Little Manju trudged along steadily balancing the large bundle of fodder for the goat, topped with a smaller bundle of firewood on her head. Dusk was seeping into everything while night stealthily overtook it. Scared of the dark, she hastened her pace, even as her small feet ached and bled, walking over the four kilometer long stony dirt road which cut into her feet over which she would tie bandages with some rags or plastic bags ripped into strips. Her hands too ached with holding and preventing the large load from slipping.

Reaching the small tin shack where she lived with her parents and four siblings, she called out to her father, Bisnu who quickly came and relieved her of the burden. Seven-year-old Manju came back daily around this time from her chores at the mill owner’s house.

 Bisnu worked in a steel utensils mill ever since he had migrated to Yamunanagar from his home in Kathmandu ten years back. His eldest son, Narain also worked with him. The kind mill owner Santosh Chowdury had agreed to let Manju work in his house. She worked diligently at cleaning, dusting, washing utensils and clothes in that large household of seven.

A cheerful and playful, cherubic looking child, Manju was robust as is the wont with most Nepalese children. She bore no resemblance to her Haryanvi mother, who was thin and bony, her expression always nasty and angry, short tempered making life hell not only for Bisnu, but also the children. She would often thrash Manju for reaching home late and would yell at her to start cooking the evening dinner as soon as she arrived. The poor child had no respite. Fed up with the daily bickering Bisnu one day left Manju at Santosh’s house to live and work there. His wife was kind to her and gave her plenty to eat but the little child went through a grueling time doing all the household chores. Often she would go to sleep hungry because she would be too tired to eat, her eyelids drooping involuntarily.

 One night fast asleep in her snug quilt, she felt a sharp shooting pain between her legs. Turning on her side she felt someone lying next to her. As she froze in fright he put one hand on her mouth while he kept stroking and groping her inappropriately. It hurt her terribly but she could not speak. Opening her eyes with fright she realized it was the old grandfather, Santosh’s father. After some time he took her hand downwards. It was at that moment that she kicked him hard in his groin, jumping out of bed and switching on the light. Wincing with pain and mumbling under his breath about getting into the wrong bed in the dark, he shuffled away to the adjacent room where the grandmother slept oblivious to the goings on in the next room. Everyone else in the house slept but Manju stayed awake crying, afraid to shut her eyes.

Next morning she went about her work in a haze with downcast eyes—nobody could see or guess that she hurt both physically and mentally, her innocence plundered overnight. The molestation became a pattern and she, riddled by guilt, shame, pain and hurt slowly withdrew into a shell. After eight months she went home for Dassehra and never came back telling her father that the workload was too much for her.

Soon she went to work for another family where she spent four years learning the ways of the rich, their deceptions, greed, rivalries and hypocrisies but also the artificial polish and grace with which they conducted themselves in life. She wore finer clothes, learning about etiquette and deportment, carrying herself with the airs of the privileged.

Although withdrawn she felt drawn towards men and curious about sex. Adolescence awakened all the romantic notions about love and marriage in her tender young heart. She blossomed attracting both admiring and lewd looks from most men. At times she felt inclined to succumb to her own need for love but the trauma of her molestation had scarred her for life and she remained aloof though yearning.

The driver Mustafa’s son, Salim, also worked there as a helper. He was good looking and good natured and would often look at her with longing and desire. Slowly she too became attracted and they would steal moments of togetherness whispering endearments. He tried embracing her once and she withdrew, visibly disturbed. Adolescence if shadowed by dark brooding memories is doubly perplexing. For the young man it was an added propelling force and he wooed her with greater fervor. Although her heart was with him, possession is meaningless if there is no surrender.

One day she told him…

You are closer to my being

   When I deny myself

   The luxury of meeting you

   Or, hearing your voice.

She became two persons, herself and her impersonations, wearing different masks to hide her pain. Her inner self knew she had to break the old pattern, establish new polarities, instill her being with new vitality but time with its endless trail of sorrow, pain and shame kept her poised at the edge never letting go of her yesterdays.

One day Salim surprised her by holding her tight in his arms and planting a tender kiss on her lips; a kiss that drowned the memory of every pain and healed the wound that had till then bled incessantly. Taken unawares she blushed and hid her face. Salim kissed her again, now more passionately and slowly she responded too. Unknown to them one of the cooks saw them and that evening Manju lost her job. She cried throughout the walk home and the whole night through.

 The momentary ebullience and sweet pain of love was replaced by shame and a sense of being cheated. Life couldn’t be cruel always she thought; there had to be some reprieve. Overcoming all defeat she firmly resolved to change the course of her life. Although her nights were spent brooding over what had happened; a sense of loss and regrets and clinging to the memory of having discovered and tasted love, she resolved not to preserve the remnants of the past living on leftovers.

She trained under a seamstress, at a bakery, in a packing factory and even sold flowers at the traffic light signals. By then Manju was adept at many things and earned her own livelihood as well as substantiated the family income. Their neighbour who had a nephew who purportly ran a readymade garments business in Ludhiana, acted as matchmaker and at fourteen, Manju was married.

******

 A young girl came up to me at the end of my first address to a group of Alcoholics Anonymous, saying, “I’ve heard so much about you. Can I talk to you alone for some time?”

“Yes, of course,” I said.

“Ma’am, my husband has also come for the meeting. We are facing lots of problems in our life,” she spoke in Hindi with a strong Punjabi accent.

 Her husband was short and skinny.  His small beady and shifty eyes were sunk in their orbits and he looked emaciated and sickly. He was cleanly dressed but looked a typical drunkard off the streets from his expression and body language.

I had to address another meeting and did not want to rush them so I told them to accompany me and we could talk on the way. During the half-hour drive and many meetings later alone with her, I learnt about the twists and turns Manju’s life had taken after her marriage. I woke up to the realities of a life lived as a co-alcoholic as she and her children reeled under the pressures of alcoholism, poverty, disease and abuse. Most of all I was amazed at the resilience with which she kept herself afloat in spite of repeated setbacks and to analyze her life situations and find mature solutions.

 With marriage to a drunkard who raped her on the first night and was physically and verbally abusive because of his own complexes and shortcomings, life became a nightmare for the young girl who had dreamt of deliverance from all pain through marriage and often she would contemplate suicide. All the work he did was occasionally sell readymade garments from a wheel barrow in the busy market place behind their house, with most of the money going down the drain as cheap country liquor.

 Pregnancy settled matters as she bore two sons at ten months difference. She started working as a salesgirl at a general store owned by a gentle and kind lady, Kusum, who even allowed her to leave her two sons with her own toddler son of two at her house close by. Her salary of five thousand rupees seemed like a fortune to Manju. Guided by Kusum she invested one thousand per month. She would teach her some English and Hindi as well as Arithmetic and soon Manju was able to read and write a little bit. Soon Kusum started taking her to meetings of Alcoholic Anonymous where she learnt to look inwards for solutions and when I met her, at eighteen she was living with far more awareness and spiritual strength than any other person I knew of her age. I was very impressed to learn that within a few months she had managed to convince her husband, Kishore also to attend these meetings and when sober he would express regrets over his behavior. When he ran up a debt of seven lakh rupees she was hounded by the money lenders who threatened to harm her sons. Overcoming panic, she borrowed from different people and paid off some money and is still paying the remaining amount. I asked her once if she never thought of walking out on her husband. She said, “Ma’am, it is some karmic debt I have to pay. If not now I will still have to pay it later. He has nobody else in the world who understands him or can look after him.”

During our subsequent meetings I learnt that she had been attracted towards another AA member who was sympathetic towards her and would often contribute towards her house expenses. She confided to me that she had been involved with him physically too. I explained to her the repercussions, medically and emotionally about sex with multiple partners and her own moral degradation. The man had a loving wife and two young daughters and was well to do but had a roving eye. Painfully and very gradually she distanced herself from him but at heart she still pined for him. While she fought her own demons the man tried to re-establish relations but the attraction petered out when he got transferred to Delhi.

I have known her for more than fifteen years now. During this period she has changed jobs twice and now earns about thirty thousand rupees per month. She substantiates this by doing a beautician’s job on weekends. Both her sons are working having studied up to twelfth class. The elder one had started working and took over the fathers work from age ten along with evening school. She is planning to send the younger one to college this year.

A few days back I got a phone call from her and she spoke excitedly and with great joy and pride in her voice. The money she had saved while working for Kusum had grown enough to pay for her one year’s fees towards a course in NIFT. Her voice choked with emotion as she told me that she had already filled in the forms and was attending classes from the coming week onwards. I congratulated her at this great leap forwards, inwardly wondering how she would cope up with the lessons in English. When questioned she said she knew someone there who also was a student and would help her out after classes by translating and guiding her. She was exuberant with her achievement and seeing her dreams taking shape. Another angel came to help her out and steer her forwards while she grasped life by both hands changing its course.

 I was not only in awe of this young thirty year old having travelled this long, painful and arduous journey and her aim to touch the rainbow she always aspired to reach one day. I offered to lend her some more money towards her second year’s fees but the self respecting girl refused politely saying she would ask me for it if needed.

As I salute the woman of substance inside that young soul I pray and look forward to the day when she is sure to reach the pot of gold at the end of that rainbow she painted reaching for the sky as she walks towards her destiny creating a brave new world of her own.

 (A true story; fictionalized and briefly narrated. All names have been changed..)