capitalism.txt

Priya

The household ran surprisingly well even with Rajesh gone. The sheer truth was he'd never done much outside of planting or harvest season. The children were far more silent than normal, not even crying. One day Amit and his younger brother had come back from their school (six miles off in another village) hours earlier than usual and then never gone again. They hadn't said anything, but it was clear they'd been told to leave. Priya couldn't give them the money for an exercise book or pencil anymore. It was regrettable, but fine, fine. She needed them around the house now and it wasn't like they were going to be doctors or lawyers anyway.

They could, Priya thought, sense their mother on a knife edge. She wanted to scream at them sometimes, just to get a response.

The money had completely run out. There wasn't a paise left in the house now, so Priya set her two older sons to shelling peanuts every night. There was no flour and barely any oil. She would bash the peanuts to fragments, and throw them around in the karhai with a little pepper and some wild onions. It made a wretched meal, but at least they weren't starving. Fuel, she worried semiconsciously, might become an issue; even with peanut shells to eke it out, the cow dung she was cadging off her brother in law's wife could become a source of resentment. That was the last thing she needed. That household had its own difficulties; if they couldn't afford charcoal this winter they would be relying on the dung as well, and ill inclined to hand it out. In which case, all Priya's food would be raw.

The most humiliating part was knowing what the greater part of the money had gone on. Not food, not fuel; it was the repayments. But she hadn't been able to scrape together anything for a month now, and the other women in the loan group were running out of sympathy.

Was it smart, she considered, to keep attending the meetings? She had, in theory, no good reason to go. They were for collecting and coordinating the payments, and she had nothing to give. And watching the others pool their coins, while she stood to the side with her face turned...it would be agonizing shame.

They were still civil, even kind, to her face; but she'd heard things. She went to the communal tap in the night now, shivering with cold, just to avoid running into anyone. On the way she would walk right by Amrit's house, and one time her voice along with outspoken Hiran's were clearly audible coming from the courtyard at the back.

"Between you and me," said Hiran, "she's taking liberties. God, this is crippling me, I don't know about you."

"Be kind. She's on her own now."

"Aren't we all? You know men never do anything, especially in the winter. Besides is it our fault her husband killed himself? I'm not sure I wouldn't, married to her."

"Hiran, you're so bad!" giggled Amrit. And the two faced cow was the nicest of all when Priya was in front of her! Soon, she knew, they wouldn't even bother hiding it. That hardly mattered; words were words, and she wasn't a little girl. She didn't have much to take either; worthless bits of jewelry, pots and pans. No animals either. But the land? the house? Could they? They'd all signed over their family's land as security, as you could get so much more. The Grameen man had waved his hand, explaining how seldom repossesions happened, and that it was next to impossible with resourceful and clever women like them. It was really just a formality.

No one would get their legs broken, and noone would be raped. What was the worst that could happen? She'd known these women all her life and she had ended up sucking the blood out of them. They had husbands and families and influence of their own. The bonds of a lifetime could be broken. Priya's entire place and role - as dimly as she sensed it - would begin to decay and collapse. You could sooner live without air than in a village where you had earned everyone's mistrust. That dull constant terror was worse than anything else. She almost found herself wishing someone would just do something terrible to her instead. Beat her, brand her, cut her ears off. Because then it would be over and she would go back to her home and her land and her children, and keep on trying to piece life together again.

If she could hang on until the spring...could she work on someone's farm? Hah! When they were pulling the peanuts up there had been no shortage of young strong men desperate for a job. How could a thin and malnourished woman who had borne four children compete with them? And there wasn't any other paying work to be had around here. People sewed their own clothes or churned their own butter and made their own dahi if they were well off enough to own a cow. There was no hope of making a living out in the country.

That would leave Jalandhar. Wasn't it ridiculous, the spectacle of a lone woman heading off to seek her fortune in the city like a boy of sixteen? She couldn't bring her children with her, and even sending them money would be problematic at first. Noone would take four extra mouths to feed, either.

Although, she reflected, if she gave each of them to one household it might conceivably work. Amrit and the others clearly hated her but might just be eager to see the back of her. And she was sure that (except Hiran) they wouldn't take it out too harshly on a child. And it certainly made more sense for Bablu's family to take in one, or even two of the boys rather than continuing to hand out charity.

She came to herself, suddenly looking up. Lost in thought, she'd managed to smash the peanuts beyond fragments, to a crumbly oily meal. Ach, chhi chhi. Well, at least she'd know what to cook when everyone's teeth started falling out from scurvy. The shadows were growing long already, and the sun was sinking behind the low hills, beyond where the city and the future all lay.