Short story-- Kya Karta Hai

Kya karta hai? (What does he do?) By Shirin Abbas/ Written 02-02-2018 LIKE hundreds of courtrooms across this country, this one is no different. The entrance spittoon looks like it has never been emptied. The future in sports, cricket in particular, looks bleak. For a country that boasts of the worlds best cricketers, most of those trying a long-distance paan spit, have missed the mark. Brimming with the black coats, amply balanced by male and female litigants, the court is awaiting the arrival of the judge and their fate in Lucknow's family court. After a while you find solace in the monotony of the routine regimen. The clerk arrives with a heap of brown paper files, all meticulously marked and strung together with a thick cord with dumb-bell like ends… to keep the tattered pieces of people's lives in place. The judge enters to put the buzzing murmurs in the room to a sudden stop. The clerk calls out a name. A woman from the back moves to the front … not quick paced… slow, weary and wary, much like the legal processes in the country where time loses meaning and lives get crushed under dusty, unseen court records, buried under more such files, almost into oblivion. "Naam" -- (Name) the clerk calls out "Rupa Rani" "Kya karta hai?" ( What does he-- the husband-- do?) "Pata Nahi ( I do not know) " "Kaisey pata nahi? Pati hai na tumhara" (How do you not know what work he does? He is your husband? ) the judge asks. "Humau kuchchu batavat nahi sahib, poochchin to hadkaye leyt hai” (He never tells me what he does, if I ask he yells at me.) "Janit nahi ho kya kaam kartey hain tumhare pati?" (You don't know what your husband does?"). There is no alarm in the judge's voice. Just a matter of fact tone… you know it’s something he has heard many times before. "Na sahib, par jaavat roz hain. Haath mein kachchu deyt nahi." (He goes every day but I don't know what he does. He doesn't give me a penny in my hand.) she responds. The Judge says something in Peshkar's (Clerk’s) ear and waves to her to go. One by one Rukhsana, Meeta, Vimla, Kashish, Bubbly and more-- all go through the same procedure. One by one each woman takes what should be a stand, but is a makeshift space between the two enclosures on the side. The faces of the other of her sex in the room are marked with tension. Some run their tongues unconsciously over dry lips. Others just cling to the shadows at the end of the room, comfortable in their space away from the scrutiny. Finally her name is called. The young woman is no more than 22 years. A shriveled grape of a woman, her clothes hanging as if on a skeleton, drags herself, as though in acute pain, from the back of the hall to the front, one babe in arm and a toddler. "Shaadi kab hui?" asks the judge, biting his words. "Chaar saal hui gain hai. Four years almost, she answers “Bachchey hain?” Do you have children? The judge inquires casually—as if the one beside her and in her arms have been borrowed from an orphanage en route the court. . “Ekko bitiya teen saal ki bhai hai, bitewa chhatey mahine ka abhain bhawa hai," (My daughter is three. Son is 6 months old. ) “Paisa waisa kuchch deta hai?” (Does he give you any money?) asks the judge. "Naahi sahib, kuchcho paisa nahi deta. Maango to maarin hai" (He doesn't give me any. If I ask he beats me up.)" she displays some wounds that showcase her four years of marriage. "Kya karta hai?," (What does he do) again the same question. She looks like she has been struck dumb. Paralysed in fear. The judge asks again.."Tumhara pati... Kya karta hai?," (Your husband, what does he do –as in work), he asks a second time, louder. It is as if a dam has opened up inside her. She finally can let it all go--- "Maarat hain sarkar, ee dekho yahan maarin hain, yahan, au yahan, aur.." (He beats me regularly—see—here, here and here—he beats me a lot, she answers.) "Arrey karta kya hai," (I asked what does he DO?” an exasperated judge repeats his question. "Maarit hain, " she repeats defiantly, but in a dull lifeless voice now...a voice devoid of hope. "Gawah kaun hai tumhara? Yahan likha hai.. Soni, kahan hai gawah? Soni kahan hai," (You have any witness? You have written Soni here, Where is your witness, Where is Soni?”) a by-now irate judge asks. "Ee hai naa, mor bitiya, Soni," she clutches the hand of the toddler accompanying her and drags her forward. Startled by the sudden jolt—that has broken her awe at visiting the imposing building, shakes the child awake at the sudden transformation from obscurity to limelight. She stares around the room, her eyes scared now. Her mother shakes her "Soni, maarit hai na? Bappa maarit hai na? Batao na sahib lo—kitna maarit hai,” (Soni—does he not beat me up? Your father beats me, right, tell the gentleman here, how much he beats me) her voice now almost pleading with her child to bear witness to her agony," she repeats her question. The girl's eyes suddenly lock with her mother's as the question is repeated, "Maarit hai na?" (Doesn’t he hit me?) A shadow of fear drops across the child's face and she lets out a wail of pure agony, breaking down and sobbing uncontrollably, wailing, flailing her arms as her mother tries her best to pacify the child, now trying hard to free herself . Twisting and turning like a tortured, possessed spirit her screams get louder with each sob. "Arrey koi hatao issey …kahan kahan se chaley aatey hain court mein bachchey lekar?" (Will someone remove this urchin from here please, I don’t know from where they bring their children also in the court.) The exasperated judge orders the child's removal from the court premises. The guards at the entrance carry out his will without a second thought. The plaintiff-- for by now her name has escaped all present in the courtroom-- follows behind them, closely clutching the child in her arms to her breast, which he is trying hard to suckle on and failing, bawls, adding to the din. The courtroom has fallen silent as some lady policewomen attached to the court remove her from its premises. In the now-silent court room none of the men are fidgeting now. Instead, looking here and there, trying to ignore what they just saw. The women exchange shy, furtive moist-eyed glances in silent agony of a shared experience. And suddenly an unspoken anthem fills the silent courtroom. #metoo, #metoo, #metoo #metoo, #metoo, #metoo, #METOO!!! Written after my experience at my own court hearing the Lucknow Family Court on February 2, 2018. Based on a true incident.