RICE
The control of girls
During harvest, her father-in-law and her husband cut the rice. But everything that happens thereafter is the responsibility of women: preparing the earth for threshing by covering it with mud and cow dung; hand threshing; drying the straw for cattle food; winnowing; parboiling, steeping and drying the rice for storage and then milling to remove the husk. And they are responsible for safe storage, especially of the seed stock.
‘We shall have to do this work all our lives, we women. We don’t have help at home. Still, the men can’t make it without us and they know it really.
‘Today I protested, and said if my husband didn’t get the rice husked in the large mill in Kamalpur I wouldn’t cook. It is expensive to go to the mill of course, and you have to think of saving costs, but I am just one person, so I can only do so much with the dheki (hand mill). If there are two people it doesn’t take so long to husk rice – if you start at six in the morning you can finish a fair portion by nine.
‘After that it doesn’t take long to cook. We eat rice
and dal
(pulses) and whatever vegetables we have – egg plants
(aubergine) and cabbage. This year, though, we have grown very little in the
yard and we will need to buy some vegetables. The men were angry about that.
‘We usually also sell some rice. At the moment it fetches 250 taka ($7) per maund (about 40 kilos) and it will go up to 320 taka ($9) per maund by November or December. If we wait for a month or so the price will go up by another 10 to 20 taka. Of course the traders make a profit. We make a profit, they make a profit: that is how we all live.’
The traders come to the house to buy rice, and her father-in-law also takes some to the market. They also sell at wholesale rate to poorer people in the village.
Rahima does not go to the market herself. She is scared of walking around on her own and does not even go to visit her father’s house unescorted. ‘We were brought up like this, never allowed to go anywhere. It wasn’t considered proper. Those who are qualified (city women) can go. It is not right for village women to wander around.
‘Besides, going to the market is a man’s job. Men won’t do our jobs. Some women do work in the fields and dig earth but they are poor people. I wouldn’t want to do it. I wouldn’t be caught dead digging earth.’
Although Rahima does not go to the fields herself she knows all about rice. ‘There are many types of rice, almost as many as names as there are names of people. We grow mainly Irri (a high-yielding hybrid type) and Paijam, AushAman (local varieties),’ she says, pointing to the containers of seed grains. and
Rahima thinks about what rice means to her – aside from hard work.
‘Rice is everything – whether we sell it or save it. From rice powder we make
cakes, puffed rice, flattened rice, semolina. Rice water is used for starching clothes and
feeding cattle. If anyone is sick then we sell rice for ready cash (to buy
medicines).’
‘Primary school is enough – you cannot control girls if they learn too much.’ On the other hand, she doesn’t want Shumi to be married off too young. ‘But marriage is a matter of luck. If a good offer came along we couldn’t say no, could we? Daughters aren’t things you can keep at home.’
Attitudes are, however, changing in other respects. For instance, she and her husband do not want more children, and have some trouble coping with the ones that they have. ‘The more heads the more worries that’s what we’ll tell our children. My parents didn’t understand. My father says God gave and he will provide.’
A song of the strong
SOYA BEANSIn summer, dog meat is too yang
SUGARBitter, bitter sweet
Yellow perils
COCOAA legacy for my (23) children
Rahima doesn’t want her children to work on the land. She would like her daughter Shumi to have some schooling, something she missed herself. But she is conservative – perhaps reflecting male attitudes – about the effects of education on girls, and doesn’t think her daughter should be as well educated as her sons.
‘Primary school is enough – you cannot control girls if they learn too much.’ On the other hand, she doesn’t want Shumi to be married off too young. ‘But marriage is a matter of luck. If a good offer came along we couldn’t say no, could we? Daughters aren’t things you can keep at home.’
Attitudes are, however, changing in other respects. For instance, she and her husband do not want more children, and have some trouble coping with the ones that they have. ‘The more heads the more worries that’s what we’ll tell our children. My parents didn’t understand. My father says God gave and he will provide.’
She feels quite fortunate. Her father-in-law is good to her. She apparently has few yearnings. While she knows women like her work harder than men, she does not openly question gender roles or the power relationships between men and women. She accepts her lot, as she does when she talks about money: ‘We women never handle money ourselves, it’s true. If the men notice, then they may buy something we need, or else we ask.’
Hussain, her husband, does not interfere with the children’s education and she is pretty much in charge of the home. But her own clear notions about how much food is due to each member of the family say a great deal about her own status.
‘You feed each person as is appropriate. Obviously my father-in-law gets most, then my husband, and then my daughter because she is the youngest,’ she says, smiling at Shumi. ‘It doesn’t matter if there is none left for me. But my husband and father-in-law keep some for me and ask if I have enough.’
Given this kind of dependence on male good will, something Rahima says that might seem trite in other circumstances takes on a whole new meaning: ‘It is difficult to get by,’ she says, ‘if there is no love in the family.’
Shahidul Alam is a writer and photographer with Drik Third World Picture Library in Dhaka .