Mona - A Story (Chapter 8)

Index of Journals

    
And now I’m with Ashish. Whatever problems or joys I have, I just tell him. My daughter is now in 12th grade, and that really worries me. All I want is for her to do something soon and pick a good course that doesn’t take too long. But she’s talking about taking NEET, and I’m afraid—wondering how it will all work out, especially since I don’t know much about it. I pray to God that she chooses a good path and finds a way to finish her studies quickly. I can’t tell my daughter directly that we’re short on money, but I can tell God. So I don’t tell her; instead, I pray to God, trusting He’ll work something out. For now, my life is going smoothly—my job is fine, and the budget is okay.

My husband lives in our village. I got two bighas of land as my share, and I have it farmed; we get some money from that. We’ve been farming for seven years without issues. But now there’s a new tension at home because my husband has started staying in the village. My mother-in-law cooks the meals that my husband eats, and he helps out a bit around the house. We have cattle at home, and he takes care of them and milks them. But the family has started asking him to pay for the food—imagine that. They even demand money from their own son for two rotis. My husband is simple-minded, so I tell him, “If you’re going to live in the village, then figure out your meals yourself. What can I do from here? I’m working, looking after the kids, and have so many responsibilities.” Things stay calm for a while but then revert to the same old problems. I just hope my daughter picks some quick course and gets settled, because I don’t have much in my budget. Most of our money goes toward food, phone bills, the children’s school, tuition, and my daughter’s other needs. I’ve raised her really well—made sure she eats and drinks well. Whether or not we have money, I’ve never let her feel deprived, never said no to anything.

When I was in the village, I also worked—managing responsibilities at home. Our house in the village was being built, and about ten laborers came from outside to do the construction. The question arose: who would cook for those ten people? Either we’d hire someone, or one of those workers would have to cook. I spoke privately with my brother-in-law, saying, “Can I do this job? Whatever you’d pay them, just pay me instead.” He laughed and said, “Come on, Sister-in-law, why do you need to do that? You have everything you need at home—just tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you.” I replied, “No, Munna-ji, I don’t need anything. Just tell me—can I do this work? I like to work.” He agreed, saying, “No problem, go ahead. It’s all at home anyway; we have the gas stove and utensils.” Then I said, “Please don’t tell my father-in-law I’m getting paid for it, or he won’t let me do it.” He said, “Alright, it’s settled. Start cooking tomorrow.” I added, “I need some payment in advance,” and he said, “Sure, whatever you want,” and gave me 9,000 rupees upfront.

When my father-in-law came from Ranchi and heard, “Mona’s taking over the cooking,” he was delighted. “This is great,” he said, “Mona will cook,” because they’d save the cost of hiring a cook—three people were pooling money for the house, plus my father-in-law contributed, so he was happy. It wasn’t out of kindness that he let me do it; he just saw an opportunity to save money. But I knew how it really worked. I took payment for my cooking and had already collected an advance from my brother-in-law. I cooked for about two or three months. Then, when it was time to pay me, my father-in-law found out that “Mona is taking money.” He made a huge fuss: “This is housework, and she’s charging money?” I said, “Why shouldn’t I? When the household itself tells its own daughter-in-law, ‘We don’t have money,’ even though we’re farming, selling milk, and I’m here looking after everything—your son, the house—and I’m your daughter-in-law too, why can’t you pay me for my work?” Those things made me really sad. I saved every rupee I earned to take care of my own needs, and when I visited my parents, I’d say, “I got this money from there,” and use it for my daughter, buying her creams, paying off small loans, and anything else she needed. It was painful living there—I would cry over small things, from underwear to vests, because I had to beg for them. Whenever I needed something, I’d ask my husband, who would ask my mother-in-law, who would ask my father-in-law—and only then would I get it. That was my reality in those days. I had no desire to go on living like that, yet still I…