Ever since that fateful day, I cannot walk through the village without sensing malevolent stares piercing my back. Whispers follow me and sometimes haunt my dreams, “there goes the woman who...” Nobody in my village speaks to me, including my family. To them, I ceased to exist since that memorable day two years ago.
Life in my little village had always been anything but eventful. Growing up, I remember that the juiciest stories revolved around drunken fights at the bus stop, children trying to steal mangoes from the sarpanch’s land, the incident with the teacher’s sari.
At the village hand pump, the unofficial gathering place of the women, conversation revolved around the weather, crops, mother-in-law woes and child bearing-rearing issues. Conversation about husbands was usually a strict no-no. Looking back, I understand why my life became fodder for their stories. None of them had the courage to speak out. None of their husbands were in jail.
You see, I was married when I was 17, a match that had my mother gleefully boasting at the village pump for days. After all, it wasn’t every day that a landless, daily wage worker received an offer for his/her daughter from a member of the Panchayat. Of course, my parents accepted, and borrowed heavily so that we could buy clothes and jewellery from Banaras. They also ‘gifted’ my in-laws, three buffaloes and everything else required by local custom.
But apparently it wasn’t enough. From the beginning of my marriage, my in-laws joked about the buffaloes and made it my sole responsibility to tend to them. The jokes later became taunts. When it was time for my sister-in-law to get married, that’s when it all began. They (my in-laws) wanted me to ask my family for money and that what had been given for my wedding wasn’t enough. They made my life a living hell, and my husband let them. In fact he joined them. Eventually, no matter how I draped it, my sari couldn’t hide the bruises and I stopped spending time at the hand pump. My mother once mentioned that a woman’s life is difficult, and that the best thing to do is accept fate.
One day when I was at the district hospital, I realised that I couldn’t take it anymore. I told the nurse to call the police and filed a complaint. My husband and in-laws were arrested. I was interviewed by the media, and was given money by the District Magistrate. Many NGOs offered to help, people in town commended me, and I was even offered a job.
But I chose to go back to my village and live alone in the house where I faced so much shame. Because I was finally okay. And for the first time, I had control of my life. Now, I tend to the animals and take care of the fields. I go to town to sell what I don’t need and buy supplies. I walk through the village with my head held high and ignore the stares and whispers. I know that I did the right thing. I would do it again if I had to.
