The Foreign Service Journal, June 2005

enough to purchase a fewmore spices or a bottle of sweet- scented shampoo. Months pass. During Madhura’s pregnancy Prem- kumar spends even less time in the confines of their little room. She is spared her husband’s carnal lust, but also his pocket change. To pass the time, Madhura frequents the Meenakshi Temple, where she prays to the goddess to protect her and the unborn child. She enters the temple through the colorful eastern gateway and passes into the columned hall filled with a thousand votive lamps. Madhura studies the sculptures carved into the tall stone pillars; they tell the tale of Meenakshi. Madhura now knows the story well: the childless king of Madurai performed regular poojas before a sacred fire in hopes of attaining an heir. During one of these rituals, a 3-year-old girl came out of the fire. The king adopted her, but worried about her deformity: she had three breasts. However, a divine voice assured him that the third breast would disappear as soon as she met her mate. The girl grew into a brave and beautiful princess who won many battles for her kingdom. She eventually lost her heart to Lord Shiva. As soon as she saw him, her third breast disappeared and she recognized her divine consort, for the princess was none other than Shiva’s wife, Parvathi. After ruling over the kingdom, they settled in the Madurai temple. On leaving the temple, Madhura passes the elephant that confers a blessing on those who can afford to feed it a banana. Madhura is not one of those. Soon after, she is blessed with the birth of a small, but healthy baby girl whom she names Meena in honor of the goddess of the temple. Premkumar returns to the marriage bed. Madhura distracts herself with thoughts of Meena now. She feels Meena’s small hand grip her finger. She smells Meena’s sweet breath caressing her cheek. She hears Meena’s chortle when she tickles her brown belly. And she waits for Premkumar to finish and fall asleep. Before Madhura turns 17, Premkumar’s drinking has become habitual and his reporting to work erratic. He loses his hotel job. With no place to live and no money, Madhura returns with her toddler to her mother’s home in Vadipatti. Premkumar promises to send for her when he finds a new position. Weeks, then months, pass and there is no word from Premkumar. Desperate to provide for her child, Madhura agrees with her mother that she must find work to support the three of them. Each daybreak, Madhura leaves behind the village’s chai and bidi wallas, stray dogs and sweet morning air to join the stream of men and women headed toward the main road with its honking of buses, tempos, motorcycles and auto rickshaws. On the carriageway small groups of day laborers, clad in flip-flops and faded dhotis and saris, clutch their aluminum tiffin boxes filled with dhal and chapatis or sambar and idlis, and watch expectantly for foremen in belching lorries to stop and offer them work. With little education, this is Madhura’s only hope for a job. Today, a burly and greasy-haired Mr. Das descends from his lofty lorry perch and scans the group of waiting women. He selects those that look like they will not cause trouble and are used to manual labor. A smile plays at the corners of his thick lips when he spots Madhura. A rush of gratitude causes her to smile back as he beckons her into the back of the lorry with the other workers. She will spend the day with the other women balancing a reed bas- ket on her head filled with dirt and stones, deposited there by the men digging trenches for new sewer pipes. Back and forth, back and forth, under the hot sun, from the trenches to the waiting dump trucks, her damp sari now tucked up between her legs. Lunch is a welcome relief and she sits under the shade of a broad-branched peepul tree with a few of the other women to scoop up the but- tered dhal with a dry chapati and sip on sweetened chai. Mr. Das checks on his other work sites throughout the day, and returns with a wad of folded rupees as the sun dips behind the western Kodai hills. He scans the group of tired laborers for Madhura and gives her a few rupees to go buy him more bidis at the stall down the road. Meanwhile his yellow-stained fingers quickly count out the stacks of bills, handing 100 rupees to each man, 50 to each woman, as he ushers them into the back of the wait- ing lorry. Before Madhura returns, the lorry is gone. Mr. Das sits high in his seat as the lorry rumbles down the road, pleased with the extra rupees tucked into his pock- et. Darkness approaches and Madhura squats beside the road, pulling the free end of her frayed sari over her head. Fewer and fewer vehicles pass, taking their passengers F O C U S J U N E 2 0 0 5 / F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L 43 Barbara M. Bever is a USAID Foreign Service spouse currently posted to Tel Aviv, where she works as a free- lance consultant. She has also lived in Rabat, Islamabad, Jakarta, New Delhi and Fairfax, Va. During her tour in New Delhi she was USAID’s communication manager and visited several HIV/AIDS project sites.