The Chai and The Children
“But what about the children?” a feeble murmur escaped her lips.
Sarita did not know the name of the woman who was crying in front of her, clutching onto her cotton saree with a big chai stain on the pallu. Those were the last coherent words the woman muttered before breaking into a sob which rendered her speech incomprehensible. Sarita was just about to leave her office when this woman barged in. Sarita had hardly paid attention to what she was saying, but she knew exactly what the woman had to say. How? Well, she walked through some variation of this story almost every day. She had watched it replay over and over again, so much so that the ending was too predictable. The story made her nostrils flare up, she would do what she had to, lend her helping hand. But as soon as she stretched her hand out, the woman who came to her crying would refuse to hold it.
Chitra. The woman who had barged in today was named Chitra. She glanced at her pallu, and the chai stain was too hard to miss.
“Was the chai too hot today?” Sarita scoffed.
“Yes, madam.”
Sarita glanced at the scratches on Chitra’s cheeks which she constantly adjusted her pallu to conceal. Sarita promised herself to never get emotionally involved again, these stories end all the same. She made the same promise the last time, and the time before that, and before that, and for as far back as she could remember. Needless to say, she failed miserably, again.
“Do you make your own money?”
“Yes.”
“How much do you have right now?”
“None.”
Shaking her head with a newfound kindness Sarita asked hopelessly, “Why do you give him all your money? Does he hit you? You can charge him with domesti-“
Chitra interfered, “No. No madam, I don’t want to charge him. I want to leave him. Please help me madam I want to go far away.”
Sarita’s eyes opened wide as her lips curved into a small smile. This was usually the moment the crying woman would leave her office and return home, the very same home she came to seek refuge from. Perhaps Chitra would chicken out too but this was more conviction than Sarita had seen in ages.
“But what about the children?” Sarita questioned, wondering if Chitra meant what she said.
“Yes madam, what about the children? I will leave but how do I take them with me? I cannot go back to that house.”
Sarita had hopes for this one. Perhaps she would take a brave step towards a free life. A freer one at least. She probed deeper into her story, wanting to know every minute detail. Perhaps this could be the inspiration she could offer to the next woman who barges into her office with her version of the same story.
Chitra was a young woman barely in her twenties. She was married before eighteen and bore her first child while she was a teenager herself. But Chitra had gone to school. She was bright and she was promising. Her youth was alas lost to a man well in his thirties.
“Madam he beats me for money every day madam.”
“Why did you wait until today?”
“He tried to burn me.”
Sarita gasped in disbelief.
“His chai was too hot; it burnt his tongue. His breath smelled of alcohol. He tried to shove my face in the chulha.”
Chitra had two sons. Had it not been for them she would not have waited so long.
“Madam what about my children madam?” she enquired again.
Sarita suggested the legal route – a domestic violence charge and a divorce.
“Madam I have no money.”
“Don’t worry about it. Where do you want to go?”
“Anywhere but here.”
“Do you know how to knit?”
“I will learn.”
“No need. Cooking?”
“Yes.”
Sarita suggested a paying guest a lady ran in Delhi, where she would only employ women who were seeking refuge from their families. Chitra could both work and live in the paying guest facility.
“But madam what about the children madam?” furious, Chitra enquired again.
“Save yourself first. Give me your address. I will take care of the boys.”
Sarita held Chitra’s palms into hers, assuring her that it would be all right. Sarita made the call and Chitra was on the next bus to Delhi.
“Please take care of my children madam,” teary-eyed, Chitra shouted as the bus set in motion.
Sarita glanced at her watch. Quarter to eight. Her husband must be home. Her children must be back from his coaching classes. The momentary hope that ran through her body following Chitra’s escapade gradually vanished into thin air as she walked towards her car. She stopped thinking about her promise to Chitra, she would save her boys tomorrow. She had bigger problems at hand in that moment. She drove her car as fast as she could. As she walked into her house disgruntled, and immediately made herself busy preparing chai for her husband, she was met with a thankless taunt.
“I come home from work tired and can’t even get my chai on time,” her husband standing beside her yelled in a volume as though Sarita was on the other side of the house. As if her work was not supposed to be tiring at all, she wondered to herself.
The chai was too hot, her husband burnt his tongue. In a fitful rage, he smashed his cup on the floor. Chitra reflexively rushed to wipe the floor clean.
“You are overreacting,” she whispered.
“Oh really? Then burn yourself someday,” he yelled again.
Peaking from the bedroom curtain, she saw her younger one watching. Sarita shot a smile at the child, concealing all her rage.
“But what about the children?” a feeble murmur escaped her lips.
By: Sneha Negi
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