Life at the bottom of the pile

The maid who cooks for us has lately become a bit irregular. Considering that she has been with my in-laws and us for years, we initially gave her a bit of leeway. But when we found that she had also become a bit more cheerful than usual, we could not help but ask.

Then what she revealed made us cheerful too. She has somehow become a beneficiary of a state welfare programme that gave people below a certain level of income a modest sum to build a pucca house of their own. To be eligible she had to own a little bit of land and how she came upon it is another story that goes back quite a bit. 

She used to cook for a Marwari family and they loved what she served up. Then one day when the dida (grandmother) heard that the maid had a chance to buy a small plot of land where she lived on the outskirts of the sprawling metropolis, she offered to help. Soon the family went and inspected the plot, had a search done of the land records to ensure it was not encumbered, and in good time their gift to the maid was the plot of land which she could call absolutely her own.

That is where things stood for years. Our maid did not have the means to build even a single pucca room. That is until the welfare programme rolled out and took her in its fold. I have naturally become keenly interested in the unfolding saga of her house and keep asking how far things have progressed. 

The story, joyful so far, has thereafter become a bit complex. Getting your name on to a government welfare programme is one thing, making it deliver is another. Ever since she opted for the programme she has had to pay endless visits to various government offices. This explains why she has become a bit irregular.

But as the money has slowly started trickling in, little bit at a time, there have been other developments. One, men from the Pradhan’s office have dropped by and given a long list of what they were doing in getting her money out. For this, they said, she would surely give them a little something (it works out to over 10 per cent of the total). She hardly has a choice and so has agreed. To say no would have meant antagonising them and that would do no good.

Then, even after she gets a cheque in hand, getting the cash is another matter. After the disruption caused by demonetisation, banks have not fully got their cash act together. Thus sometimes there is no cash at the local branch or no cash payment even on a working Saturday. 

One day she said the brick, sand and cement have come and on my prodding admitted that she has had no choice on who to buy it from. This means on quality and price she has to take what comes her way. The “syndicate” from which you have to buy is a well-known reality in West Bengal, which covers absolutely everybody who wishes to go in for some construction. 

After crossing the successive hurdles posed by cheque, cash and materials, construction should have started immediately. In less than a month it will begin to rain. But the last time I enquired she said the construction could not start because for a few days now there was a terrible water shortage in her semi-urban neighbourhood. This is common when temperatures rise just before the rains. 

Like her, I remain optimistic that eventually her house will get built and the quality of life for her will change immeasurably. She will no longer have to live underneath a tin or asbestos roof and will be able to use a pucca toilet. Who knows, eventually there may even be piped water. 

As things have progressed I asked her one day what her husband had to do with the project. Her vehement reply was, “Absolutely nothing, this will be my house.” Her husband plies a cycle-rickshaw on the days he decides to work, hands over to her what is left, if anything, after he has had his day’s quota of booze. 

She has had no education, can just about sign her name and cannot read signs. By working as a maid she has brought up a daughter and a son. They have had some education. The daughter has a little daughter and our maid, who will be around 40, is a grandmother. Mentally (she is becoming more prone to forgetting things) and physically (every so often she complains of one ailment or the other) she is past her prime.     

There is almost nothing special about this story of the life of a poor woman. But it says so much about where we are. What is special is the two breaks she got, one from a kindly employer and the other from a well-meaning, fumbling and flawed state.

subirkroy@gmail.com