अनकही #04

In an academic institution, crises come and go. Some days it is the electricity that is malfunctioning, or the infrastructure that is misbehaving, or the children that are lost, confused, loud. Sometimes documents get misplaced and the wrong examination papers get distributed. Somehow, often, boxes of chalk and markers and stapler pins disappear. But all of it—everything—will be fine, if Rashi is on campus. After all, who could ever replace her experiences?

A Bachelor of Art graduate, Master of Art post-graduate, and a consistent academic performer, Rashi is about to turn 50 in four years. In the almost twenty-five years it has been since she last walked on a college campus, Renu had the capability to do remarkable things in her professional life. She had the passion and the vision of setting up her own teaching practice or providing extracurricular classes to young kids. As she nears her golden jubilee birthday, she is clear in one realisation: her marriage shattered all her dreams. 

Rashi’s husband was a trader and after some initial years of consistent income, suffered through terrible loss in business and amounting debts that was not able to pay back. With a sinking business and failing to find a way out, he turned to alcohol for self-medication. This started about twelve years ago; it is still the same. The stress of her husband’s disappointment was released on Rashi, as he began to violently hit her using his belts, TV remotes, metal bottles and occasionally, using cigarettes. Amongst nights spent suffering in pain, it was the thought of needing to arrange money and food every morning that helped her push through. 

“My in-laws never supported me,” Rashi had confessed, crossing her arms on top of each other, and giving me her small but noticeable encouraging smile when I struggled to frame a question in Hindi. Rashi’s mother and father-in-law had also never understood that with their son spending his time at home, wasting the hours of opportunity away, Rashi had to assume the role of the sole breadwinner for the house. “It was as if they never saw any faults in their son, instead blamed me for being unreasonable,” she told me, the lines no longer holding the anger and frustration they must have held a decade ago, rather the serene voice of reflection. 

Rashi’s lifeboat came in the form of her parents. After delaying telling them about the abuse, or meeting them from the fear of her bruises that the drugstore’s foundation was unsuccessful in hiding, Rashi finally broke down and confessed to her parents what had been happening. At once, they rushed over to her husband’s house and without fear, disciplined him into understanding that if he did not stop, they will take her away. They did not care about society or false hopes of change, it had been made clear that if he were to raise a hand on Rashi again, she will no longer stay with him. Over a decade and a half has passed since that fateful July night, when the owls were hooting and the rain was carefully caressing the branches of the mango tree when Rashi’s parents stood up for her. Her husband has not hit her since, nor has he threatened to do so. 

“I wanted to leave, but where would I have gone?” Rashi had repeated the thoughts of her younger self for me. Her house would barely get Rs 5000 to 6000 monthly, and that was narrowly enough to make rent. Her next words have remained with me till now, 6 months after I stepped out of the room where I spoke to her, and will be etched in my memory forever— “If a woman is independent, she will not tolerate anything because she will have a voice, she will have power.” Rashi shared how so many women she knew who went through such violence were only still tolerating it, only not speaking out because they have nowhere else to go, no one else to take them in, and no resources to sustain themselves. The violence is the only thing they have ever known, and the only thing they will continue to know. If a woman were earning a good Rs 20,000, in Rashi’s opinion, per month, then she could live by herself, live a safe life away from the abuse. 

“A serious fault lies in the legal and the police systems of our country when it comes to domestic violence,” Rashi affirmed with a firm nod of her head. She shared that it is not as if the police are inactive when it comes to the reporting of a Domestic Violence case. It is easy for them to take abusive husbands away from their houses and into the dingy corners of a lock-up for three days, thrash them, threaten them, and force promises of never doing such things again. Then they will be sent back with more anger, and a stronger desire to take revenge from their wives than ever before. Their solution is, I discussed with Rashi, extremely short-term and yields a negative domino instead of helping the situation. But, shedding light on the duality of the situation, Rashi had added, “But it is the wives too. So many times it is them who come running to the stations, pleading with the police to not hit their husbands anymore, believing that they have truly changed.”

Now working as a manager in an NGO, Rashi also shared the impact of violence on young children. “They learn what they see,” she had said, telling me about a young teenage boy whose mother was getting hit by her second husband and how he had himself become violent and restless. “He would break boards here, throw chairs and smash tables,” Rashi recalled, pursing her lips in sympathy as she spoke, “because that is what he had experienced. One day, in complete confidentiality, he told us that his father would bash him with large wooden sticks.” Her eyebrows knitted together, and her crossed arms tightened when she told me how her own children had been so terribly affected by the violence in her house. They had gotten scared, especially her daughter, when they would see her mother getting hit. “They couldn’t sleep at night, didn’t walk around the house for the fear of making a noise. One of them even struggled with intensive nightmares of abuse and had trouble breathing.” When asked about what she did to make this better for them, her answer was practical, but the wobble in her voice was evident, “I sent them away. They live with their aunt in Dehli now and have for so many years. I did not want them to see this, did not want them to carry this with themselves for the rest of their lives. This is mine alone, it was never meant to hurt them.”

Rashi also emphasized the need to establish alcohol control and availability in areas prone to Domestic Violence, a step she thought would help fix the lives of countless families across the country. She also insisted that the normality of violence needs to be worked upon. It has become so common, so frequent, every day and every night, that no one cares anymore. My last question to Rashi was the advice she had for newer, younger wives who face this on a daily basis. Solemnly, and with a soft smile, she had replied, “Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid to involve the police. Don’t be afraid of society. I may sound like a hypocritic, seeing as I have rarely been able to my own advice but this is your life, you are the only one responsible for fixing it, for protecting it. No one will come to save you.” I ended our conversation with a hug, her wisdom, patience and clarity engulfing my whole self, as it does for the faculty and students on campus, whenever she is present.