A Christmas tale

 

It was cold. The threadbare rug that did nothing to stop the chill from getting to her heart – while she could hear the man snore. Comfortable, as comfortable one could be, in the rickety old bed that was their only piece of furniture. It was 5 am. She had to hurry if she wanted to sell her wares at better prices, they needed all the money that could be spared in this punishing winter. “They”, she scoffed inwardly. Her husband who had returned drunk, with not a single penny on him. It was a festival day, she had heard – “Christmas”, they called it. People got gifts from an old man with white beard. She, had barely escaped a beating that he was to far gone to deliver, safely distancing herself from him. The pale winter sun had risen. She had to leave. With trembling hands, she pulled the latch across their flimsy door, already dreading what would come once he realized, and adding more to the list of already growing expenses that her frugal earnings would allow. She clasped the thin shawl desperately, in an attempt to battle the cold with the insufficient piece of cloth.

               As she set up her vegetables in the market, she spotted a lady, standing unsure. She had been to her stall quite a few times and so she raised her voice, “Didi, ekhane!” She walked closer. She looked frazzled, petrified almost, falling into a stupor every few moments. She could barely choose the vegetables herself. When she put out her hand to pay, she noticed. Bruised wrist and a nasty burn. She caught her staring and gave a nervous chuckle. “Husband?”, she whispered. A wan smile made its way to her haggard face. “He did not like the cake I made, Christmas needs to be celebrated with friends, he says”, she whispered back, before getting lost in the sea of bodies that crowded the marketplace. The sun set and she had made a good haul, the festive season that everyone seemed to get in the mood for contributing immensely. She hummed as she walked through the congested alleys to her home. She stopped dead. The door was broken. She knew what was coming and dared not step in. She turned around, walking the streets decorated with lights, children in their little red hats. She still had her today’s earnings. It was getting dark, and she knew it would not be safe out in the streets. She could not go back home either. The church bell tolled. She saw a police station in front of her. It was midnight. She walked in.

 

The holiday season leads to increase cases of domestic abuse – the financial constraints and the free-flowing alcohol of the holiday season are marked as some of the obvious causes for this occurrence. The increased pressure to celebrate the “perfect Christmas” is also a catalyst, the women also having to bear the burden of all the preparations. Thus, in many households, the holidays are not all holly and mistletoe. In the story the women are unnamed and undifferentiated because they represent a similar fate, divided by economic class and conditions, but ultimately plagued by the same problem. 

 

Madhurita Mahato,

Content Head.