WORKING WOMEN

(Translation of meye-cakre

from Lila Majumdar’s Kheror Khata)

Working Women

I will talk about workers. Working women in particular. Everyday they occupy half of four or five trams to go to and come from their workplace. You can hear a harmonious hum from those trams. That kind of sound you can never hear from a vehicle full of men. Men may have good singing voice, but when it comes to crowd voice, it is a different story altogether. Anyway, about two decades ago, I myself was a working woman for seven years. During those times, there were no humming trams. A normal vehicle would have three or four reserved seats for ladies. From there you can only hear clatter of hoarse male voices.

It took me all of those seven years to master the art of being a working woman. Then I resigned. But since then, I nurtured a soft corner for working women. They are those neat creatures with large bags. In those bags you will find perfumes to take care of sweat odour. If you put men by their side, men look like dung beetles by the side of butterflies. That is the truth. I am just being to be honest. If someone takes it to heart I cant help it. Working women work with a lot more care and the superiors are always pleased with them. Working men used to say out of jealousy “women have to work harder, they are not clever enough to do otherwise. Can’t you see how we manage everything?”

I learned the alternative connotation of the word ‘manage’ there, it means, ‘ not doing your job without getting caught’. You can’t help have sympathy for their simplistic philosophy. Ask any married women they are experts of doing without things that are not available at hand. Never seen a man who could catch them doing the same. Suppose something cannot be done without eggs, women are capable of doing that very thing without eggs and with no trouble, and everyone expect men will agree on that.

And they say women lack brains. Frankly speaking, women are immeasurably benefited by this age-old belief of being brainlessness. Besides no species, unless they are exceedingly clever, can go on acting dumb for generations. Anyway, today I will talk about working women only.

I noticed in the office that working women always earned good name for themselves and got promotion. This resulted in a high level of self-esteem in them. Awfully high level if one may say so. So these representatives of the class that toiled in the confine of four walls for generations refused to switch the fans on or off or get a glass of water for themselves. All the would do was to ring a bell. And soon a thin chap would come in and do the needful. Animesh was our peon. Those abovementioneds were peon’s job. But all the bearers were not peons. There used to be another category called “pharas”. They were required if a glass of water or an pot of ink tipped over. Sometimes one even had to get out of their seats to look for them. Otherwise the water or the ink could drip into important papers and cause unbelievable damage by erasing valuable entries like names, dates, signatures etc. I used to write them over from memory or guess if it happened.

Once somebody’s glass paper weight slipped off causing a whirlwind of important documents in the room. We all understood that at any moment they might embark on a journey to eternity.

The working woman rang the bell, called out Animesh. Unfortunately, Animesh was absent that day and collecting flying papers was not included in the job description of the “pharas”, so they just sat still. In the end, I could not take it anymore. Collecting the papers, I put them back on the table under the glass paperweight. The working women got very disconcerted at this “what are you doing madam? This is peon’s work.” I replied, “this is nothing. Back home I even clean blocked drainpipes in the bathroom, if required”.

This reminds me, there was a bank in front of New Market. I met another working woman there. She was from the same college that I was. She seemed like a very efficient working women and a well paid one too. She was much better dressed than us. One day she suddenly asked me “what do you do when you cook falls sick?”

I said, “ I ask other servants to cook”

The working woman asked, “ and if they refuse?”

“Then I cook. Why? What do you do?” she replied “ I go and eat at my mother’s place. My husband does not seem to like it. But of course I am not going into the kitchen like a servant”.

Taking of servants, it reminded me of an officer who married a rich man’s dark complexioned, illiterate daughter for money. Then he disliked her. So he married again. In those times, it was no crime. Anyway, His rich father in law then got her daughter educated, send her abroad and got her a good job after she graduated from London School of Economics. She made progress by days. She was most efficient in her job. She later became the head of the company she was working in. Then she moved to the head office in Delhi only to find her husband working as an ordinary employee in the same office.

Later the man had to handle some tough job and strong notes from the boss and was finally transferred to Jammu or some other equally difficult place and thus the dignity of womenkind was saved.

LOVE

(Translation of bhalobasa

from Lila Majumdar’s Kheror Khata)

Love

I have grown, yet I still fail to make any head or tail of love. Heard that in those days husbands meant the world to their wives. A very appreciable practice, no doubt, especially if you take into consideration the awful temper and matching looks that the some of the husbands had. Had they have the same looks during their marriage that would have put ‘who loves whom and how much’ out in the open.

Anyway, as I was saying, if getting married is the test of love, especially if one marries out of ones own will, then it is baffling. First of all it is hard to understand what exactly is it that makes one fall in love with someone.

About forty years ago I underwent a gallbladder surgery in R. G. Kar Hospital. A nurse named Rasamayi used to look after me. She was very efficient and kept me amused from dusk to dawn with an assortment of charming chitchats.

She was not good looking — fat, short, and dark with a flat nose, huge lips. But she had such genteelness that I liked her very much. I did not know if she was married or not. She used to wear thin-bordered white sari, gold earrings and necklace but no jewelleries for the hands.

Her earning was well for those days — about rupees two hundred a month. She said that she was living with her nephew as paying guest. The nephew’s wife was taking good care of her. She would massage her feet with oil every night. And why would she not? After all they will get her possessions after her. If aunt gets irritated who knows what will happen

One day I asked Rasamayi, ‘don’t you have a husband?’ She was taken aback “ what do you mean? of course I do! I very much have one! He did not like me, so he married again. They have made a hut with pan tile shed near Narkeldanga and staying there.

There is a two-storey building in the neighbourhood. I went with my friend went to that place. For a long time, I wanted to see what that woman looked like! See how beautiful she is! When I saw her I so surprised! There was this gawky dark woman with big teeth and a bald patch in the front of the head! One cannot but marvel at men’s choice! He can be happy with her for all I like. I cannot care less”

Saying this Rasamayi took my teacup and went away.

I often used to spend a few days with my brother in law’s house at Madhupur. The time between October and June is really pleasant there. They used to go there to spend the holidays, rest of the time the house used to stay empty under the supervision of caretakers.

My sister in law used to keep saying ‘get your chores done by the caretakers. Chotna, Budhua, Panchu ‑-- they are nice people, only extremely lazy. But their wives are better. Specially Panchu’s wife Lakhia’.

She was right. She used to do so many things for me without my having to tell her anything. In those days, I too was young and not very efficient in handling household chores. Lakhia was like a same age friend to me. The caretakers used to stay in rows of barracks with their family. Budhua was the oldest of them all. He was about sixty, had white hair, and his body was like a twisted cord.

Once, soon after I reached their place my sister in law said, ‘ we are leaving tomorrow. Be careful. And don’t let that woman Lakhia enter the house’. I was surprised. ‘why bardi?’

She made a long face and said. ‘ better not to say what has happened’. ‘please do tell’. She said, ‘awful thing! Lakhia left panchu and is staying with Budhua’.

I almost fell! Among other things, Budhua was Pachu’s uncle. And Panchu was such a good looking chap! Anyway, after my in laws left, I saw Lakhia hanging around the house. Seeing me coming out, she asked, ‘should I do the dishes for you, aunty?’

I said, ‘my sister has asked me not to let you enter the house. What have you done Lakhia? The old man is sixty years old, looks like twig and so ill-tempered! Panchu is such a well behaved handsome young man! Besides is that old man not your uncle in law?’

Lakhia stood tall, lifted her chin up, and looked straight back into my eyes and said arrogantly, ‘so what? I fell in love.” Making it sound like that there cannot be any argument after this. Then she swaggered away. I never saw her again.

There was this nice old lady, who we used to call granny. I saw something completely different with her. She was gorgeous. And grandpa was the direct opposite. He had many qualities but was short, fat, extremely gluttonous, boastful, cantankerous and a faultfinder. But everybody said that they were the ideal pair. Before marriage they saw each other only once, fell in love at first sight and as been in love since for the next 52 years. They say she fell for his qualities, of what use is looks really is?

Look at that uncle of ours, he was so good looking, that it is heard Tagore himself used ask him to act in his plays. And yet he made our aunt’s entire life miserable. Love is a different thing. It has no connection with insignificant matters like money or looks.

Once we cornered granny into telling the story of their love. The beautiful woman blushed like a ripe mango and said, ‘that was something! We met in front of the zoo. I had passed my entrance exam then and he had just become a deputy. So an unconventional king of encounter was arranged.

Near that big pond where a lot of black geese swim, there I along with my four sisters sat chatting with my mother and aunts. And he along with five friends walked past us acting as if they were talking among themselves.

In between all these our eyes met, and love happened immediately. Sweat came out of my forehead, heart started to beat violently. I told mother that I am ready to marry him. We got married within a week. Since then I have been very happy, but you know what….” Saying this granny got up.

Of course, we were not letting her go. ‘But what? No, you have to tell us. What do you mean by ‘but you know what’…”

Granny’s pink cheeks became red, ‘you know what? I could not make out who he was. His friend Jyotirindranath Tagore was with him. I liked him. But then this is not bad. I spent 52 years in happily, if not so peacefully. What more can one expect?’

What did I say in the beginning, it is better not to talk of love.