Rekha Jad
rekhajad1969@gmail.com
Six storeys above, through my window, I have watched her for years—her quiet resilience unfolding beneath a canopy of neem and peepal trees. Today, her frame carries a new story: an eight-month-old pregnancy she modestly tries to conceal under loose clothing, even as she continues her daily grind, an arduous chore of huffing and puffing with piles of clothes for ironing.
Her workspace is a makeshift arrangement—a discarded bed converted into an ironing table, shaded by a tarpaulin roof from which a ceiling fan precariously hangs. A heavy electric iron rests beside neatly stacked piles of clothes collected from our residential society each morning and returned, crisp and wrinkle-free, by evening.
She is Manju—our “Iron Lady,” both literally and figuratively.
she had approached me hesitantly, almost shyly, asking, “Aap ladies ke doctor ho kya?” When I replied in the affirmative, she slowly opened up about her long struggle with infertility for past five years , After evaluation and treatment, she returned one day with a glow I will never forget—her face lit up with the joy of two pink lines on a pregnancy test. After five long years, she had conceived, a precious pregnancy. But I wonder if poverty render anything precious?
It was a pregnancy—one that demanded care, caution, and rest. I assumed she would slow down, perhaps step back from her physically demanding routine. But I was mistaken.
Through the nausea, vomiting, persistent backaches, and swelling that accompany pregnancy—especially with prolonged standing—she continued to work. Like countless working women, she refused to let her condition deter her. There were no complaints, no indulgence in self-pity, no expectation of special treatment. I have never till now seen her peevish or whining about her complaints.
Her brief moments of rest come in the afternoon, lying on her ironing table for a short siesta, snatching meals in between tasks. She makes time for her regular check-ups, sharing her reports with quiet diligence. With each passing day, her glow deepens, growing in tandem with her increasing baby bump—yet never accompanied by a word of grievance.
In a world where comfort often dictates choices, her strength stands in stark contrast. Where many might retreat into rest and care, supported by family and circumstance, she presses on—driven by necessity, discipline, and an unyielding spirit.
I often find myself hoping that she is granted the maternity and child care period and rest she rightfully deserves. Yet, reality suggests otherwise. To keep her household running, she will likely return to work soon after childbirth—perhaps even bringing her infant along, gently rocking the baby in a makeshift saree cradle tied between the neem and peepal trees.
An iron mother, raising what will surely be an equally resilient child.
As numerous welfare schemes promise support for women and girl children, one can only hope that Manju—our Iron Lady—finds access to the benefits she deserves. Because behind every neatly pressed garment she delivers lies a story of grit, dignity, and extraordinary endurance and every kick of the baby she experiences within her must be a reminder of the responsibilities that await her.
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