Sahib’s phone buzzed.

She already knew what he was about to say: “Congratulations! New department.”
“What’s wrong with it?” She snapped too quickly, too defensively. Not the calm, composed response she had trained herself to deliver.
Ashok hadn’t expected this reaction. Not so soon. “Did I say there was? Far from it. This is what you need. If you don’t work for women’s welfare, who will?”
Akansha cut him short. “I have to hand over. I’ll call you later.” She slammed the phone shut.
Theirs was a strong Indian marriage. Generally happy too. The kind that keeps going for years without either partner giving up. They worked at it daily and it worked mostly. They had grown into each other in a way only a shared life can offer.
But, right now Akansha had more pressing concerns. Her husband's patronizing tones could wait.
Today, she felt like an outcast.
At the back of her mind, even as she tried to focus on her new assignment, Akansha kept circling back to one question, “Why had this happened to me? A fall from grace? Casteism? Does it still exist?” She thought bitterly Can the upper class even survive in today’s climate? If the Chief Minister had his way, all upper caste officers would be given primary school teaching roles. Sixteen years of service and then this transfer to the Department of Women’s Welfare.
Akansha was competent. Respected. She didn’t play office politics. She had worked in finance, heavy industry, public works, and appointments, she had been in charge of hill districts. She had climbed the ladder while many of her women colleagues complained of discrimination.
And now this?
Women’s Welfare?
What does one do there, she wondered. Distribute sewing machines? Goats? Chickens? Listen to the cacophony of ‘assistants’ without visiting a single village? She knew how things worked – how senior officers monopolized the department vehicles, how visibility was measured more in appearance than in outcome.
Still, she reminded herself, it could have been worse. At least she might get home early – after years of ten hours of work day, that was no small blessing.
On her third day at the new job, Mrs. Manjari Jhorie, her co-director, continued a sluggish briefing about the issue plaguing the women co-operatives.
Akansha interrupted, trying to read the tone under the monotony. “How do you like working here?”
Manjari gave a weary smile, a tired shrug. “Work? Nothing works” Her sing-song voice dropped, as she continued the rundown, bored, mildly annoyed, and all too familiar with the system's indifference.
“Thirty-five districts have been identified for various women’s projects.” Manjari continued, her voice flat with fatigue. “As it stands monitoring is impossible. There’s not enough staff posted. The reports are always delayed- usually inaccurate. The nutrition supplements meant for nursing mothers sold off. The women’s groups are unhappy and practically nonfunctional now” She heaved a deep sigh. “Production is virtually at a standstill.”
Akansha looked her directly in the eye, she bristled, “Surely something has to be done.”
She, too, was searching for a way out of this mess – this bureaucratic tangle she’d been flung into. Trying to think positively, she added “Staff has to be motivated.”
Manjari snorted softly, “Heaven knows, we have enough meetings, workshops, and seminars, all following government guidelines.” She rolled her eyes and tapped her biro against her jotter. “Tons of pamphlets have been distributed – mostly in English, our women speak their dialect.”
Akansha, pushed back gently, “Staff has to be motivated for efficient operation. When turnover improves and they begin to understand the benefits of payment for performance, it will spark creativity, and strengthen the system.”
Manjari let out a nervous laugh. “I have heard it all before.”
Despite her forced lightness, Akansha could sense Manjari’s resistant warning. And for one fleeting moment, Akansha herself felt the tug of doubt. Did she want to stay in the department? Spend her days inspecting half-dead women’s cooperatives? Get out a voice inside her warned, or she might be the next message lost in translation.
However, until then her presence was a lifeline for the women who were looking towards her, hoping. That was reason enough. “Manjari,” she said, steading her voice, “I’d like to visit Varanasi on Saturday. I’ll be inspecting the blocks. Please inform the officers concerned. We’ll discuss the project in the field”
Akansha had made up her mind. She would try to make a difference. She would attempt to reorganize a simple workable system, even if it began with one visit, one block, and one honest assessment.
The news of the director's proposed visit sent the machinery into motion.
Mrs. Bhatnagar, the Assistant Project Officer, arrived in haste. Years of government service had narrowed her vision and shortened her fuse. She had her reasons – good ones. The dysfunction she’d seen, the absurdities she had endured, had long ago hardened her idealism into irritation. Now it was anger she felt – often and deeply. So, her field visits were kept to a minimum.
She knew these inspection rituals far too well. In all likelihood, the Director would never arrive. In which case, they would all be assembled in a line, waiting in the sun until the mystery of “Mrs. Singh” was cleared up.
Moreover, if she did arrive – well, that might be worse. Then there would be lavish arrangements to fake local delicacies to conjure up from nothing, papers to straighten, and appearances to create.
However, if she didn’t, then came the wrath. What are these figures you keep? Don’t you budget your finances? Oh! What do you women do? Terrible…
Mrs. Bhatnagar sighed heavily. She knew if she arranged a display of goods, the demands would flood in. Five kilos of pickle for the District Magistrates sahib’s memsahib. Hand-woven durries for the Assistant District officer’s bungalow.
Demands, demands, and more demands, and never a rupee paid.
Would, Akansha do the same? Would she have these expectations? Was that what motivating employees meant? Mrs. Bhatnagar pushed the thought aside as Anjana entered the room.
Anjana was a frail woman – seemingly tireless, and nearly always cheerful. Mrs. Bhatnagar nodded at her greeting and began briefing her on the Director’s visit. She informed her that Akansha Singh had taken charge of the Department. “she’s competent, clean, smart and from the Administrative Services.”
Then playing the part of a seasoned devil Mrs. Bhatnagar added just a touch of fear to the conversation. “As you are the one organizing most of the work here, be prepared. Call all the women, and make a list of the problems. Try to – she sighed – keep it short. And don’t complain about me. Mrs. Singh might not come back, but I’m here to stay.”
Anjana’s cheerfulness faded for a moment. Her mind wandered back to when she’d first started the small durrie manufacturing unit. It had given her something to do, and of course, bought in some much-needed income. A good part of her meager resources had gone into the project. Now it was a co-operative involving forty women.
However, Anjana still did everything – purchasing, marketing, securing funds, and taking durries to the fairs. She helped Sheela with bank applications, went to the tehsil, and tracked down revenue records. Somehow, she had been part of everything. It felt strange.
She’d been very young when she got married. Her husband had been a good man – the only child of doting parents. They loved him deeply, and Anjana their pretty young daughter-in-law, had been happy.
A child bride was never allowed to lift a figure except to dress a certain way or wear certain things. Her husband never raised his voice. Every evening, he came home by five-thirty. Took the children on the bicycle. Bought the vegetables. Then they would sit together eat and laugh. A happy life.
And then …
Her catastrophe.
No one could help.
He died and her world collapsed.
Anjana was twenty years old. With just matriculation, three children, ailing in-laws, and an eviction notice for the government quarters. She was at a loss.
In her loneliness, she had only one place to vent, the memory of her husband. “Why . . .? Why didn’t you ever teach me? Never let me buy vegetables? Carry a bucket?” You said, I’m here.”
She clenched her fists. “Now where are you?”
Chasing your provident fund? Three years. Everyone promised help. A job. Words. Just words.
“I ache all over.”
She sat outside the ADM’s office for days. Sold all her jewelry and utensils. Still not enough for food or medicines. Five years of struggle. Finally, the provident came through, and she got a job as a peon. Her in-laws passed away.
Problems changed shape. New ones emerged. Alone with her children, Anjana faced men’s lust and women’s hostility. Women being alone were always suspect. But the children grew. Soon her greying hair earned her respect. She was now ‘Anjana's aunt’ – invited to weddings, valued in the village. Look up to as an example. That dignity gave her purpose.
The upcoming visit gave her hope. Akansha Singh may be someone who listened. If not in person, perhaps through the list, Anjana would prepare.
Suddenly she remembered – the durries had to be cleaned. Oh! So much to do.
Meanwhile Guptaji in Akansha’s office: “Yes madam, Block staff have been informed. Your diary lists Rajpur and Raipur.”
Akansha didn’t look up: “There might be a change, I’ll be in Varanasi on the 12th. Blocks must be covered in one day. I’ll decide when I get there.”
Guptaje’s smile was silent but sharp. He’d seen this arrogance before. “No madam. You won’t decide. You’ll do what pleases you. You’ll admire carpets, choose some for your drawing room. Have a long lunch. Then remember – Rajpuror was it Minat? Phones won’t work. Women will wait.
Would they have to wait again?
Would the story repeat itself with Akansha?
Sometimes the call of duty is strong. Stronger when marked with commitment.

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