“I had those dreams a long time back. Now, I have learnt to deal with the reality,” she says.[break]
Bimala Bhandari was born in Chhatiun, a small village in Hetauda, twenty three years ago. One of the seven children of a poor farmer, Bimala does not have happy memories of childhood. Her parents were forced to send off their children to bigger cities to work as household help. And when a policeman from Kathmandu wanted to “gift” her to his sister-in-law, her parents were in no position to object.
Photos: Bhaswor Ojha
“My younger brother had recently disappeared from Birgunj where he was sent to work. But our economic condition was so bad that my parents decided to send me away,” she recalls.
Her new “masters” fed her, clothed her and provided her with a roof in return for her labor. Her mistress had two baby girls whom Bimala had to take care of. She distinctly remembers puking while washing the babies’ soiled nappies. But that is not the issue that pains her heart. Her biggest lamentation is that they never taught her how to read or write.
“I can barely write my name. My hand shivers the moment I hold a pen,” she smiles sadly.
When she was fifteen, a boy from neighborhood came to her master’s house with a marriage proposal. The entire family seemed to realize for the first time that their servant girl was growing up.
“As an unmarried young lady, I became a burden to them. They did not even try to find out much about the boy or his family before approving of him,” she says.
She finds it difficult to describe her emotions as she was being dolled up for the “wedding”. Practically a child herself, she was being tied to a boy that she barely knew. And before she could even make sense of what was going on, the marriage ceremony was over. Her masters were happy to get rid of her and relieve her of her duties.
“I screamed, cried and begged my husband to take me back. But they fell to deaf ears. Slowly, I realized that this was my new life,” she says.
Her husband, an SLC graduate, was a painter by profession. But since painting jobs were not regular or well paying, most of the economic
responsibilities fell upon her delicate shoulders. And due to the lack of education and skills, all she could do was domestic chores. In addition, when she was barely sixteen, she got pregnant with her first child, a daughter.
“Our condition was so miserable that our neighbors collected money to pay the hospital bills and feed me during the postnatal period,” she says.
She had no choice but to go back to work right after the baby was born. Her husband, at first, protested. But the lack of job and rising economic crisis silenced his pride and concerns. Her first child was barely two, when she got pregnant for the second time. The situation, by then, was so bad that she decided to abort the baby, a son. But the fear of health complications stopped her from taking that step.
“I was working until the moment I gave birth. Nobody took me to the hospital. This time, it happened in the solitude of my room,” she tucks away a strand of uncombed hair.
Things got more difficult after this increase in responsibilities. Minimal income and degrading health conditions had made her life bleak and desolate. One of those days, her neighbor took her to a church. The church not just promised to fund one of her children’s education, but also consoled her that her health and spirits would get better.
“So, I converted to Christianity,” she says, simply.
Although she has been living in Kathmandu for sixteen years, she has hardly been out. She does not even know where New Road, Baneshwor or Pashupati are. The only places that she has been to are the houses where she lives and works and the church that she attends for prayer every Saturday.
“I visited my parents for a week last month when my husband took me to Hetauda. It’s the first time in fifteen years that I got a break,” she says, a smile briefly lighting up her prematurely lined face.
The short respite has done nothing to ease her life though. At present, she works for almost twenty hours a day and earns a meager six thousand a month. She is already sending her kids to a boarding school and has to pay their fees on time. She remembers those initial days when she had to tie up her babies, lock them in the room and go to work. When she returned, they would be lying in a pool of their own urine and feces.
“There was no way out of it. We couldn’t even go to my husband’s village in Sindhupalchowk since we don’t know the rural chores,” her voice trembles a little.
Ironically, despite being so poor, she lives with an extremely affluent family. They have given her two tiny rooms in their compound and she is responsible for serving more than a dozen family members along with their battalion of dogs and others pets. Her current “masters” are Brahmins who do not eat anything cooked by anybody except other Brahmins. They have a Brahmin cook. She, being a Chhetri, is therefore forced to clean and wash for the cook and his family as well. In return, she neither gets a penny nor a crumb.
“Last Dashain, they slaughtered half a dozen goats and yet did not spare a single piece for my kids. I’m only staying in that house because the walls are high and my kids cannot go out on to the streets,” she sighs.
Despite a mountain of economic troubles, there is always a smile on her face and a twinkle in her eyes. Her own health is fragile because of a recent gall stone surgery but she wants to send her husband off to the Middle East for better job. Her only worry at the moment is that a small spot on his chest due to his past addictions of smoking and drinking will ruin this prospect.
“I work at four places. I have a home, a husband and two kids. I can’t waste my time fretting over how I look or where it aches,” she dismisses her health issues with a casual wave of hand.
Right now, her kids are her priority. Her own parents had to part with her early on because of poverty. Her major concern is to keep her kids with her no matter how tough things get. She wants her daughter to become a nurse and her son to become a pilot. It seems like her heart is tracking its way back to those forgotten dreams, albeit through her kids.
“I never got a chance to live my childhood. But I will never deprive them of theirs. It’s not something I owe to them. I’m doing it for myself,” she says as she finishes doing the dishes and picks up the broom.
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