Our Mindset Episode 38
It’s true. What kind of husband stays in such a place for a mere seventy rupees a day while his wife endures so much hardship—especially when he has land and a house back in the village?
I told him, “Let’s leave this place and move to our farm. We can sell the old house in the village and use the money to set up a water source there.”
But he always had some excuse. Even when I warned him that my parents wouldn’t tolerate this any longer, he remained indifferent. Instead, he turned to me and said, “If you want to leave, go live with your parents.”
He knew they wouldn’t take me back. And now, our daughter, Aparna, was six years old—I needed to send her to school. Before, things were different. The children were small, so I could always run back to my parents’ house and stay for as long as I wanted. But that wasn’t an option anymore. I had to settle somewhere.
Now that the whole village knew about what had happened, people stared at me whenever I walked past. I felt ashamed. What must they be thinking about me? My anger toward my husband grew—if he had just listened to me in time, none of this would have happened.
Caught up in all this chaos, we even forgot to go to the market on Sunday.
I told him, “Mami must have given you some money—buy some groceries and meat with it.”
But he said, “Use your wages instead. You’re working every day now, and I’m not home most of the time. What if someone sneaks in and steals the money? Let’s keep my money safe with Mami. Once we sell the pomegranates, we’ll get a lump sum.”
He made it sound so convincing. Back then, I didn’t even understand what a bank was—I only knew about passbooks. Even though I didn’t agree with him, what choice did I have? How were we supposed to manage a household on just a hundred rupees and a few pounds of wheat each week?
He took full advantage of the situation. He spent my wages on household expenses while secretly borrowing an extra hundred or two from Mami—money he used every Sunday to buy groceries for another woman. I only discovered this while going over our expenses.
At the time, vegetables cost just two rupees per bundle. A hundred rupees could fill an entire shopping bag, but it wasn’t enough for groceries. Cooking oil cost twenty-five rupees per packet, and mutton was a hundred and fifty per kilo. The hundred rupees from Mami barely covered anything.
I stopped caring about my husband; my children became my priority. Before enrolling Aparna in school, I wanted to visit my parents’ house, even if just for a short break. A few days away might help me forget everything.
So I called my mother and told her everything. She said, “We’ll come there tomorrow. We’ll talk to Mangu and Mami. If they refuse to take responsibility, we’ll bring you back with us.”
The next day, my parents arrived with Mangu and Mami. My mother reminded Mangu of his promises when he first brought us here—how he assured them everything was taken care of and that we had nothing to worry about. But in reality, there was no proper arrangement. We had two small children, we were living in the middle of the fields, and there wasn’t even electricity in the house.
My father turned to my husband and said, “Did you even ask that man why he entered your house? That’s your job. You should have gone to his home and demanded answers.”
Mangu was at a loss for words. He muttered, “The farmworkers beat him up, so I didn’t say anything.”
My father then told my husband, “Pack up your things. We’re not leaving our daughter here, and neither should you.”
That’s when Mangu and Mami started panicking.