Omela

By: Fariha Karim

I was born and raised in Dhaka, Bangladesh. I have met and befriended numerous *banda housemaids in my years here. The memories of most of them will stay with me for a lifetime. This article is written in admiration for one particular girl who worked at our house for only a year and a half but was still able to leave a lasting impression.

We called her Omela, (despite her actual name being Urmila). The two of us got along well from the get-go. Half of it was due to the fact that both of us were teenagers., The other half was because, from the very beginning, Omela’s eloquence of speech struck me as unusual for someone of her age. I often joked that she ought to have been a motivational speaker rather than a domestic worker. During the weekends, we would often talk for hours. Most of our conversations involved her experiences at other houses. 

“They treat you like slaves instead of domestic workers,” she often said.

One morning, I found her tracing the numbers of the calendar kept at my desk.

“Do you know the English numbers?” I asked.

“Just one to five,” she admitted. Since that day I started teaching her the numbers in very short ‘“study sessions’”.

During one of our sessions, she told me about how her parents had tried enrolling her into a school when she had been very young. They had paid all the fees in advance, but during the day of the opening, the head teacher refused to let her attend the classes. 

“If there’s no document recording the payment, it doesn’t exist,” he said. 

Omela’s family was poor, and there were no other cheap schools available in her village. So her education had come to a halt before it had even started.

Slowly, I started reading short stories to her, tried teaching her the bangla letters, memorize some surahs. The effort was small, and we both were busy, she with her housework, me with my own schoolwork, but we tried. I could tell it was hard for her, all this new information she was trying to squeeze into her brain within this short period of time, but she was persistent. 

One day my grandmother found her practicing numbers in the servant’s quarters. She had to listen to an earful. Later on, my grandmother came after me. “Don’t teach her too much, it’ll distract her from her work.”

So our study sessions had to be rescheduled to at night when my family was asleep. During the afternoons we mostly played badminton. I wanted to make her happy but could sense that she was growing restless each day, and there was little I could do to abate that.

Her arguments with my mom became more frequent. I saw her crying in the kitchen one day, which was saying something, because she rarely cried. She later told me that the only thing that bothered her about my house was the constant accusations of theft. She didn’t mind getting scolded for her incompetence, but she wouldn’t tolerate any fingers pointing at her character. She wanted to leave, I knew; but she couldn’t. Her father back home was ill, she couldn’t afford to lose her job. 

But that didn’t mean she was going to give up.

She waited. Flipped through calendar pages, counting the months until her next payment, counting how much she needed to save up. Always counting. 

Finally, Eid arrived. A festival of celebration for all, especially her, since it meant she was allowed to go home for a break.

She met me in the morning on the day of her departure.

“See you later,” she said.

“Really?” 

She laughed. “Okay, I won’t be coming back, but you have my number. We’ll stay in touch.”

“What will you do next? Work at another place?”

She paused before answering. “I don’t think so. I don’t want to be a maid anymore. Maybe I’ll apply to work at a garments factory or find something else to do. The wages may be less but at least there’s more respect there.” 

We hugged and said our farewells. Even though I miss her sometimes, I really believe the decision she took was for the better and hope she’s living a happy life right now.

(Image from here.)