<p>A couple of years ago a small house was rented out in our locale to two women. Within a matter of two weeks, eleven women started living on the premises. The ladies belonged to different age groups, religions and sects. They seemed to be from a neighbouring state. They did not look well off.</p>.<p>That explained why they had decided to share one home. The neighbourhood was not exactly pleased with the idea of having such a large population of women in their midst. Everyone was on vigil. After all, one needed concrete evidence to vacate them from their rented property.</p>.<p>However, it appeared that the women were way too decent and busy to take cognizance of the resentment that enveloped them. A month passed by. Whenever a maid availed leave, a desperate homemaker would rope in one of the ladies to help her out with her chores.</p>.<p>Slowly but surely, each one of the women was absorbed as a domestic help. They blended seamlessly as indispensable hands in almost every household. Their hardworking and non-interfering nature made many of us curious. Nevertheless, they maintained a stiff upper lip contrary to their tribe. When we celebrated a festival at our home, we invited the women to offer them the traditional Haldi and Kumkum. The women seemed to be taken aback. One of the younger women called me aside and said, “Akka, do not offer us the Haldi Kumkum.”</p>.<p>She thumbed out the sacred yellow thread from her blouse furtively and whispered, “All of us are either widows or abandoned women. The yellow<br />thread each one of us wears does what our drunkard husbands did not do; it protects us from the probing eyes of wicked men. We have come here to work and earn for the upkeep of our families back home. We do not expect anything else. ”</p>.<p>She walked back to her friends who were ready to leave. They reminded me of Wordsworth’s ‘Solitary Reaper’.</p>.<p>Almost immediately, similar sentiments echoed in a famous Hindi song drifted past. “Na main sapna hoon ya koi raaz hoon ek dard bhari awaaz hoon.” ( I am neither a dream nor a secret but a voice filled with melancholy). I realised that these women were worldly, wise and independent women who had fenced themselves off intelligently and effectively.</p>
<p>A couple of years ago a small house was rented out in our locale to two women. Within a matter of two weeks, eleven women started living on the premises. The ladies belonged to different age groups, religions and sects. They seemed to be from a neighbouring state. They did not look well off.</p>.<p>That explained why they had decided to share one home. The neighbourhood was not exactly pleased with the idea of having such a large population of women in their midst. Everyone was on vigil. After all, one needed concrete evidence to vacate them from their rented property.</p>.<p>However, it appeared that the women were way too decent and busy to take cognizance of the resentment that enveloped them. A month passed by. Whenever a maid availed leave, a desperate homemaker would rope in one of the ladies to help her out with her chores.</p>.<p>Slowly but surely, each one of the women was absorbed as a domestic help. They blended seamlessly as indispensable hands in almost every household. Their hardworking and non-interfering nature made many of us curious. Nevertheless, they maintained a stiff upper lip contrary to their tribe. When we celebrated a festival at our home, we invited the women to offer them the traditional Haldi and Kumkum. The women seemed to be taken aback. One of the younger women called me aside and said, “Akka, do not offer us the Haldi Kumkum.”</p>.<p>She thumbed out the sacred yellow thread from her blouse furtively and whispered, “All of us are either widows or abandoned women. The yellow<br />thread each one of us wears does what our drunkard husbands did not do; it protects us from the probing eyes of wicked men. We have come here to work and earn for the upkeep of our families back home. We do not expect anything else. ”</p>.<p>She walked back to her friends who were ready to leave. They reminded me of Wordsworth’s ‘Solitary Reaper’.</p>.<p>Almost immediately, similar sentiments echoed in a famous Hindi song drifted past. “Na main sapna hoon ya koi raaz hoon ek dard bhari awaaz hoon.” ( I am neither a dream nor a secret but a voice filled with melancholy). I realised that these women were worldly, wise and independent women who had fenced themselves off intelligently and effectively.</p>