Our Mindset Episode 24
As I was leaving, she said, “You really don’t understand, do you? That’s why I worry about you.”
It was funny—Patil had been making plans involving me, which he shared with Baloo. And Baloo, in turn, shared everything with his little group of four. That’s how she knew everything that was going on. She just couldn’t tell me directly.
She said, “Look, there’s always work on my farm—harvesting vegetables, picking greens. I need a woman to help me in the fields every day. If you’re free, let me know. I’ll pay you daily wages. Bring the kids along, work with me the whole day, and take home some vegetables and grass for your goats. Think about it and let me know.”
I agreed and went home.
That night, as we lay in bed, I brought up the topic with my husband.
“We have land, don’t we? So why did you bring us here instead of farming it? Let’s go back. You know how to farm—we can cultivate our own land.”
He shook his head. “It’s not that simple. Our land has no water supply—not even for drinking. The irrigation system isn’t set up, and we can’t even access the community water line. The land hasn’t been officially divided yet. And even if we wanted to arrange for water, I don’t have the money. Call your father—if he’s willing to pay for a borewell, then we can think about going back.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. He had never spent a single rupee on me in seven years of marriage—not even for a simple pair of bangles. And now he was expecting my father to fund a borewell?
The first time he visited my home, he took our old wall clock. After our engagement, he took our television. After our wedding, he took a pregnant buffalo—nine months along. No one knows what happened, but it bloated up and died. Every time I asked for something, he conveniently remembered my parents. I had no choice but to depend on them.
I wanted to return home, so that night, I called my father and told him everything.
He sighed and said, “I don’t have money right now. I’ve put up the one-and-a-half guntha plot in Kirtinagar for sale. If it sells, I can help you with either a borewell or a motor pump—not both. Tell your husband to arrange for half the money himself.”
Neither we nor my father had the money. That much was clear. Returning home wasn’t an immediate option. Expecting my husband to contribute financially was pointless. That’s when my friend’s offer seemed like the only practical choice.
But there was one problem—I wasn’t physically strong enough for hoeing. I could stand, squat, and bend while working, but sitting on the ground for hours and using a hoe was impossible for me. I had suffered from chikungunya before. It hit me one morning while I was making chapatis—I suddenly cramped up and couldn’t move. Since then, I hadn’t been able to do physically demanding work.
I told my husband, “Until the dry grass in the sugarcane field is cleared, I’ll go to Bhabhi’s farm to collect fodder.”
Without looking up, he said, “Go wherever you want, but don’t nag me. The grass in the orchard still needs to be cleared before Mami arrives tomorrow.”