The angels in the house
It is morning in Dhaka, a beautiful sunny day, as always. I enjoy the view from my window while I wait for my tea.
My tea is perfect, made just as I like it. After my second cup, I make my way to the kitchen. Zaheda is there in the sunlit verandah surrounded by an array of fresh vegetables on trays. She looks up and smiles as she asks if I need anything.
I realise that I have been greeted by the same smile and question every day for the last twenty years. Zaheda's hair is tinged with grey now, and her face has a few lines but her smile and cheerful demeanour are the same. Her husband abandoned her, and her daughter is a disappointment, but I hear her humming to herself while she works.
Zaheda is a hoarder. She collects old bags, bottles and tins. She wears patched clothes, claiming they are soft and comfortable, and puts away the good ones I give her to wear. She is thrifty on my behalf too, and keeps a strict count of everything in the kitchen, down to the last mouldy potato and shrivelled okra.
After my visit to the kitchen, I return to my room and find that my bed has been made, and the newspapers laid out for me to read, along with my spectacles. Rabeya has tidied everything. She is plumper than when she first arrived many years ago,and sadder, after a divorce and other problems, but still full of life, energy and kindness. Her young son is the centre of her life.
In her spare time, Rabeya likes watching Sultan Suleiman, or the Bangla news on TV, while she works on her nakshikathas. She always updates me on news of the latest launch capsize, or the newest tremors. I depend on Rabeya to bring me my many cups of tea, charge my laptop, find my spectacles, and even make calls to technicians on my behalf.
There are thousands of others like my helpers, working in homes all over the country. Many of them have been abandoned by their husbands, or are widows. They manage to see their children only a few times a year when they go to their villages; they seldom get to meet their families without being asked for money. They fall ill, but recover quietly, without complaint or fuss.
Almost all of them have lost infants or older children to disease, accident or other misfortunes, and yet one seldom hears them complain. They are resigned to the fact that their lives will be hard, so their grieving is silent.They have little time to indulge in sadness or depression, because in their world there are no cures except work and wages. In spite of it all, they are cheerful, calm and positive.
Women like these, who provide the help we need in our day to day lives, who do our laundry and our cleaning, cook our delicious meals, serve our morning tea and cater continually to our needs, are the pillars of our world. These brave, strong women in all our homes are not just helpers; they are the angels of the household. I, for one, feel that I am fortunate to have them.
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