Sonia Faleiro

"Between Alcohol and Soap, A Rebellion
Married off at 14 to a drunken cousin, she has lived a lifetime of punishing drudgery. Yet she has found the strenght to stand up for herself. The second in this Tehelka series puts a face to a profile of courage.

On a street narrow as a ribbon, through a door so low you must bend to enter within walls of tin painted sky blue, squats Ranjana Marathe, arranging a banquet. She places two stuffed parathas and a vegetable kofta on a steel plate. Scoops spicy pea curry into a bowl, cool water from an earthenware pot into a steel glass; delicately snips off two bunches of fat yellow grapes on another plate. She graciously arranges the food in front of her guest. The stone floor is strewn with petals; smoke from a posy of incense sticks fills the unlit room.

Marathe, 40, a domestic worker in Mumbai's Dharavi, stayed home this morning to perform a puja. She is grateful that her late husband Gautam, an unemployed alcoholic, died in peace. It took four years, during which Marathe worked in nine houses, earning money for her family of four. She says she worked so hard washing clothes and floors that she knew dawn and dusk only through the windows of her employers' homes. Sometimes, the right side of her body freezes in memory. She must sit still, and wait for the pain to dissipate, before she continues washing, wiping, dusting, sweeping.

In the chawl where Marathe lives with her sons Anil, 24, and Mahindra, 16, her lament is part of a chorus. The men drink themselves into oblivion. When they awaken, they argue with their wives—many of whom are domestic workers—children, and neighbours—a cobbler, a tailor who stitches seats for three-wheelers. The wives would have been on all fours all day, but when they come home, they're back on their knees, scrubbing, or facing their meager wall, cooking. "How does your mother relax?" I ask Mahindra, a tall thin boy in long shorts and a crisp half sleeved shirt. He pauses his game of cricket, confused. Does she like watching films? He stares. "She sleeps," he says. "She sleeps."

Widowed for a year and three months, Marathe's life is no different now, except that she works at three houses, not nine. At one, she washes clothes daily (Rs 150 a month), at another, dishes twice daily (Rs 400), and at the third, dishes thrice daily (Rs 650). On this salary, with help from Anil who earns approximately Rs 2,000 doing odd jobs including painting houses and working as a cleaner in a local hospital, she buys rations (Rs 3,000 a month), pays for the electricity (Rs 200 for two months), and water (Rs 100), and deposits Rs 100 in Sion's Dena Bank. This deposit holds the hope of a better future for the family. Mahindra wants to be an electrician; and though Marathe's unlined face creases with worry at the thought of how much the course will cost, she says, with no little pride, "I failed in the third standard. Anil failed in the sixth standard. But Mahindra will not fail. He will take care of us."

If Mahindra does, it will be the first in a long time that someone has extended such courtesy to Marathe. Her father gave her hand in marriage to his sister's eldest son, who lived in Mumbai. His sister had nursed him back to health from an attack of tuberculosis, and he felt this was the only thanks befitting. Marathe was 14, and his sister had warned: "My son has been drinking since he was 13-years-old. Your daughter isn't safe with him." Nevertheless, the farmer in Maharashtra's Satara district, supporting five people on rice, wheat, carrots, and sugarcane, off a dozen acres of land, also couldn't afford to support a daughter over 13. "Mein bahut darti thi," recalls Marathe, smiling at her naiveté. "Gaon mein sharab nahin tha, aur mujhe malum nahin tha ki peene ke baad log jhagadte hain." (I was very afraid. There wasn't alcohol in the village, and I didn't know that after they got drunk, people picked fights).

In her mother-in-law's life in Mumbai, Marathe saw a preview of her own future. Working her fingers even after they bubbled with sores while her husband, elongated on the mud floor, exhaled alcoholic fumes and snores. Marathe, still a girl, would help her mother-in-law cook and clean. She would pack vegetables the woman would load on to a hand cart, and sell all day. "I could do any kind of work," she reminisces. "But I couldn't study. Now I think, if I had, things would have been different. But I was poor as a child, and because I didn't educate myself, I'm poor as an adult." Her father-in-law, husband, and two brothers-in-law squabbled incessantly. When they did earn money stitching handbags, they demanded fish and mutton for their meals until their money ran out. "My mother-in-law's mother-in-law was the worst of the lot," sniffs Marathe. "She wanted fish for every meal. And that too cooked in mustard oil." The next day, the handcart wound its way to the main road.

At 16, Marathe gave birth to Anil, and the family moved to Delhi. "At that time, in Mumbai, you could get a full glass for Rs 1," says Marathe. "He would drink until he passed out. But he wanted to stop, so he said we should go to Delhi, where he didn't know which shops sold alcohol. But he soon found out," she sighs. "Tab uske andar jawaani thi na, to usko kuch gam nahin lagta tha." (Then he was young; he felt no remorse). Gautam was paid weekly, but unfailingly spent his salary on alcohol. He beat his wife repeatedly on the face; threw her belongings on the road. But she did not leave. "I kept thinking he'll improve. But till the end he remained the same," she smiles, wryly.

Far from home, with two children in her arms, Marathe became a domestic worker. She was 20, and for an hour of washing clothes daily, was paid Rs 150 a month. This is her most profound memory. "The day after I took a holiday, even before I entered the door, my employer would start screaming, 'Why did you stay home? Why didn't you call me?' Arre, let me come inside, start doing work. Then you ask me politely." Marathe's voice rises. "Then she'd stick her head out of the door, and ask her neighbour, 'she didn't come to your house either, did she?'" Marathe is shrill: "It never occurs to them that I may have problems of my own. Kaamwali ko kachra samajte hain, magar kaamwali ke bina unka ghar nahin chalta." (They think domestic workers are trash. But without us, their home wouldn't run.)

After ten years, the Marathes returned to Mumbai. Ranjana felt like she had rewound her life to the early years of her marriage. "He would fight with me a lot, and yet never eat without me. But then he would get drunk again." After Gautam's death from kidney failure, Marathe took 20 days off work. When she returned, she was told that the corresponding amount would be subtracted from her salary. "That family owns two gold jewellery stores," she spits. "I cried and fought so much. Twenty days from a salary of Rs 650! I told my employer, 'I have worked in your house for 10 years. Don't you dare laugh at me. If you do this, I will call the police. I will teach you the law.' The next day, before I started work, she quietly put Rs 650 in my hand. She respects me now. If there are extra dishes, she washes them. She doesn't ask me to do faltu kaam (unpaid work). That's because I know, without me, her house will stay dirty." Marathe looks at her watch, the dial shows 6.15 p.m. She smiles. "See, until now I haven't gone to wash her breakfast dishes."

On another evening, Marathe is one of 11 domestic workers curled on chairs in Daya Sadan, a charitable organisation attached to St. Anthony Church, Dharavi. The women gather every Wednesday under the aegis of the National Domestic Workers Association, to resolve work concerns. Although they appear gay in saris of indigo, peach and pink, and are bejeweled with gold in their nose, ears, neck and arms, each one, barring none, has dark circles under her eyes, ragged nails, and leathery hands. Two women sign their name with a thumb print.

As the occasion demands, Marathe is all business. "Once you get used to working at a place, you think it's your home," she tells her colleagues, who nod vigorously. "But the employer thinks she can now take advantage of you; make you do faltu work. If my job is to wash clothes, she will expect me to fold them, give them to the presswalla; put the kachas and banyans in the cupboard. Faltu kaam karvana hai to faltu paise do. Tumhari chai bhi nahin peenhi, tumara khana bhi nahin chahiye." (If you want extra work, pay me extra. I don't want to drink your tea or eat your food.)

Domestic workers, says Marathe, suffer because they fail to present a unified front. While poverty doesn't allow them the luxury of making demands, the consistent flow of immigrants, always in need of a job, and willing to work for less, also affects the delicate balance current domestic workers have struck with their employers. And working women have esteem in the chawl, which influences those around them. Even women whose husbands "are in service", says Marathe, thus become domestic workers because they like the idea of earning a salary. Explains Mangal Shinde, 42, "Before employers would run after us. But with the Madrasis and Bengalis coming here, they get Rs 400 worth of work done in Rs 150. Now we have to run after them."

More galling than the reduced income, is the fact that the one doling it out, doesn't need to scrimp. Hard chapattis and sour curd meals, a sari worth only Rs 150 for Diwali instead of a month's salary as a bonus, and at festivals, handing out boxes of sweets which are stale, and make the domestic worker ill, are stories the women share with shaking heads. Lilabai, 32, says, "No employer, no matter how rich, has offered me even Rs 1 when I fell ill." She points out, "I'm going to grow old working, and nothing will change in my lifetime, but if we keep fighting at least our children will have some rights."

But what does Ranjana Marathe want? She is thoughtful. She looks towards the door. "One day I'll want to go somewhere. I don't know where, now. Somewhere my heart desires. Then the Government should pay for my train ticket. I won't sit in a train every day, I promise. But for a few days if I could, I would like to leave here."

An edited version of this appears in Tehelka, March 04, 2006.
Photos: Sonia Faleiro

The Other Half Part I.

Labels: Profiles

Fascinating, thought provoking, heartbreaking - journalism at its finest. Thank you.

Very moving post - I hope this will help me be a more compassionate, generous employer henceforth.

This is a great series, hope it is published in more places than Tehelka-needs to be all over the place, I think.

Great article. I am really proud to see fellow Indian youth actually discussing current issues directly rather than sweeping problems under the rug like the older Indian generation. I will be visiting this blog frequently.

Rayan Felix Coutinho
http://www.rcoutinho.com

Rajesh, Reshma, Mumbaigirl, Rayan; Thank you for your comments.

Reading them I'm trying to figure out to what extent my attitude has changed towards the domestic workers employed in my home.

I've always tried to be fair and courteous; maybe I haven't always succeeded, but I've tried. I pay them far more than the employers of any women I met, but that wasn't because of my generosity, but because of prevailing salaries in my neighbourhood. For example, to cook one meal a day, the salary is Rs 1,000. For a full timer from 9 a.m. to 6p.m., it's Rs 3,500.

Salaries are low everywhere in the country, for most jobs, and people must work long and hard to make their basic needs meet. So the salary per se, though a concern for me, is less so than the impact of doing certain things for other people; some things you wouldn't even do for yourself or your own family.

Like washing someone else's toilet, or being a nanny to someone's child while your own are left alone at home, the door locked on them. Or having to look forward to another day of washing someone else's dirty dishes. I've tried more than anything else, to unmderstand the impact of these things on the life of the domestic worker.

Thanks for this wonderful, impactful series. I agree with Mumbaigirl - these articles need to reach a wider audience. Being aware of the acute hardships our domestic workers face will hopefully make us treat them with greater humanity and care. After all, we cannot do without them, can we?

All I would like to say is, there is always two sides to a coin or for that matter a story. While I totally empathise with the conditions of the domestic workers, I would also like to draw your attention to places where the roles are reversed. Domestic workers do take advantage of the situation if the employer is perceived as a soft target. Do keep in mind it is never the ideal world that I would like to beleive in too. And do keep in mind also that the other side of the story needs to be told to really get a full picture.

Suresh: Thank you. I think so too. I'd like to ask anyone who has read these profiles and liked them, to link to them. Lets put the power of the Blogosphere to good use!

Anon: I couldn't agree more. I wanted to talk to all the employers of the women interviewed, but it's repeatedly fallen through either because the domestic worker was reluctant, or the employer was disinterested.

But there's no doubt that it's a story and a side to this delicate, complex, conflicted relationship, which must be shared.

In fact, please feel free to do so in the comments section if you employ a domestic worker, and have something to say.

Anon, I agree that there are many domestic workers who will take advantage of a 'soft' employer, but then isn't that true of blue and white collar workers as well? For the most part I think that goodness begets goodness, and in my own experience, being genuinely concerned about the welfare of my maid and her family has cost me nothing, and has earned me her loyalty, affection and esteem.

I feel that being born privileged in a country which is overwhelmingly poor, we have a moral obligation to be compassionate and generous towards the less fortunate.

A really great story. & the comments are interesting also.

What was really interesting to me & might be of interest to your readers is that; here in the U.S. I run a cleaning service for homes & businesses. I do alot of the work myself & also have employees. I understand the problems between the employee & employer. Except here in my case anyway, if an employee is treated without respect, we drop the client. Also, the employees earn $10.oo an hour. That is considered very reasonable & we have no lack of work.

Thanks for the fascinating post on Indian life.

Dipika: I think while a domestic worker depends on an employer for money, what the latter recieves in exchange is both tangible (work done), and intangible (peace of mind, luxury of concentrating on one's own work, not having to spend hours cleaning up or cooking).

I do know of many employers who feel manipulated, however, particularly when it comes to giving money--this is true more for workers with children.

But while we may complain, and at one level feel taken advantage of, it is as you say, our moral obligation to extend help. And in fact, to do so even before it's asked.

When I was growing up I remember an aunt, who lives in Goa, telling me the one thing she has never done is raise her voice at a domestic worker. She said if you yell at them you will dent their pride, and that is that most precious possession. The same can be argued for each of us, of course, but it makes much more sense in the context of someone who eans little, has little, and expects little from life.

l>t: Thank you for your insight. $10 = Rs 444. So for one hour of work, an employee in your company is paid what a domestic worker in India earns for washing clothes for the entire month, in other words one hour a day for 30 days approx. And this amount is unlikely to change here, because salaries are low, labour is cheap, and people need jobs. That's the bottom line. If one DM stands up for herself and requests a raise, a bonus, or better treatment she can be released immediately because the employer is comfortable in the knowledge that the slum or chawl next door is teeming with unemployed women desperate to feed their family.

Hi, This is Archana, posted before as Anonymous.

Dipika, I agree that "goodness begets goodness" but you'd really be surprised by the number of people who would disagree. As Sonia put it aptly many people feel manipulated by domestic help with children. I just wanted to point out that there are always two sides to every relationship and the other side needs to be explored too. Otherwise it is just a "he said, she said" thing. As for taking advantage of a soft target, it's true of all humans, I think (think of your kids when they know you are soft :-))). I have never ever disagreed that domestic workers should be given the respect they deserve. I totally follow this principle. As for helping the under privileged, I am all for it, man; please don't misconstrue my statement to be fair as being heartless.

Sonia, as for the firing of a maid due to her requesting a raise, I think it is due to a large supply to demand ratio. Any sector that has a surplus of supply for the demand has always been this way, country in question is not a part of the equation. This has been the way with the IT sector too, isn't it? Remember Y2K?

Archana - I hear you. I didn't for a moment assume you were 'heartless', given that you'd taken the time to read Sonia's touching article and even leave a comment. I agree that domestic help tends to take advantage of us sometimes, and it would certainly be interesting to hear both sides of this story.

That said, considering how little domestic workers are paid for the backbreaking, often humiliating work they do for us, the least we owe them is some care and concern - a hot cup of tea and snack for part-timers, a couple of days off a month to spend with their own families, medical attention when they are ill, a box of sweets or a tip at festivals - small touches that won't send any of us to the poorhouse but will establish a more humane relationship between employer and employee.

Sonia, Ur comment on these links link1 and link2

Your writing is sensitive, moving and food for thought. The photographs are evocatively crafted too. Thank you for posting.

Unnikrishna -- those pictures are horrible. Hopefully, the person responsible will not slip through the cracks of the Indian legal system.

Rayan Felix Coutinho
http://www.rcoutinho.com