Our Mindset Episode 32
A thought crossed my mind—I should pack a bag and take the kids to my parents’ house. But what was the point? It had become a routine. In seven years, we hadn’t spent even fifteen days together in peace. He always listened to others over me. Our fights erupted whenever there wasn’t enough food for the kids, and I would leave for my parents’ house.
After a few days, when he struggled to manage his meals, he would come to take us back. And my parents, thinking of my future, would convince me to return. What difference would it make if I left again?
Bruises covered my arms and back. Thorns had pricked my skin. I got up, washed my hands and feet, and saw the other women working while glancing at me. He didn’t realize that his actions were making him look bad in my eyes.
And when a husband and wife have conflicts, there’s always a third person waiting to take advantage. The first to seize that opportunity was none other than his own brother-in-law, Pradeep. It was such a trivial issue—if only he had given me as much of his salary as he could spare every week, if only he had let me do household chores on Sundays instead of forcing me to work elsewhere, we could have been happy.
My husband’s aunt knew him better than I did. She understood his habits, his temperament, and his thoughts. She knew that if he was well-fed, he would do as he was told. He was so greedy for food that he wouldn’t even skip a meal at a funeral. If he saw a banquet, he would invite himself in. When delivering milk, he would eat whatever leftovers were available—morning’s leftovers at night and night’s leftovers in the morning. His appetite was insatiable.
Sitting idly wouldn’t help. So, I sent Aparna to ask him, “Papa, can we go to the orchard to collect grass for the goats?” He agreed. He and his aunt both knew that the goats would only get their feed if I brought it. Every day, after work, I would carry bundles of grass home. He couldn’t refuse me this task. So, taking a towel, a sickle, and the kids, I went to my sister-in-law’s house.
She had no idea what had happened at home. “You are so unreliable. You always break trust. And why does your face look swollen?” she asked.
I wanted to cry. Aparna blurted out, “Papa hit Mommy.”
My sister-in-law assumed this was the first time. She said, “Call your parents from my phone and ask them to take you home.”
But how could I explain to her that, in my family, a husband hitting his wife was no big deal? My father used to beat both my mothers. If I told my parents my husband had hit me, they wouldn’t find it unusual.
Back when we lived in Akluj, my husband had beaten me in front of my mother. She didn’t argue with him—she fell at his feet instead. And when he was done hitting me, he sulked and left for his sister’s house.
I was pregnant for the third time, and he kept pressuring me to get an abortion. I was terrified, so I refused. He beat me and dragged me to the hospital, using my own mangalsutra to pay for it.
Once, he came home from his night shift while Aparna was still a baby. I was cooking, and she started crying, disturbing his sleep. That was enough reason for him to hit me. Another time, he was playing cards, and I complained about it. He got furious that I had spoken up in front of others. He punched me in the mouth so hard that my teeth cut into my lips, leaving them swollen and bleeding.
People assumed he had bitten my lips out of affection. They laughed. But I knew the truth.