Chai In Godphala With A Dash Of Mild Misogyny

by | Jun 27, 2014

The sun was scowling as we walked along the narrow path fenced with cacti towards Roopalal’s home. The women of the household insisted on bringing out carpets for us to sit on in spite of our protests.  We settled down to have an awkward chat as the children sang and cried and laughed and fussed over food.

Roopalal talked about the rains being late and his farm’s produce being insufficient for his family as the women sat quietly. He talked about his sons migrating to nearby cities in search of work. His wife, Kalibai, called her niece over and handed her some money asking her to bring some sugar. We turned to her and asked her and the other women about their pre-marital lives. We asked them whether they were part of any of the women’s committees in their village. The others smiled shyly as Kalibai began to talk. We tried to understand the words she spoke in Bagdi through her eyes, her gestures, the intonations in her voice, but she was interrupted by her husband. He chided her for trying to talk to us in a language we couldn’t understand. He called her an illiterate. He and his brother laughed about it and the women smiled timidly again. We made a futile attempt to explain to him that it was simply a language barrier and ours wasn’t better than hers. The tea arrived. It was served by the niece only to the men of the household and all four of us. The women kept smiling. Roopalal’s son appeared from the house and greeted the only man among the four of us.

He offered to show us around their field. He showed us the well which took them a year to dig, and the pump that draws water from the well which cost them twenty thousand rupees. He told us he preferred working at the proximate zinc mine to finding brief, unstable jobs in Ahmedabad. I wondered if Kalibai knew how much the pump cost her family, whether she was consulted while the amount of effort and money to be spent on irrigating their land was being decided. We left their home, folding our palms and thanking them.

I still don’t know what Kalibai was trying to tell us. Her words were lost on us. Not lost in translation, since her husband never made the effort to help her express herself. They were simply lost.

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