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Slice
of Life
The
Superwoman
Richa
Jha
She
wakes up with the alarm at 6.00, quickly ensures that her
children's clothes are in place; starts waking up the children
in the other room – and this is just round one (which
self respecting student ever woke up without some dire threat).
In between the several wake-up calls, she hurriedly gets
ready, and then finally pulls her children out of bed. Around
this time, she also starts waking her still snoring (despite
this morning pandemonium!) husband, dashes to the kitchen
(let's assume she has help there) and hurriedly asks the
bua to prepare breakfast for the family. Back again into
the children's room to make sure they haven't dozed off
on the toilet seat, back in the bedroom to finally drag
the husband out of bed and shove the toothbrush into his
hands. Rushes back into the kitchen to instruct the bua
on that day's meals, forces breakfast down her kids' system,
rushes with hers (or skips it altogether), collects her
bag and dupatta, enquires one last time from her children
if they've packed their school bags with the right day's
books, and out they all leave for their respective areas
of work.
At office,
between fielding questions, shaping responses, strategising,
presenting, planning, executing, or simply jesting with
colleagues, the unrelenting pressure is killing. There are
days when she wishes she could hang around with her younger
colleagues after office hours, but there's always that home
plunged in expectations and responsibilities to get back
to. Every moment counts.
On her
way home she stops by to pick up fruits and vegetables,
collects her child's bicycle that went in for a minor repair,
sits with her children for their homework, or, drops them
off/ picks them from their respective tuitions. Just when
she sits to finally stretch herself on the couch comes a
call from her friend reminding her of that evening's get
together.
On her
feet again to dash in for a quick shower, she rushes through
her make-up, changes into something gorgeous, makes sure
that her husband has not worn burgundy socks with blue shirt
and tan shoes, ensures that the children have had their
dinner, tucks them in bed, steps out worrying if the bua
has turned off the gas, switched off the geyser switch,
and has bolted the door secure from inside. Then there's
also that nagging concern that they'll be terribly delayed
in reaching their venue because there're still those flowers
to be picked up. She presses the door-bell, draws up a deep
breath, and enters a room full of curious on-lookers.
And
then she smiles; for smile is what you have to do when you
meet people. Her smile helps her mask her worries, momentarily
helps those puckered signs of tension of having to sleep
again with half-prepared office presentations and leaking
drain-pipes ease from her forehead, helps others believe
she is glowing in her efficiency, and makes other women
envy this super-woman.
She
chitchats, she eats, and smiles some more. Behind those
beguiling smiles hide the drooping eyes, the mild head-ache,
the revolting body joints, the aching feet. Behind those
most heartfelt invitations to others for a get-together
at her place in future lies a mind that has already raced
to the day she'll be managing the feast over and above her
regular chores. She looks at her watch and signals to her
husband to leave. Tomorrow is yet another day…
That
sounded like the most monotonous piece of writing you've
ever read, didn't it? Just think about the person who has
to perform this drill every single day of the week.
Not
to mention in passing that this was a crisis-free day for
her when the domestic aid arrived, and arrived on time,
or she herself did not wake up with a massive upset tummy
after the previous night's dining out, she did not discover
a hole in her saree when she took it out to wear it in the
morning, the driver landed and landed on time, the car didn't
break down around the corner of her colony, she didn't spend
an hour at a busy intersection waiting for the traffic to
move, her boss did not expect four presentations from her
by evening, she did not receive a mid day call from the
school demanding an explanation for why no one had collected
the kids from school even an hour after school (it was the
husband's turn, and you know what happens when fathers are
given school duties…), she did not have to dash home
from work because her mother-in-law was feeling slightly
un-well, or because her child had jumped off the balcony,
her child did not bring home a note saying the geography
project had to be submitted by next morning (so she didn't
have to sit up all night completing it for him), and so
on.
I am
glad I am not a super-woman.
Copyright
(R) thedailystar.net 2004
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