She laughs. A lot.
She never uses the word “empowerment”. And yet, she has taught me the real-world meaning of the term. She is a living survival guide for every Indian woman.
Seema (not her real name) is a dear friend of mine. She is a door-to-door beautician – a parlour on a scooter. That is how we first met, almost 10 years ago. She came over to my house at around 10 pm for a waxing session. As two “entrepreneurs”, we connected right away. We both worked long hours; She, as a beautician, and I, as a media person. With that instant connect came her story. One session at a time, and without a beginning, a middle or end. Just episodes that she left for me to weave into a linear story.
It Started When She Was 12
Seema grew up in a small village in one of India’s most backward states.
She was 12 when a young man told her he loved her. She trusted him. He raped her.
When her family saw her belly swell, they abandoned her. A family in the village took her in. (She says she never quite figured out why they were so kind to her.) Their house was next to a railway track, and Seema contemplated suicide several times. Once, she was even dragged away from the tracks – in the nick of time. She tried to track down the man who had raped her. But he seemed to have vanished.
A baby girl was born to 14-year-old Seema. As was the norm in the village, the infant was left at the doorstep of a childless couple.
Marriage
Seema moved to Delhi, worked at a boutique, and almost smuggled drugs for the man who dyed fabric for the boutique. She was “saved” by a marriage proposal from an older man who had another wife. Seema had only one condition for the marriage – that she would be allowed to bring back her firstborn. Her husband forgot the promise soon after the nikaah.
Seema realised she was more a domestic servant, and a sex slave in this marriage of three.
She gave birth to one child, then another. To feed and clothe her two children, she would have to beg the first wife for money.
When she would remind her husband about her firstborn, he would abuse her. She was never one for crying at her fate. But she laughed sometimes at the Muslim woman stereotype her life had become.
‘Bahut Hua’
More than anything else, it was the begging for money that Seema found to be the most demeaning. One day, she walked into the neighbourhood parlour and asked for a job. They told her she could sweep and mop the premises. Her husband beat her up because she had “dared” to seek work.
The day Seema got her first salary was the day she hit her husband back.
At the parlour, Seema taught herself skills like waxing and threading, by observing the other staff. She would take the ladies who visited the parlour aside and tell them she could meet their grooming needs in the comfort of their homes, and at a lower price. That was her first entrepreneurial move. Slowly, she built a clientele large enough to quit her cleaning job at the parlour. She was now earning as much as her husband.
She Hadn’t Planned It But…
The child that she left behind had grown up over the years. It was a 10-year-old that Seema met when she returned to the village. She was shocked to discover that her daughter was being made to dance at gatherings, with men throwing money at her. Seema saved up for a year and went back to ask for her child’s custody – ignoring her husband’s threats. She tried to offer money to the child’s foster parents. After she was turned away, she went to the school and tried to bribe the teacher into letting her take the child away. The teacher changed her mind, after pocketing the bribe.
Seema hadn’t planned to do it. But when she saw her daughter outside the school, she went up to her, convinced the frightened child to get into a cab with her and sped away.
Before heading to the railway station, she brought the child some new clothes and got her a haircut. As they sat in the train heading back to Delhi, Seema knew she had committed the crime of kidnapping her own child. But she smiled, because she knew she had saved a little girl from the bigger crime of prostitution.
A complaint was filed against her. The local police pasted posters with her photo and name all over the village. Seema chuckled when someone sent her a photo of the poster over WhatsApp.
I am almost famous.Seema
She knew she had done the right thing – cocking a snook at fickle fate.
Adversity Strikes Again
Seema had no support from her husband, ever. He belted out his first “talaq” when she kidnapped her firstborn and a second “talaq” on a day his dinner was late. Seema would work late hours, with clients like me, to provide for her children. Her husband told her that if she got home later than 9 pm, she could assume that the third and final “talaq” had been uttered.
On her way back from work one night, Seema looked at the time. It was well past nine. She pulled out her mobile and called her husband : “Mubaraq ho! Talaq ho gaya. (Congratulations on the divorce)”.
She didn't laugh that night. But smiled a huge smile of relief, through her tears. As she drove through the night.
It Doesn’t End With Talaq
There was a twist, like in all tales. The feisty entrepreneur (now with her own visiting cards) was now earning more than her husband could make tailoring sherwanis. The talaq suddenly did not seem like such a great idea to the husband.
Seema decided to stick around after her youngest, a boy, was blinded in one eye during a scuffle at school. (Like I said, adversity was always her closest ally). But when her husband proposed halala, Seema’s spirit broke.
Halala, the maulvi explained, was the only way to reverse the talaq. She would need to marry another man, spend a night with him, and then divorce him so she could once again be married to her first husband. “If you like, I can marry you and bed you for one night,” the maulvi offered. “For that my charges would be Rs 50,000.”
Seema’s husband turned to her and asked her to pay the maulvi.
You just had to see the glee in Seema’s eyes when she relived the moment for me. “I turned to that useless husband of mine and said, “talaq aapne diya (you gave me the divorce)”. I turned to the maulvi and said, “halala se aap paise kamaa rahein hain, toh aap dono ek doosre ke saath kyun nahin nikaah karke hambistar ho jate? (If you’re trying to earn money through halala, then why don’t the two of you share a bed for the night?)”.
Seema said this and walked out. Out of the mosque, and out of the marriage. We laughed a full and angry laugh at her memory.
Now…
Seema has moved out of the house, even though she co-owned it, having pitched in for the EMIs. She works even longer hours now. Her beauty business is doing well. She has invested in a new scooty, and her clientele diary is mostly full.
Her daughters feel Seema has had a tough life, and that she needs some pampering –which is why they have put her profile up on Secondnikah.com .
Seema says the pool of potential suitors is a huge source of amusement. She cracked up the other day, as she breathlessly told me, between tears of laughter, that one of them had asked : “Kya aap main abhi bhi sex karne ki taaqat hai? (Do you have any strength left to have sex?)”
So why am I telling you Seema’s story?
Quite simply because she is my inspiration. There was so much she could have cried about. But she chose to smile her way and tickle every adversity into an opportunity. She is an entrepreneur in the true sense of the word – from starting alone, building her own strategy, to creating her own capital, and hedging all risks.
She has had the most complex, difficult life I know. She also has the heartiest, most uninhibited laugh I’ve ever heard.
Next time you are feeling sorry for yourself, think of Seema’s story. And you will find a solution smiling right back at you.
(Hey there, lady! What makes you laugh? Do you laugh at sexism, patriarchy, and misogyny? Do 'sanskaari' stereotypes crack you up? This Women's Day, join The Quint's Ab Laugh Naari campaign. Pick up that beer, say cheers, and send us photographs or videos of you laughing out loud at buriladki@thequint.com.)
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