Knowing

By Maya Phillips

Rafi and I jumped out of the car and jogged up to Geeta’s house, hoping to avoid drawing the attention of neighbors. I had talked to Geeta twice before, and though she had an incredible story of leaving her home state to marry across the country in Haryana, I hadn’t gotten answers to any questions about how she felt or what she wanted. I knew a lot about her, but I didn’t know her. I wanted to talk to her today — no formal interview and no one standing over her shoulder listening to her answers — and I hoped she might open up.

“Thanks for doing this,” I said. “If it doesn’t go well, at least it won’t take too long.”

Rafi shrugged and knocked on the metal door. When no one answered right away, he pushed it open and stepped inside the courtyard, calling out a cautious greeting.  

Geeta leaned through the doorway in front of us, beckoning us inside. She whisked her sons’ backpacks and school books off their beds so that we could sit down. We hadn’t warned her we were coming, but she didn’t seem to mind.  

Before we had arrived, Geeta, her sons — Manish and Mayank — and one of their friends had been crouched on the concrete floor around a clay pot filled with burning coals. Once Rafi and I sat down, they adjusted and we were brought silently into their circle. We all held our hands over the coals, inches away from each other but not touching, staring into the red heat.  

Manish passed around a bowl of fruit, and I sat eating an orange slice and thinking that I wouldn’t get what I was looking for today with the boys around. 

Rafi started asking Geeta about her family.  

He glanced over at me and I nodded and tapped my phone. I was recording the conversation, but I wouldn’t take out a notebook or camera.

She talked about the fights she had had with her husband’s brothers and their wives during the 12 years when all three families had lived together.

“Now I am free,” she said, sitting in her own home. “Now I don’t have any problem. Now I am happy.”

Rafi translated, and I asked her to say more about how her life has changed.  

Geeta rolled the sleeves of her red jacket to her elbows and stood up, saying something to Rafi and motioning for me to follow. We went to her bedroom where the three boys couldn’t hear us as well, and we sat down on the edge of her bed.  

On my left, Geeta began talking. From my right, Rafi would occasionally prompt her, and for the next hour Geeta shared everything she hadn’t before.  

When her eyes filled with tears, when she touched my elbow, when she gestured, beaming, to the house around her, when she excitedly unlocked a cupboard in the headboard of her bed and pulled out her family’s photo album, I finally knew her. She was so bold and passionate and had dreams for her family’s future, and I adored her.

We had chai, kept talking and I finally took out my camera. As we were leaving, I turned around to take a final photo of Geeta standing in her doorway, and I can’t stop thinking about it, can’t stop looking at it. She built a life she’s so proud of. I hope I can do the same.