Frozen Shoulder, by Anindita Majumdar, Kolkata
Born, raised, and currently residing in Kolkata, West Bengal, Anindita believes in a just and egalitarian world and has been working in the development sector for the last 20 years as a social and gender rights activist.
(Note: names have been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals mentioned in this story.)
What does it take a women to leave an abusive relationship?
When her life is in danger, you would think!
This was the question I asked Manoda Bibi in exasperation, after our fifth telephone conversation in two days. I was not actually wanting her to answer, as I knew that despite my long years of training and working with survivors of domestic violence, the truth remained that the value of a woman’s life is considered practically worthless– all the more so if she is a poor, uneducated, Muslim mother of three girls, like Manoda.
Manoda, a lanky, soft-spoken woman in her early thirties who looked at least 15 years older, with lines and wrinkles cradling her eyes and forehead, was just happy to escape the noose that was put around her neck by her husband two days ago.
But every option I laid out in front of her, from informing police, seeking the help of political leadership, the local Panchayat, or meeting a lawyer, to visiting her parents, was rejected with strong reasoning. With every rejection, my breath started to become laboured, my brows started to come closer and closer, till they became one arching line!
Next time you may not escape, you silly woman! Get out of his grip! my thoughts screamed, and a searing pain shot down from my right shoulder, halting the action of my arm.
“I am grateful for having people around me who want well for me,” she said. “I have invested twenty years of my life– in fact, my entire being– into nurturing this family and making it what it is! I cannot give in and leave. I will stay put and fight.”
I suddenly realize that I have lost my voice. Words like Count us in your fight! or Let us make a safety plan first, fill my heart, bursting to come out.
Instead, I let Manoda know that I hear her and that I will walk along with her and be with her in this journey.
My son comes inside the room and tells me quietly, “Your appointment with the orthopedic for tomorrow has been accepted.”
I sigh deeply, with relief.
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(This story was prepared for an “Imagine Another World” online storytelling workshop held October 16, 2020.)
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