It was in the summer of 1984, that I first visited, Dehradun, Uttarakhand(India). My husband was serving in the army then and we had just shifted to the cantonment area called Clement Town in Dehradun. A sleepy little place, it had all the comforts an army wife looks for; a cozy house, a good school, ‘bazaar’, the park, all within walking distance of the house. All I needed was a housemaid who could help me with the household chores. Being a working woman I needed someone who could be with the children, in case the need arose. A day after we had shifted to our house, I was busy unpacking all the stuff we always lug around due to my husband’s nomadic army life and as I was rummaging through one of the trunks, there was a knock on the door,

’Come in ‘I said.

A tall lady with a charming smile entered and said very politely  ‘Good morning, Im Dayavati. Your neighbor has sent me. I believe you are looking for a new house maid”.

Dayavati looked like a Godsend at that time. ‘Of course I am,’ I replied. ‘Come in and tell me the kind of work you could do’.

Well, things worked out well between me and Dayawati and she joined work from the next day. It was evident the children liked her because there were no complains or protests from their side; she in return showered both my children with a lot of affection.

I got to know about her life as the days passed by; a life no different from many like her who are uneducated and married off at a young age. She had a husband, a complete drunkard, much older than her in years. She had borne 8 children! The youngest was two when she came to my house. All the money she earned was used to feed and clothe her family. Her husband never paid any of the bills and wasted all his earnings as a clerk, in buying and drinking country liquor .Most evenings he would come home drunk and demand food and comfort as if it was his birthright, and if things weren’t to his liking, in fits of rage he would brutally beat up Dayawati or thrash the kids into submission, if they cried out too loud.

One morning Dayawati , walked in , not looking her usual self, the left side of her face all black and bruised up.

‘Did your husband beat you again’? I asked.

She nodded her head.

‘Why don’t you do something about it? I said in anger.

She slowly held my gaze as if to ask,  ‘What can I do?’

‘Well to begin with you could hit back at him when he raises his hand on you. Let him also get to feel the physical pain one experiences when one’s body gets battered up.’ I replied. 

Dayawati’s  look conveyed shock and surprise. In a voice, just above a whisper, she asked, ‘ Beat up my husband? How can I do that? We have been brought up since childhood, on a steady diet of being told to be submissive and obedient to all that a husband asks of you.

 ‘Yes I know ’ I said. ‘But does that include your being bruised, bashed, kicked around, abused, overworked, exploited every single day of the year. Shouldn’t you be allowed to show some self respect to yourself, once in a while at least!’

But how does one show self respect to oneself, she asked.

‘By demonstrating and resisting abuse from others’, I said. ‘Try it, it can be very empowering, but you have to do it yourself. Next time he raises his hand, remember my words. Steady your hand and just hit back. After all a drunken man has very little control over his faculties’.

Dayawati kept quiet. Her look conveyed that my words were sinking in. She finished her work and went home. A few days later, as she walked in, there was a trace of a gleam in her eyes and the hint of a bounce in her feet.

’You look like you are in a good mood’ .I asked with a smile.

‘Yes I am’, she said. “Do you know what happened yesterday’? My husband came home drunk as usual and started hitting me because the food wasn’t ready. He hit our youngest and in that drunken state also bit the boy’s finger. I just couldn’t take it anymore. Remembering your words of retaliation, I picked up a burning wood from the kitchen ‘chulaah’ and hit out at him. My husband fell against the wall and looked up dazed at me. I was standing there with the burning wood in my hand; a strange pleasure seemed to engulf my body, as if all the pain and suffering of all these years of abuse was drawn out in that one action of mine. I heard myself saying ‘If you dare hit me and the children again, I will throw you out of the house and complain to the police! I refuse to take this uncouth behavior from you anymore.’ To my utter surprise he crouched against the wall asking for my forgiveness. He did not utter a word after that.”

Before going home that day she said,’ Thank you for telling me that if one wants to be respected one must exert one’s authority when required or else the whole world takes advantage of you.’

In the four years that Dayavati worked for me, her husband had not raised his hands on her even though he continued being a drunk. Many years later, after we had moved out of Dehradun and moved on in our lives, I heard that she too had got the courage to move on. She got her children married and built herself a small home with her earnings.

I may have provoked her to retaliate that day, but it was she who instilled self-respect in herself that empowered her to live her life with dignity.