A Cup of Peace
“The darkest hours are just before dawn”
1965 — India
I sit in my armchair, with my cup of ̶ ̶c̶o̶f̶f̶e̶e̶ ̶ peace.
As I lazily watch the little sparrow hop across our yard, pecking at the scattered grain as if in a hurry to get its share before the pigeons descended, I marvel at the miracle that is my life.
Filled with serenity, I see my two-year old daughter run towards me, laughing. I set my cup down and open my arms to her, careful to keep the hot liquid out of her way. As she settles down comfortably in my lap, I lay back and allow my mind to wander into the recent past.
1958
I was just married and the new daughter-in-law in their household. I was only 13. I cooked, cleaned, washed and helped with the family business, making and packing pickles. Each member of the family — there were six of them besides the constant stream of guests — rolled out orders as if it was their birthright and treated me like a servant.
They did not think twice about abusing me. I bore the physical and emotional abuse. I tried hard to please them. Had I not promised my father that I would do my best to make my in-laws happy? I kept my promise, little knowing the price I would pay.
