Sonia Faleiro

A new series for Tehelka, on the lives of domestic workers.

"Flaming hope, dreams in dust

A mother eroded by work. A daughter’s fragile rebellion. As the Domestic Workers’ Movement gathers momentum, Tehelka begins a series focussing on their lives, despair and hope.

Five members of a family sleep in a seven feet by seven feet room. Mother and daughter on the concrete floor, two uncles and a nephew on a narrow bed. Above the sleeping figures, on a faded wooden hanger, swings a nurse’s uniform, washed to whiteness, starched stiff. It belongs to Kalpana Gaekwad, a child domestic worker in Mumbai’s Andheri West. From 9am to 2pm daily, Kalpana washes dishes encrusted with dinner she did not eat, sweeps floors she did not dirty, pours Harpic into toilets she may not use, wipes the excrement from the bottoms of two children she is not related to. She is paid Rs 500 a month.

At night, she returns to a room so small her father must sleep on the porch of a temple 10 minutes away. In this space which she also cleans, every object, like each person who uses it, is multifunctional. The bed is a sofa, the walls are hangers, the door is a magazine rack. On the fridge sit vegetables. In the girl’s dreams, the vegetables are flowers. One day, she will stop cleaning floors, and will clean only wounds. When she speaks, people will listen. At 16, she has hope. But not her illiterate mother. Although Kamal Gaekwad, 38, has just returned from sweeping two homes, her hair is oiled into place; a mangalsutra and thin gold bracelets add elegance to her appearance. But the scars on her hands from acidic washing liquids, and her feet, harder than the slippers she can’t wear inside the homes she works in, betray Kamal. She must sweep and scrub five houses a day, 7am to 7pm, to feed her family.

What caused this circle of servitude? Kamal and Govind Gaekwad left their ancestral village in eastern Maharashtra for Mumbai 20 years ago. There was no water for the fields, says Kamal, whose mother-in-law continues to eke out a living from the land. Kamal immediately began working as a cleaner. “We are illiterate. What else could I have done? I watched others and learnt.” In 20 years, Kamal has worked in 15 houses. Her husband is a cobbler, sometimes earning no more than Rs 10 a day.

The Gaekwads initially paid Rs 1,000 a month in rent. Three months ago, borrowing from family, they paid Rs 1.5 lakh to buy their current one-room home in the Jeevan Nagar slum. It is through her salary of Rs 2,500 a month that Kamal repays loans; pays for electricity (Rs 150), water (Rs 300), and rations (Rs 1,000). But her salary doesn’t stretch to the needs of six. Each month she borrows more. The interest accrues; a sword swinging low and fast above the family’s heads.

Despite the constraints, Kamal never gave in to the temptation to make her children earn. She educated her daughters, the eldest of whom is now married. When Kalpana chose nursing, she became a domestic worker to help pay her fee. The course cost her Rs 3,800, not including bus fare, uniform and incidentals. “I never wanted my daughters to become like me,” sighs Kamal. “I always told them ‘Study. Do something with your life.’ Main ghasi to ghasi, magar yeh log nahin ghasi.” (If I have to wash floors I will, but they should never have to do that.)

Kalpana says, “Main itni padhi likhi phir bhi yeh kaam karna padta hai. Mujhe bahut bura lagta hai. Kabhi mere ghar mein bhi aisa kaam nahin karti jo bahar karti hoon.” (I’m well educated, yet I must do this. I feel very bad. Even at home I don’t do the things I have to outside.)

Kalpana has been cleaning for two months. Her work space is an unfamiliar ecosystem, from which her only positive expectation is a fixed income. The rules are clear. She is expected to interact little with her employer’s family of five. She washes china and floors, while minding children aged two and eight. But even as she reminds herself that she is only working to make her way through school, the social chasm between herself and her employers often rears its head. “If the child hits the adult the adult will scold, ‘don’t hit me.’ But when the children hit me, I can’t ask them to stop. Their parents look away. It hurts a lot,” she says, her long, bony arms hugging herself. It’s the loss of voice, however, which most affects the young woman. “In my house, if I want to move a vase I do it,” she says. “There, I can’t do anything without permission. I have to do exactly as I’m told. No one listens to what I have to say.” She is instructed and ignored. The relationship between employer and employee is mechanical, she says.

Kalpana’s experiences are yet to fester fully, and unlike many others, she holds the hope of a bright future. Ask her mother, and she will describe the agony of being given a raise of Rs 5 after five years of working for Rs 150 a month at one job. She will describe the feeling of running on a treadmill she can never get off. “If I say, ‘the work is a lot, please increase my salary,’ my employer responds, ‘if you want to leave, you can.’ If I work for Rs 600 a month, some Madrasi will work for Rs 400. Dar ke maarke karna padta hain.” (Out of fear, we have to keep working).

Kamal will console herself saying; “It isn’t as bad as it used to be”. At her first job, she earned Rs 40 a month for sweeping, swabbing, dusting, and cooking from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. She asks, “Accha lage ya boora lage, kaam karma hi padhega. Chakkar aake girenge to bhi kaam karma padhega. Sawaal hi Nahin hain. Kadna padhega.” (Whether I like it or not, I have to do this work. Even if I get dizzy and fall I must keep working. No question. It must be done.) Kamal never discusses her work with her daughter, but Kalpana knows when she has had a bad day. “If someone yells at mummy, she yells at me.” Later, Kamal acknowledges, “If my employer is upset, she takes her anger out on me. I take it out on my children.”

It is in the time between cleaning her employer’s and her own home that Kalpana finds her solace. Every afternoon, she takes a bus to a Goregaon hospital, where she is studying a year’s course in nursing. In a plastic bag is the uniform she has washed and ironed for herself. She sits in a classroom and inscribes pages of theory. In a snaking queue she follows the doctor as he instructs his wards in caretaking — of a kind very different from what she is currently doing.

Where did Kalpana find her dream? She’s one of 40,000 child domestic workers in Mumbai whom Mario Remedios, Programme Coordinator, Domestic Workers Movement, describes as “unseen, unheard, unspoken of”. Her mother is one of 800,000 adult domestic workers in the city. Her parents worked the fields before migrating to Mumbai. Her uncles are jobless.

The neighbouring homes in this suburban chawl teem with daughters forced to follow their mothers into domestic work because of too little money and too many compulsions. Kalpana’s neighbour Reena, 16, is the second eldest of seven daughters, each of whom left studies to clean houses. Reena has worked since she was nine. “My father was an alcoholic before he died four years ago,” she says. “We had to pay the rent.” Kalpana’s frail physique and hollow cheeks suggest anaemia. She has spent her life in and out of the doctor’s office. Did those visits inspire her to go to a place so removed from her life?

Seven months ago, the National Domestic Workers Movement began working in Jeevan Nagar. They encouraged Kalpana to study a vocation. They suggested teaching, nursing or tailoring. Kalpana chose nursing. “Mujhe doosron ka seva karna accha lagta hai,” Kalpana explains without irony. (I like serving people.)

Unless Kalpana succeeds, there is an inevitability to Kamal’s life. Labour until she can no more. She says, “I’m old. There’s nothing for me. If my children are educated and have a good life, my work’s done.” Her ambition for Kalpana isn’t because she feels her life will improve. Kamal knows society defines a person by her profession which makes her visible or invisible. Kamal wants her daughter to be visible. She says, “I’ve always thought if my life is so difficult because of my work, how much worse it would be for them.”"

Tehelka, February 25, 2006.
Photo credit for Kamal, 38 and Kalpana Gaekwad, 16: Sanjiv Valsan.

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Very moving post.

Thanks Sonia.

as always sonia, a brilliant post.

thank you

n!

Why don't the men in her family work? One also needs to ask that question. In a family which lives a hand to mouth existence, every adult must learn to pull his own weight and not rely on soneone else. This is especially true in case of men, they need to earn. And it is not that jobs are not available, I don't think there is a dearthof menial jobs around.

Another excellent piece of journalism - many thanks for posting here as Tehelka is often hard to obtain. I find your writing consistently brilliant - meticulously researched, thought provoking and extremely well written.

Will check back for the remainder of this series.

In a different vein, I also enjoyed Feedo's bai saga immensely :)

Best wishes,
Sridhar

Thank you for writing about this disadvantaged segment of Indian society, one that is indispensable to our everyday lives and yet treated with disdain, even cruelty by many of us.

The photos are very evocative too.

Thanks for posting.

Been reading your posts for some time now, but this one provokes me to comment - both on the plight of these unfortunate people and on its brilliant portrayal.

"Kalpana washes dishes encrusted with dinner she did not eat... wipes the excrement from the bottoms of two children she is not related to..." Indian Writing in English is in some very competent hands. Thank you.

Thank you, all. And if you live in Mumbai, and would like to suggest someone to interview for this series, please email me.

Sonia, this is good writing, tells me of the situation as good I can see it with my own eyes. But if one is looking for solutions there are few clues. I would like to move beyond Stage 1: This is great writing with focus on a much-needed subject to Stage 2: What can be done about this? This may be pushing the bar higher in terms of research on their economic reality and problems they face. An example is the loan market they are subject to, how does it work, why the high interest rates? How far they have to travel to their workplace...this has relevance for urban planners. It will be great to go beyond the human interest angle and have solution-oriented stuff as well. Looking forward to your posts!

women, there lives are like firewood burning for others. once they become ashes they are used to clean dishes...there life is spoilt for the family...these workers are paid..whatabout the unpaid labourours in our own home?
an excellent journalistic work

A moving article. I pray for the girl to succeed. I wonder whether the Domestic Workers Movement is a governmental organization or not. I will try to get to know more about its history and founders.

beautiful article and makes me realize that
a) we have been paying our bai too much
b) a raise of Rs. 50 might incite her to acts of extravagance (frugality and simplicity is the cornerstone of anyones life as you know, including my own).

But jokes aside, I see things from a different perspective now...and I really wonder how my bai can still smile and be as jolly as she is with all this to contend with!

She's probably a better person than I am.

Naveen, good suggestions, thank you. I'll keep them in mind.
Luciole, the NDWM doesn't have a website, but for more information you can email jeanne@bom8.vsnl.net.in This is the id of Jeanne Devos, who started in the movement in India. She's based in Mumbai now, and is the starting point for any information you may require.
Feedo, I doubt you're paying your domestic worker too much! I don't think, sadly, that any of us can be accused of that ...

Sonia, thank you for the references! All the best for your work!

Hmm... looks like we are paying our bai too much, Rs.2000 per month for washing dishes and sweeping :) Atleast thats what my mum would say if she read this :) I think talking about bais, about how many holidays they take, how much their pay is etc. is such a hot topic amongst the house-wives in Bombay.
Sonia, in Bombay, many people bring little girls ages ranging 6 to 14, from villages in Gujrat, Karnataka etc for household work- this is because they get cheap full-time labourers. Also, I think people feel that they are doing a good act as these little labourers get better food and clothing living with them than they would living with their own poor family back in the village (which is actually true). But I still feel this is child labour, it would be great if you can interview someone in this situation. I love your articles, they are a great read.

PSB 2006: The plan is to interview one of the younger girls, definitely.
You're right, it is child labour under 18 legally; and not all of them have it better here than they do back home.

One of the domestic workers I spoke with said children were preferable to employers not because they could be paid less (because they had less experience), but because they could be told anything and made to do anything, and being young, they rarely resisted.

Thats sad :(

This is terrible. 500 INR a month?