I have not been able to write about this until now. I have needed time to process my feelings, my reactions, my thoughts -- everything has been so raw and so much at the surface, and then after it happened life became so insanely busy as it usually is, but it is there, never far from my thoughts. She is there in my mind, though I rarely see her these days -- she hides inside her house.
It was just after dinner a few weeks ago, when we were relaxing with our volunteers, discussing the days events when Rohnit and Kajal came to me, very upset and worried and said, 'Aunty come quick! Preeti's father is beating her mother.' I remained in my chair, glanced at our volunteers, who were chatting happily among themselves. Every fiber in my body wanted to jump up and run to her rescue, my mind racing with what could possibly happen to her, knowing the cruelty of her husband... and yet, I knew I could not go. Preeti's father has been so nasty to us, and for me to intervene would make matters worse, not so much for us, but for their mother. Reason told me I needed to stay away, but my humanity was fighting to go to her. Still I remained in my chair, conflicted on what to do.
Preeti's mother married her husband some 10 years ago. The villagers tell me the relationship began happily enough. She was young and so was her husband -- an arranged marriage as tradition would have it -- but it was an amicable arrangement. Then the babies started coming. First, a girl -- Preeti. A girl is not as scorned upon as much in our area as it is in other parts of India. Girls help their mothers in farming so are seen as an important contribution to the family, and they are loved and cherished as any child. But one day they will marry and leave the family, so a son is still very much desired and necessary to provide for parents old age security and to continue the family lineage. So within a year another baby arrived, and it was a girl again. Now the family was concerned, and more so because Preeti's mother was not behaving as she should. She was depressed, and lethargic. She was not doing her chores and wanted only to sleep. She was neglecting her children. Her husband and his parents saw her as 'lazy', and her husband began to beat her. Her depression grew. Then two years later came another baby -- another girl. Now the family was furious -- what good was this woman? She was lazy and she gave only girls! The beating continued.
It was about this time that I married Kunwar, and I came to know this poor woman. Just two months after our marriage Kunwar told me her husband was ill and the family was in a bad way. So I collected some basic food items and put them in a bag and delivered them to Preeti's mother. She never said a word, just took the bag and looked at me long and hard. Life went on, and soon we started our school. The two girls, Preeti and her sister, Reetu attended. They had difficulty in school -- it seemed to take them longer to grasp basic concepts, but we were small and we worked diligently with both girls. Soon they began speaking in English and seemed to be keeping up. But their hygiene was deplorable. On several occasions I bought them soap and shampoo, and even outfitted them in new clothes. Kunwar would scold me that I was spoiling them and that the family would not appreciate the gesture, and they would only expect more. Then one day the girls' mother was at our door and she handed Kunwar a white bag. When Kunwar glanced inside, there was flour, tea, sugar, lentils -- but all dried and useless. It was the same bag I had given one year before. The village ladies told me afterwards, Preeti's mother had put it away in a trunk and had never used it. At this time, Kunwar went to Preeti's father and asked his permission to take her to a doctor to make sure she was ok mentally and physically. Her husband conceded and we took her to the local hospital in Mussoorie. The doctor did all kinds of blood tests, and in the end reported that she was 'fit' physically, but for her mental status she would have to see a specialists. We relayed this information to Preeti's father, but nothing came of it. Another year went by, and the girls continued to be neglected. I continued to purchase things for them, and they wore their new clothes everyday -- and every day they got dirtier and more worn, because they were never washed. One day the girls showed up for Rohnit's birthday party. All the children had bathed and had put on their 'good clothes'. There stood Reetu, Preeti and Arti (their baby sister) dressed in dirty rags. All eyes of the village children were on them. I quickly whisked them into the house and poured a bath for each of them. We scrubbed them from top to bottom and I dressed them in new sets of clothes -- thanks to the donations of clothing we had received from our supporters. When I was done the girls appeared at the party looking like little princesses and all our children gasped and clapped -- happy to see their little friends looking so nice. And then came another day -- Preeti's mother at my door, banging loudly and calling me. Thrusting a bottle of whisky at me and then begging me to call the police. She said her husband was beating her. He quickly followed her, and began speaking with Kunwar -- telling him his wife was on one of her 'crazy' rants again. I didn't believe him for a second, and I locked eyes with his wife -- hers pleading with me. "What should we do?" I asked Kunwar. "Leave it." Kunwar replied, "We can't get involved. Let them sort it out. If we get involved it can cause more problems." So that's what we did. Did I feel guilty? Did I feel like I had let her down? Yes, absolutely. But being a foreigner in a village where I am handicapped when it comes to communicating in the local language, I am powerless. I tried other tactics -- even suggesting to our ladies who make the dolls to include her in their group, but they all shook their heads -- saying to include her would only invoke suspicion from her husband that she might be sharing too much, and she could receive more severe beatings. So we let it rest. As time went on Preeti's father seemed to become more unbalanced. He became more greedy and began to turn against us, Kunwar and I, talking behind Kunwar's back, aligning himself with a very conniving and jealous man in the village who befriends those having difficulty and offers loans to them as a means of controlling them. After a year Preeti, Reetu and Arti were removed from our school and placed in the missionary run Hindi medium school in Sainji. "Preeti and Reetu don't like their new school Aunty", one little girl named Ameesha, said to me one day while walking home. "I am sorry for that honey, but I don't know what we can do about it." She nodded, "Their father is not a nice man Aunty." Preeti had been the face featured on a book cover the headmaster from our partner school in Manchester had written. He had been captivated by Preeti, her shy and demure ways. When he returned to Sainji the following year he went to speak with Preeti's father, offering to sponsor the girls for their education if he would place them back with GEMS. The answer he received was a sarcastic, "Are you finished?" He had his answer.
Just six months ago, a horrible accident occurred. Preeti, Reetu and a friend were on the motor bike with their father, riding along the steep embankment of the highway, when he had an epileptic seizure. All were thrown over the mountain. Luckily they landed 50 feet below on a shallow outcrop, otherwise they would have fallen to their deaths one thousand feet below. The girls were banged up, and their father received eighty stitches to his face, but all luckily survived. But this seemed to add to the anger directed at Preeti's mother. I learned that she was no longer allowed to come into the house, that often she was given no food and made to sleep in a room in the bottom of their dwelling, a room not fit for any human being. She was left to sleep on a dirty thread bare mattress. Ameesha told me Preeti's mother was eating grass one day as she had nothing else to eat. So I told Ameesha to come to my house and I would give her some food to take to Preeti's mother, but I asked her not to tell anyone about it, and certainly not to tell Preeti;s mother where the food came from. Ameesha would come by every day after school and I would hand her left overs from the previous night's dinner. Then one day Ameesha said to me, Aunty she knows the food is coming from you. "How?" I asked, "Did you tell her?" "No, Ameesha answered, "She just knows it is you." I asked Ameesha if anyone else was helping and I was pleased to hear that a few women had given her some money, but I suppose if you can't get out of the village, how can you purchase any food for yourself?
Some nights I would stand at our back door and I would listen as she and her husband shouted back and forth. Her shouts were shrill, his answers low and laughing, mocking. 'He is egging her on', I thought to myself. It is mental torture. "They shout at each other every night!" Ameesha complained to me one day while walking home. "It is difficult for us to sleep at night" I could understand why as Ameesha lives above Preeti's house. "My mother tried to talk to her husband, but he told her to go away, to stay out, so we don't go down anymore." Susmeeta was with us this day, and she piped in, "Aunty, he is horrible. When there are weddings he locks the children out of the house, and they have nothing nice to wear. One day my mother felt sorry for them so she gave them some of my clothes to wear and he took those clothes and threw them down the mountain. He told my mother he didn't need her charity." I thought about this. Susmeeta's mother is divorced and has difficulty making ends meet, but she is a good person with a good heart. Her gesture was well intentioned and generous. This man, I thought, was just evil.
On this night, I studied Rohnit and Kajal's faces. Both were near tears. I asked the kids if anyone from the village was there, and they said 'yes', so I felt a bit relieved that at least someone would intervene on her behalf. But...half an hour later they were back and this time, 'Rohnit was very upset, 'Aunty please, they have locked her in the house and her husband and mother and father-in-law are all beating her!' They won't let anyone in, and the whole village is there. And then, his little face crumpled, 'There is blood Aunty, a lot of blood!' To hell with reason! I jumped up and ran and I saw in the square all the villagers. I saw Kulpana, Kunwar's niece, and I went to her. She was crying. She said, 'He is a horrible man. He needs to go to jail.' I went around and I tried to get information from whoever I could about what was happening. learned the villagers had tried to get in the room, but Preeti's father locked the room from the inside. In turn the villagers put a lock outside the door and called the police. I went back to Kulpana. She looked up at me and with anger in her voice, she told me Preeti's mother had screamed, 'Help me! He is going to kill me!' Oh God, I thought, it is happening. He can kill her and she is defenseless in there. I started circulating trying to ask if we could get all the men to break the door down. 'No, no. he could run away!' everyone replied. ' I tried to argue, 'but she can die in there!!' Everyone turned away. I was ignored. Kunwar stood on the sidelines;He was talking to some of the elder men. He looked worried. I went to him, and I asked why the villagers wouldn't break down the door and rescue her. Kunwar looked at me, and calmly said, "Ah the police are coming. They will take care of everything." My husband who always seems to have such a deep understanding of village matters, who always seems to be right, and who I trust completely, didn't seem to have the right answer for me at that time. I judged him then, 'You are just like all the other men -- you won't get involved to save the life of a woman!' I was angry, scared for Preeti's mother, and have never felt so powerless in my life.
After what seemed hours the police came. Everyone was excited. Many raced after them to the door of the little house at the bottom of the village, and those who could not squeeze through the tiny alleyway, rushed to the window of the house above to listen to what the police were going to say and do. I followed those ladies. One of our students translated for me. The police were asking how the woman had been hurt. The husband said she had done this to herself. "That's not true", argued Ajay, a young boy from the village, "You were beating her! We could hear you!" The husband replied, "No, no, that was just me slapping my slipper against the wall." After some time, the police took him in hand and guided him out of the village. "Good! He is going to jail." Someone said. "How is Preeti's mother? Where is she? Is she ok" I began asking everyone. "She is inside the house." someone answered. "But is she ok? Is anyone looking after her? Has an ambulance been called?" No answer. And then Susmeeta was at my side. "I will take you to her Aunty." We walked down the narrow path to the house. I could barely see, and bumped my head on the low overhang of the roof. Susmeeta guided me up the stone steps and along the narrow veranda and into the large brightly lit room. I could smell blood, and when my eyes focused to the light, I was taken aback. Everyone was seated in a circle along the walls of the room,her in laws among them. I studied her mother-in-law's face for a fleeting second -- what was that look? Remorse? And then in the middle of the floor, looking very small, and very dazed, crouched Preeti's mother. Her face was swollen twice it's size. Her lips were blue and bulged forth. Her hands were covered in blood, and I could see blood stains on the floor around her. But what struck me, what stood out the most was that no one was tending to her wounds, no one was by her side. I asked one of our students standing in the doorway to go and get my medical bag and antiseptic. I took her hand and tried to get her to focus on me. When she did, she began to cry. "He hit me Aunty. He wanted to kill me. They all did." When I lifted my eyes from Preeti's mother, I locked eyes with Reetu. She had been crying. I knew she had seen everything. I searched for Preeti, Arti, their little brother. All were traumatized, hiding like shadows in the background. Ony Reetu showed any sign of cognizance. "Reetu, honey, what did he hit mommy with?" I asked. "I don't know, I didn't look," she cried, fresh tears streaming down her face. My heart wanted to split in two, and I wanted to fold her in my arms and run away with her, protect her from all this horror. I asked for help to get her up onto the bed, but as some of the men came forward, she cried, "No, I will not rest on that bed. Take me downstairs!" The men carried her down the stone steps to the room she had been sleeping in for the past few months. A dirty, torn mattress was shoved underneath her. I asked for cold water and a cloth to bring the swelling down. I worried about what injuries she may have, and I felt helpless in my knowledge of such things. Then I remembered our volunteer Mandy. She had told me she had trained as a nurse. I asked the children to go and get her. When Mandy came, despite her medical background there was little more we could do for this poor woman other than to make her comfortable and try our best to bring down her swelling. By now both eyes were swollen closed, and she was going into shock. We placed a dirty blanket around her and tried our best to comfort and reassure her. "He hit her with the grass cutting knife, Aunty", one of the boys offered -- as if trying to explain her horribly swollen eyes -- "I saw him do that," he added. "Bappa!" She cried, Bappa means father in Jounpuri. "Bappa, help me. Bappa take me," she sobbed. I searched the room. Everyone was standing around us, talking, talking, talking, everyone offering their version of what had happened, what would happen to her husband, how terrible her in-laws were to have participated, "Dirty people!" someone muttered.And then I heard a familiar voice behind me say, "He's a terrible man, her husband." I looked up into the eyes of one of the village men. There was true empathy in his eyes. But just two years prior I have cared for his wife after he hit her in the face with pressure cooker, and two years earlier after he had beaten her with a stick.' Can a cat change it's spots?' I wondered. "Can we call an ambulance?" I asked. More talking, and then, "You want the lady police to come Aunty?" one girl asked. "Why?" I queried. "Because if there is need the lady police will take her to the hospital," she replied. "Oh there is need," I assured her. Then the pradhan (village headman) was summoned and a phone call was made. "Who will go with her?" I asked. Silence. I spotted my sister-in-law. "Will you go with her?" She shook her head. I moved down the row of women standing against the wall, "Will you? Will you? Will you?" And the answer came back the same, "no, no, no." "Why? Why won't anyone go?" I asked. "Because if something happens we will be blamed," came my answer. "Then I will go with her." I said. Mandy nodded, "I also will go." I could see Mandy struggling with the knowledge that no one was willing to put themselves out to help this poor soul. But then came the words from one lady, "You can't go with her Aunty. If you do and she dies, you will be blamed for her death and the family will put a case against you." There it was. How could I be blamed for something I had nothing to do with? I was there caring for her. How could this be? After what seemed like hours the police woman came, and quickly Preeti's mother, now unconscious, was hoisted on a chair and taken to the police jeep. I asked a male police officer, "Can I go with her?" "Yes, that would be good," he answered. I ran to get my purse. Mandy did the same. I entered our room and Kunwar woke from his sleep. "Where are you going?" he asked, "I am going with her to the hospital. She has no one." I said. Softly and slowly he said, "No, you can't go. You don't understand how things work here. If anything happens to her, his family can make a case against you. He might be with the police, but if no one makes a case against him, nothing is going to happen him and he will be released. The police lady will take care of her. And she will be in the hospital and she will be cared for. Now let it be. You have done enough." I stopped. I felt so helpless, but I knew deep down I had to listen to him. Kunwar is a good man, a good person, not a mean bone in his body, and he knows the village ways from a perspective I will never have. And so I stayed.
http://www.gems-school.org
The next day, the nasty man from the village went to see Preeti's mother and convinced her not to make a case against her husband. He was released that morning, and she was sent home to the village. It has now been three weeks. Preeti's mother stays in the room below her house. Her husband is staying in their cow shed. No one has been charged. Preeti's mother has received little medical attention, but I understand is healing from her physical wounds. The girls have resumed their day to day activities in the village, and life has carried on. But one day, Reetu and Preeti were at my house with some of the other children. I had a chance to pull them aside and ask how their mother was. Both bowed their heads, and muttered, 'fine.' I asked both of them to look me in the eye, and I said this, "Your father is not a bad person, but he is sick and it is the sickness that made him do bad things to Mommy." No one deserves to be hit like your mother was. She did nothing to deserve this. And we might not be able to change her situation, but you do have a choice. You work as hard as you can in your schooling and you do your best, so that one day you will be able to stand on your own two feet and not have to depend on anyone to support you. And know that no one, no one has the right to ever hit you!'
Both girls just looked at me and simply nodded. Did I get through? I don't know, but maybe, just maybe I planted a seed of change. I can only hope.
Post script: I have no idea what Mandy is thinking or how she has processed what she witnessed that night. We never got a chance to talk much and I am sure, like me, she needed time to process what transpired that night. I look forward to hearing her thoughts on this.
cockrell_uk@yahoo.com
It was just after dinner a few weeks ago, when we were relaxing with our volunteers, discussing the days events when Rohnit and Kajal came to me, very upset and worried and said, 'Aunty come quick! Preeti's father is beating her mother.' I remained in my chair, glanced at our volunteers, who were chatting happily among themselves. Every fiber in my body wanted to jump up and run to her rescue, my mind racing with what could possibly happen to her, knowing the cruelty of her husband... and yet, I knew I could not go. Preeti's father has been so nasty to us, and for me to intervene would make matters worse, not so much for us, but for their mother. Reason told me I needed to stay away, but my humanity was fighting to go to her. Still I remained in my chair, conflicted on what to do.
Preeti's mother married her husband some 10 years ago. The villagers tell me the relationship began happily enough. She was young and so was her husband -- an arranged marriage as tradition would have it -- but it was an amicable arrangement. Then the babies started coming. First, a girl -- Preeti. A girl is not as scorned upon as much in our area as it is in other parts of India. Girls help their mothers in farming so are seen as an important contribution to the family, and they are loved and cherished as any child. But one day they will marry and leave the family, so a son is still very much desired and necessary to provide for parents old age security and to continue the family lineage. So within a year another baby arrived, and it was a girl again. Now the family was concerned, and more so because Preeti's mother was not behaving as she should. She was depressed, and lethargic. She was not doing her chores and wanted only to sleep. She was neglecting her children. Her husband and his parents saw her as 'lazy', and her husband began to beat her. Her depression grew. Then two years later came another baby -- another girl. Now the family was furious -- what good was this woman? She was lazy and she gave only girls! The beating continued.
It was about this time that I married Kunwar, and I came to know this poor woman. Just two months after our marriage Kunwar told me her husband was ill and the family was in a bad way. So I collected some basic food items and put them in a bag and delivered them to Preeti's mother. She never said a word, just took the bag and looked at me long and hard. Life went on, and soon we started our school. The two girls, Preeti and her sister, Reetu attended. They had difficulty in school -- it seemed to take them longer to grasp basic concepts, but we were small and we worked diligently with both girls. Soon they began speaking in English and seemed to be keeping up. But their hygiene was deplorable. On several occasions I bought them soap and shampoo, and even outfitted them in new clothes. Kunwar would scold me that I was spoiling them and that the family would not appreciate the gesture, and they would only expect more. Then one day the girls' mother was at our door and she handed Kunwar a white bag. When Kunwar glanced inside, there was flour, tea, sugar, lentils -- but all dried and useless. It was the same bag I had given one year before. The village ladies told me afterwards, Preeti's mother had put it away in a trunk and had never used it. At this time, Kunwar went to Preeti's father and asked his permission to take her to a doctor to make sure she was ok mentally and physically. Her husband conceded and we took her to the local hospital in Mussoorie. The doctor did all kinds of blood tests, and in the end reported that she was 'fit' physically, but for her mental status she would have to see a specialists. We relayed this information to Preeti's father, but nothing came of it. Another year went by, and the girls continued to be neglected. I continued to purchase things for them, and they wore their new clothes everyday -- and every day they got dirtier and more worn, because they were never washed. One day the girls showed up for Rohnit's birthday party. All the children had bathed and had put on their 'good clothes'. There stood Reetu, Preeti and Arti (their baby sister) dressed in dirty rags. All eyes of the village children were on them. I quickly whisked them into the house and poured a bath for each of them. We scrubbed them from top to bottom and I dressed them in new sets of clothes -- thanks to the donations of clothing we had received from our supporters. When I was done the girls appeared at the party looking like little princesses and all our children gasped and clapped -- happy to see their little friends looking so nice. And then came another day -- Preeti's mother at my door, banging loudly and calling me. Thrusting a bottle of whisky at me and then begging me to call the police. She said her husband was beating her. He quickly followed her, and began speaking with Kunwar -- telling him his wife was on one of her 'crazy' rants again. I didn't believe him for a second, and I locked eyes with his wife -- hers pleading with me. "What should we do?" I asked Kunwar. "Leave it." Kunwar replied, "We can't get involved. Let them sort it out. If we get involved it can cause more problems." So that's what we did. Did I feel guilty? Did I feel like I had let her down? Yes, absolutely. But being a foreigner in a village where I am handicapped when it comes to communicating in the local language, I am powerless. I tried other tactics -- even suggesting to our ladies who make the dolls to include her in their group, but they all shook their heads -- saying to include her would only invoke suspicion from her husband that she might be sharing too much, and she could receive more severe beatings. So we let it rest. As time went on Preeti's father seemed to become more unbalanced. He became more greedy and began to turn against us, Kunwar and I, talking behind Kunwar's back, aligning himself with a very conniving and jealous man in the village who befriends those having difficulty and offers loans to them as a means of controlling them. After a year Preeti, Reetu and Arti were removed from our school and placed in the missionary run Hindi medium school in Sainji. "Preeti and Reetu don't like their new school Aunty", one little girl named Ameesha, said to me one day while walking home. "I am sorry for that honey, but I don't know what we can do about it." She nodded, "Their father is not a nice man Aunty." Preeti had been the face featured on a book cover the headmaster from our partner school in Manchester had written. He had been captivated by Preeti, her shy and demure ways. When he returned to Sainji the following year he went to speak with Preeti's father, offering to sponsor the girls for their education if he would place them back with GEMS. The answer he received was a sarcastic, "Are you finished?" He had his answer.
Just six months ago, a horrible accident occurred. Preeti, Reetu and a friend were on the motor bike with their father, riding along the steep embankment of the highway, when he had an epileptic seizure. All were thrown over the mountain. Luckily they landed 50 feet below on a shallow outcrop, otherwise they would have fallen to their deaths one thousand feet below. The girls were banged up, and their father received eighty stitches to his face, but all luckily survived. But this seemed to add to the anger directed at Preeti's mother. I learned that she was no longer allowed to come into the house, that often she was given no food and made to sleep in a room in the bottom of their dwelling, a room not fit for any human being. She was left to sleep on a dirty thread bare mattress. Ameesha told me Preeti's mother was eating grass one day as she had nothing else to eat. So I told Ameesha to come to my house and I would give her some food to take to Preeti's mother, but I asked her not to tell anyone about it, and certainly not to tell Preeti;s mother where the food came from. Ameesha would come by every day after school and I would hand her left overs from the previous night's dinner. Then one day Ameesha said to me, Aunty she knows the food is coming from you. "How?" I asked, "Did you tell her?" "No, Ameesha answered, "She just knows it is you." I asked Ameesha if anyone else was helping and I was pleased to hear that a few women had given her some money, but I suppose if you can't get out of the village, how can you purchase any food for yourself?
Some nights I would stand at our back door and I would listen as she and her husband shouted back and forth. Her shouts were shrill, his answers low and laughing, mocking. 'He is egging her on', I thought to myself. It is mental torture. "They shout at each other every night!" Ameesha complained to me one day while walking home. "It is difficult for us to sleep at night" I could understand why as Ameesha lives above Preeti's house. "My mother tried to talk to her husband, but he told her to go away, to stay out, so we don't go down anymore." Susmeeta was with us this day, and she piped in, "Aunty, he is horrible. When there are weddings he locks the children out of the house, and they have nothing nice to wear. One day my mother felt sorry for them so she gave them some of my clothes to wear and he took those clothes and threw them down the mountain. He told my mother he didn't need her charity." I thought about this. Susmeeta's mother is divorced and has difficulty making ends meet, but she is a good person with a good heart. Her gesture was well intentioned and generous. This man, I thought, was just evil.
On this night, I studied Rohnit and Kajal's faces. Both were near tears. I asked the kids if anyone from the village was there, and they said 'yes', so I felt a bit relieved that at least someone would intervene on her behalf. But...half an hour later they were back and this time, 'Rohnit was very upset, 'Aunty please, they have locked her in the house and her husband and mother and father-in-law are all beating her!' They won't let anyone in, and the whole village is there. And then, his little face crumpled, 'There is blood Aunty, a lot of blood!' To hell with reason! I jumped up and ran and I saw in the square all the villagers. I saw Kulpana, Kunwar's niece, and I went to her. She was crying. She said, 'He is a horrible man. He needs to go to jail.' I went around and I tried to get information from whoever I could about what was happening. learned the villagers had tried to get in the room, but Preeti's father locked the room from the inside. In turn the villagers put a lock outside the door and called the police. I went back to Kulpana. She looked up at me and with anger in her voice, she told me Preeti's mother had screamed, 'Help me! He is going to kill me!' Oh God, I thought, it is happening. He can kill her and she is defenseless in there. I started circulating trying to ask if we could get all the men to break the door down. 'No, no. he could run away!' everyone replied. ' I tried to argue, 'but she can die in there!!' Everyone turned away. I was ignored. Kunwar stood on the sidelines;He was talking to some of the elder men. He looked worried. I went to him, and I asked why the villagers wouldn't break down the door and rescue her. Kunwar looked at me, and calmly said, "Ah the police are coming. They will take care of everything." My husband who always seems to have such a deep understanding of village matters, who always seems to be right, and who I trust completely, didn't seem to have the right answer for me at that time. I judged him then, 'You are just like all the other men -- you won't get involved to save the life of a woman!' I was angry, scared for Preeti's mother, and have never felt so powerless in my life.
After what seemed hours the police came. Everyone was excited. Many raced after them to the door of the little house at the bottom of the village, and those who could not squeeze through the tiny alleyway, rushed to the window of the house above to listen to what the police were going to say and do. I followed those ladies. One of our students translated for me. The police were asking how the woman had been hurt. The husband said she had done this to herself. "That's not true", argued Ajay, a young boy from the village, "You were beating her! We could hear you!" The husband replied, "No, no, that was just me slapping my slipper against the wall." After some time, the police took him in hand and guided him out of the village. "Good! He is going to jail." Someone said. "How is Preeti's mother? Where is she? Is she ok" I began asking everyone. "She is inside the house." someone answered. "But is she ok? Is anyone looking after her? Has an ambulance been called?" No answer. And then Susmeeta was at my side. "I will take you to her Aunty." We walked down the narrow path to the house. I could barely see, and bumped my head on the low overhang of the roof. Susmeeta guided me up the stone steps and along the narrow veranda and into the large brightly lit room. I could smell blood, and when my eyes focused to the light, I was taken aback. Everyone was seated in a circle along the walls of the room,her in laws among them. I studied her mother-in-law's face for a fleeting second -- what was that look? Remorse? And then in the middle of the floor, looking very small, and very dazed, crouched Preeti's mother. Her face was swollen twice it's size. Her lips were blue and bulged forth. Her hands were covered in blood, and I could see blood stains on the floor around her. But what struck me, what stood out the most was that no one was tending to her wounds, no one was by her side. I asked one of our students standing in the doorway to go and get my medical bag and antiseptic. I took her hand and tried to get her to focus on me. When she did, she began to cry. "He hit me Aunty. He wanted to kill me. They all did." When I lifted my eyes from Preeti's mother, I locked eyes with Reetu. She had been crying. I knew she had seen everything. I searched for Preeti, Arti, their little brother. All were traumatized, hiding like shadows in the background. Ony Reetu showed any sign of cognizance. "Reetu, honey, what did he hit mommy with?" I asked. "I don't know, I didn't look," she cried, fresh tears streaming down her face. My heart wanted to split in two, and I wanted to fold her in my arms and run away with her, protect her from all this horror. I asked for help to get her up onto the bed, but as some of the men came forward, she cried, "No, I will not rest on that bed. Take me downstairs!" The men carried her down the stone steps to the room she had been sleeping in for the past few months. A dirty, torn mattress was shoved underneath her. I asked for cold water and a cloth to bring the swelling down. I worried about what injuries she may have, and I felt helpless in my knowledge of such things. Then I remembered our volunteer Mandy. She had told me she had trained as a nurse. I asked the children to go and get her. When Mandy came, despite her medical background there was little more we could do for this poor woman other than to make her comfortable and try our best to bring down her swelling. By now both eyes were swollen closed, and she was going into shock. We placed a dirty blanket around her and tried our best to comfort and reassure her. "He hit her with the grass cutting knife, Aunty", one of the boys offered -- as if trying to explain her horribly swollen eyes -- "I saw him do that," he added. "Bappa!" She cried, Bappa means father in Jounpuri. "Bappa, help me. Bappa take me," she sobbed. I searched the room. Everyone was standing around us, talking, talking, talking, everyone offering their version of what had happened, what would happen to her husband, how terrible her in-laws were to have participated, "Dirty people!" someone muttered.And then I heard a familiar voice behind me say, "He's a terrible man, her husband." I looked up into the eyes of one of the village men. There was true empathy in his eyes. But just two years prior I have cared for his wife after he hit her in the face with pressure cooker, and two years earlier after he had beaten her with a stick.' Can a cat change it's spots?' I wondered. "Can we call an ambulance?" I asked. More talking, and then, "You want the lady police to come Aunty?" one girl asked. "Why?" I queried. "Because if there is need the lady police will take her to the hospital," she replied. "Oh there is need," I assured her. Then the pradhan (village headman) was summoned and a phone call was made. "Who will go with her?" I asked. Silence. I spotted my sister-in-law. "Will you go with her?" She shook her head. I moved down the row of women standing against the wall, "Will you? Will you? Will you?" And the answer came back the same, "no, no, no." "Why? Why won't anyone go?" I asked. "Because if something happens we will be blamed," came my answer. "Then I will go with her." I said. Mandy nodded, "I also will go." I could see Mandy struggling with the knowledge that no one was willing to put themselves out to help this poor soul. But then came the words from one lady, "You can't go with her Aunty. If you do and she dies, you will be blamed for her death and the family will put a case against you." There it was. How could I be blamed for something I had nothing to do with? I was there caring for her. How could this be? After what seemed like hours the police woman came, and quickly Preeti's mother, now unconscious, was hoisted on a chair and taken to the police jeep. I asked a male police officer, "Can I go with her?" "Yes, that would be good," he answered. I ran to get my purse. Mandy did the same. I entered our room and Kunwar woke from his sleep. "Where are you going?" he asked, "I am going with her to the hospital. She has no one." I said. Softly and slowly he said, "No, you can't go. You don't understand how things work here. If anything happens to her, his family can make a case against you. He might be with the police, but if no one makes a case against him, nothing is going to happen him and he will be released. The police lady will take care of her. And she will be in the hospital and she will be cared for. Now let it be. You have done enough." I stopped. I felt so helpless, but I knew deep down I had to listen to him. Kunwar is a good man, a good person, not a mean bone in his body, and he knows the village ways from a perspective I will never have. And so I stayed.
The next day, the nasty man from the village went to see Preeti's mother and convinced her not to make a case against her husband. He was released that morning, and she was sent home to the village. It has now been three weeks. Preeti's mother stays in the room below her house. Her husband is staying in their cow shed. No one has been charged. Preeti's mother has received little medical attention, but I understand is healing from her physical wounds. The girls have resumed their day to day activities in the village, and life has carried on. But one day, Reetu and Preeti were at my house with some of the other children. I had a chance to pull them aside and ask how their mother was. Both bowed their heads, and muttered, 'fine.' I asked both of them to look me in the eye, and I said this, "Your father is not a bad person, but he is sick and it is the sickness that made him do bad things to Mommy." No one deserves to be hit like your mother was. She did nothing to deserve this. And we might not be able to change her situation, but you do have a choice. You work as hard as you can in your schooling and you do your best, so that one day you will be able to stand on your own two feet and not have to depend on anyone to support you. And know that no one, no one has the right to ever hit you!'
Both girls just looked at me and simply nodded. Did I get through? I don't know, but maybe, just maybe I planted a seed of change. I can only hope.
Post script: I have no idea what Mandy is thinking or how she has processed what she witnessed that night. We never got a chance to talk much and I am sure, like me, she needed time to process what transpired that night. I look forward to hearing her thoughts on this.
cockrell_uk@yahoo.com
