach, come home back and cook and make endless cups of tea for Bhaiyaji and his endless friends and again you sit down with heaps of books–spoiling your eyes, look at the dark circles round your eyes – studying always – god knows what. Why don’t you ask Bhaiyaji to help you .They are his children, aren’t they? You too go out and work and earn like him. Why can’t he share the responsibilities? Look at Prafullo, I make him work, that is why I go on leave time and again; otherwise you know that old man will become very lazy. I have told him you have to cook one meal a day I am not your servant to cook and feed you day and night. I love seeing movies – you know Bibijee it keeps him on his toes when I tell him how I admire those heroes in the films, he feels jealous – husbands are like that. Bibijee if I don’t wear good saris and look pretty he will go to another woman.”
She stretched forward and added conspiratorially: “Look Bibijee, I have been meaning to tell you this for a very long time. You too must be careful, wear pretty saris at the time your husband comes home. Men are inconstant you must snare them with pretty dress or blouse, buy jewelry and perfume and make yourself attractive.”
Saying all this she glanced at the dress I was wearing and shook her head: “This is all right when you are alone and working in the kitchen but you must change it towards evening and wear something pretty.”
I laughed. It was sound sense all right. She would administer such advices on and off.
Of late the pressures of my job was mounting I used to get exhausted mentally and physically. I tried to remember when was the last time I sat down and relaxed. Sumi’s performance in the class was also eating me up. My household work was in topsy-turvy. Every evening I would roll out disinterestedly thick chapatti’s much to the dismay of my daughter who always insisted on having them thin. Anyway in the midst of the disarray I was determined to resolve the current crisis in my life agreeably. Hadn’t I seen Ganga resolve her problems in a jiffy?
I remember, one morning, a fortnight ago, she had come in a miserable mood.
“What is the matter, Ganga?” I had asked her.
“Nothing pleasant, Bibijee, why talk about it?” she had said wiping her tears with the edge of her saree.
“What happened? Had heated words with your son?” I insisted .It was very unusual for Ganga to be in such a state.
“Words enough, Bibijee. He had the temerity to abuse me! He said he was trying to put sense into me, indeed! Didn’t I give birth to him just as you have done to your daughter? Now he thinks he has become cleverer than me. He and the wife of his wanted money out of me”. Shrugging her shoulders in annoyance went on: “I have had enough of these bickering. I told them clear and straight that I will set up separately.”
Ganga burst into tears as she ended her narrative. I did what I could to comfort her. The next day she appeared to be a little more composed. I asked her if she had made peace with her son: “Peace! Do you think this daughter in law of mine would permit mother and son to be on good terms?"
For a day or two Ganga did not broach upon the subject again. Sometimes after this she came to me with a request: “Bibjee, I trust you. I have some money laid by. Could you put it in that place they call bank? It is attracting people’s attention.”
However I noticed that the squabbles did not last long. Their differences were soon settled amicably. They came to an arrangement. Ganga went back without loss of face, in her own terms. The real reason of the quarrel was that Ganga wanted the purse strings in her own hands. She asserted her position as the head of the family nothing less. However I know the struggle will go on in her household. The last act of the play will never be written. But knowing Ganga there may be tumultuous storms in her tea cup but she will come out unscathed from these difficulties.
But what about my own hydra headed hurdles which stared at me with its monstrous mouth wide open. Like Ganga I too resolved to stop being an escapist and jump headlong into my difficulties and resolve it once and for all.
Sultry Sumi had become difficult to deal with. She was almost thirteen years old and now must take her responsibilities seriously, I mused. That night I gave my daughter a talking, tried to draw out what was worrying her. I kept on stressing the importance of education: “See, Sumi”
I said earnestly: “I am able to shoulder the responsibility of this household, and see I earn almost as much as your Dad does. Could I have done all this without education? Don’t you see I still have to study night and day? See how I enjoy studying. Why don’t you too make studies your hobby? See how it empowers you. Now look at poor Ganga how much she has to work; clean the utensils do all the drudgery. The choice is before you what kind of future do you want. Don’t you want to be like your mother working, financially independent and all that?”
For once I noticed my firebrand daughter Sumi did not say anything. I was secretly congratulating myself for settling everything so amicably. I decided to allow her to sleep over the facts and got up to leave the room when Sumi blurted out: “Mummy, you said education makes us financially independent, liberated and not dependent on anyone, and we can lead our own life as we want. We can rest, relax and enjoy. But mom, you hardly seem to rest, relax–I see you slog the whole day–you hardly go for movies, you do not have any leave, you carry a lot of homework every day-you do not go out with your friends.”
She added with disgust: “What a life of drudgery you have. Look at Ganga–she takes leave whenever she desires and she has more holidays than you have. Sees movies, has frequent social gathering, has her Husband at her beck and call. Look at yourself. Can you ever get Dad to do anything for you? Other than being at his beck and call and as for the choice of my life is concerned-my choice is clear.”
She added with a note of definiteness: “I can never be like you.”
So saying Sumi left the room banging the door behind her, leaving me sitting in the bed dumbfounded.
Anita Singh works as a Professor in the Department of English, Banaras Hindu University, Varanasi. She has a number of articles, translations, book reviews and short stories published in various journals, anthologies and magazines. Her published works include Arthur Miller: A Study of the Doomed Heroes in his Plays (1993); Indian English Novel in the Nineties and After: A Study of the Text and its Context (2004); And the Story Begins: My ten Short Stories (2008); and 1857 and After: Literary Representations, edited R.N. Rai, Anita Singh, Archana Kumar, New Delhi: Pencraft International, 2009.
