Hi, I am Mary. And I am a working lady. In our society, women who work are rare. But I am glad my husband allowed me to work. It’s so liberating. I wake up at five in the morning, do all the household chores, get everyone’s breakfast and lunch ready, and prepare for dinner. Then, I wake everyone else in the house up, and help them dress up for their work.
I take a metro to my office, and though I have to face workplace harassment sometimes, and save myself from people’s oogling eyes, I consider myself lucky that at least I am working. I see my male colleagues in the office getting a better pay than me, even though we do the same work. But then, I consider myself lucky that I can work.After a tiring day of working my strength out, I take another metro back home while my husband takes his car. Stuck between sweaty people, all smelling bad on the train, I make a space for myself and safely avoiding people’s eyes and touches, I get down from the metro.
I come back home to see my little boy playing football, and my mother-in-law sitting in front of the TV set. She tells me what a tiring day she had, as I make tea for her. After she sips her tea quietly, I make my son sit down with his homework and help him in completing it, as I slightly press my mother-in-law’s feet. After she dozes off, I get up to prepare for dinner.
Preparing dinner, I put on the TV shows that potray, bahu’s being scolded by their saas as they do the most normal things. I consider myself lucky that at least my family allows me to work.
At approximately ten in the night, my husband comes home, smelling of a cheap rose perfume and alcohol. I serve him dinner and after he is done, I put my son to sleep. As I prepare for the next day, completing some of my office work and listening to my husband rant about his day, I realize I am lucky.
As everyone in the house sleeps, I do some minimal things like cutting vegetables and cleaning the house up a bit to make my next day a bit easier.
At around twelve, as I retire to bed, I hear my husband snoring. I am too tired to talk about my day, or say even a word. I simply crawl up the bed, and as my husband notices my presence, he comes forward to make love to me. I am tired, too tired to protest, and plus, he is my husband, I am obliged to do whatever he wants me to.
I consider myself lucky, as I stare at the ceiling at one in the night, when I am unable to sleep, because the bruises his love gave me, hurt way too much. I consider myself lucky, my husband loves me so much. I am a lucky woman, I say to myself. It’s always good to be home. *IT’S ALWAYS GOOD TO BE HOME*
PS. As I consider myself lucky yet again, irony smirks from behind the curtains.