I’m a woman aged 39. I moved from Badaun in western Uttar Pradesh to Delhi last year. I made the journey with my daughter and mother. I miss my father every single day. He was my daily fix, a welcome habit. There was not one single day that i didn’t spend without seeing or talking with him. Until I got married to the man I thought was similar to him. But I was so wrong until I had it all figured out. It took four long years to watch my husband unravel, layer by layer.
My father, Javed, was an honest and devoted Daroga. He always wanted a son-in-law from the same profession. So he decided to tie me up with a man from the police force. I clearly remember, I was 17 years old. The exact, right time to get married. The turning point of my life.
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Life was good for a year. Then one day, he came home and went into the bathroom. His phone began ringing constantly, and continued for some minutes. I had never picked one up (answered the phone) before this. It sounded alarming to me, so I checked before answering it. What’s the emergency, I wondered? I saw a picture and a name appeared on it. It wasn’t an emergency. I needed to figure out the matter. A lady was calling him. I didn’t decline the phone and waited until the phone stopped ringing, got cut off . It was my daughter who helped me crack the password and then I checked his gallery. I tried to calm down. He took a bath then went back to work. I can’t stop thinking about what I saw and kept asking myself, how should I react?
When you break down, it takes years to stand up again, to mend. I, then, soon confronted him and went back to the home where I was born. It wasn’t my home anymore, according to societal norms, it never really was. But for my daughter, it is hers. I have no other place to escape to. So, I chose to go there. My little girl was afraid. I was, too. My daughter’s father visited there within hours of my leaving and took her to his place in Etawah (Mainpuri). There, he was living a happy life with his wife. His mother is in Badaun where we were living happily until I knew he was not what he appeared to be from the start. He then left Ayesha, my daughter, with her grandmother in Badaun. She was studying at Bloomingdale School, Badaun.
Circumstances changed within some days. I got my daughter back. It is hard for him to raise her wisely. It was then I decided to move from Badaun to Delhi. Here, I have some relatives and father’s pension money in my hands, as a source of living. I live near a very famous mosque. This area is neat and clean. I had stopped the offline education of Ayesha. She continued online from home until I adjusted and figured out who I could trust in this area and whom I could not. This was a mistake. She lost interest in studies and her base interest is now gone. Nowadays, I go with her to tuition classes and take her back with me. The threat is still alive.
Being a daughter of a Daroga, he, my father, taught me to stand up for myself, for what is right. From childhood to my growing years, I saw him so devoted. People around him, mostly his friends, respected and loved him. That was only because of his fair, non-partisan work. He believed in patriotism so much. He helped people. But now what we see around us are foes, all wearing masks, pretending to be great friends. There is no bond among the human beings living in this neighbourhood, today. Bearing in mind these changed circumstances, I took firmer action and got a notice issued from court. This case is now two years old. We are anxiously waiting for the moment of resolution, and wondering how long it will take for us to be back at peace. It’s tough to wait and watch it all out. Our house has no windows. There is no air and sunlight. It’s a cell with limited freedoms.
I am finding my fortune in Ayesha. I want her to be independent. An independent life for her is all I wish for. This is all I wish for. After my husband declined to listen, I am, maybe his wife, but not for the world or others. I have no proof to show that I am married except for some photos. Which ‘they’ claim, are fake. A daughter which ‘they’ do not accept. Within the Muslim community this is such a drawback. We don’t pay attention to details like the proof of a marriage. We sign the Nikaahnama and the bride’s side (ladkiwale) only got a copy of it. Which we didn’t pay any attention to when the marriage took place, though this is so important. The groom’s side (ladkewale) have this document, in my case. That’s where I have lost everything. These are limited sharings which I shared because I don’t want this to happen to women, not even my enemies.
Note From the CJP Fellow: This lady who shared her life experience in just five minutes, she has lived it for five long years. It was on my insistence that she shared her story with us. There’s more she doesn’t want to share, to reveal. At this point, you may decide whether this is really important or not, to have a legal framework for this? Do we (Muslim women) want our marriages to be registered? Do we want a legal document, authorised under law that will stand by us? Does not the Indian Constitution stand by us?
This report is part of CJP’s Grassroots Fellowship Program, and has been written by Shaba, who is documenting lives, conversations around Delhi’s neighbourhoods.
Meet CJP Grassroots Fellow Shaba
Shaba’s family lived in Garhi Pukhta a small town in Muzaffarnagar, Uttar Pradesh. Soon after her birth, they moved to Delhi to give her a good life. She hails from a conservative clan where a girl’s education is not considered a priority. Shaba, who prefers to only use her first name, says she is lucky to have parents who support her.
She wants to be a teacher and is pursuing a Diploma in Elementary Education and has also passed the Central Teacher Eligibility Test (CTET). Shaba also wants to work to make education accessible to the underprivileged populations, and be part of a system that works towards a welfare state. Her top priority is to make her parents proud.
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