What's in a name? Well, how about Chellam?

"A rose by any other name would smell as sweet" wrote Shakespeare.

Yes.  But, ...

Chellam is my mother's name.  In Tamil, the word also means a favored child, a pet child, or a word used to mean something like "my dearest."

Of course, not everybody with the name Chellam is created equal.

My father's friend from his younger days went on to get his doctorate in chemistry and immigrated to the US when it was extremely rare to do so.  His wife was also a Chellam. An affluent and luxurious life in America.

Another Chellam in the extended family, and in the same age cohort as my mother and the American Chellam, became a widow when she was young, with two sons.  A rather tragic death it was of her husband, which I shall not discuss here out of respect for the fact that it is not my family's story after all.  Her boys grew up to become professionals in their fields, but a very different personal life for this Chellam.

And then there is another--when I was in India, I read about Chellama in The Hindu.

Source

A life that is very different from the other three Chellams:

For nearly 30 years, she’s sold vegetables on the streets of Foreshore Estate, Santhome, and Mylapore (Loganathan Colony). “We came to Chennai when I was pregnant with my son. He’s now 29,” she says, sorting out chillies, and discarding the mouldy ones. In her village — Mahadevimangalam, near Thiruvannamalai — she and her husband were agricultural labourers.

Making a life selling vegetables is hard work. Hard is an understatement, no doubt.

Chellama, now 60, works for more than 12 hours a day. She’s up well before 3 a.m.; and as soon as she’s returned from Koyambedu, she loads the vegetables on her vandi, and cycles around till 3 p.m., calling out to her regulars by name. Daily, she invests between Rs.2000 and Rs.2500 on just vegetables and fruits. She makes a small profit, one that is sufficient for her. When she runs out of working capital, she’s forced to borrow from moneylenders.

Again, a "hard life" is an understatement.  And makes me pause and wonder what is it that I complain about when my life hits a small snag!

The profit is often tied up with the leftover stock. “Look at this,” she says, pointing to her baskets, still half-filled with vegetables. “Sometimes, it takes three days to realise a profit. There is so much competition.” And then there are unforeseen expenses. Her eyes needed surgery. Padma and Swaminathan (the couple, in whose house she keeps her vandi and sleeps) pitched in for the surgery. “My son and daughter live nearby. (Her husband, an alcoholic, died four years ago). 

It is practically the story of every hardworking low-income woman--the husband is an alcoholic who drinks away the family's wealth, often does not work, and almost always beats up the wife and grabs her income as well.  We men are a disgrace!

My daughter does housework. You know, when my son was born, I pulled her out of school, to look after him. Only then, could I go out and sell vegetables. How I wish she was educated!”

Again, a typical story--the daughter's schooling gets interrupted and she is sent off to work as a maid at a couple of homes.

The good thing is that changes are happening, and happening fast.  But, not fast enough.  Here is to hoping that every Chellam will have a wonderful life, and so will women with other names too.