The Silent Backbone: Stories of Women We Overlook Every Day

By Sarada Lahangir
Every year, as International Women’s Day approaches, journalists scramble to find stories of women’s empowerment. This time was no different. My journalist friends were reaching out, asking if I had any leads. Interestingly, the news portal I contribute to assigned me to write a story on the same subject.
Determined to find something unique, I reached out to my contacts across the district, searching for an untold story—something that hadn’t already been covered by mainstream media. A few responses came in, and I sat down to write. But no matter how hard I tried, I felt unsatisfied. The stories were inspiring but felt familiar, as they had been told in different forms before. I didn’t want to repeat what had been written before.
That night, I lay awake, restless. What kind of story would truly capture the essence of women’s empowerment? Something real, something raw—yet unnoticed.
Just then, my phone rang. It was my maid, Sukanti.
She sounded weak. “Maa, I am not feeling well. I might be a little late tomorrow,” she said.
It was unusual—she arrived at my house every morning at 5:30 AM without fail, cleaning, washing utensils, and finishing the household chores before moving on to her next employer. Concerned, I asked, “What happened? Where are you right now?”
In the background, I heard the crackling of a stove, the sound of something sizzling. It was 11 PM. Curious, I asked, “What are you doing at this hour?”
“I’m cooking for my husband,” she replied.
I was taken aback. “What? You haven’t cooked yet?”
She sighed. “Maa, I cooked at 7 PM and served dinner to my children. But my husband came home at 10:30, said he didn’t like what I had made, and demanded non-veg. So now, I am making chicken for him.”
“But you’re unwell!” I protested.
She let out a weary laugh. “Karibaku pade maa” (I have to do it).
By the time I hung up, it was nearly midnight. But sleep never came. I kept thinking about her—and about my cook, who often shared similar struggles. These women, despite their hardships, kept their families running, sacrificing their comfort without complaint.
They weren’t famous. They are not celebrities. But didn’t their resilience, their quiet battles, deserve to be told?
At that moment, I knew I had found my story.
Sukanti Sahu, 38, is from Odisha’s Anugul district. The eldest of three siblings, she grew up in a home where food was scarce. Her father, a marginal farmer, struggled to provide for the family of five. Education was never a priority—survival was. She had to drop out of school after Class 7.
From an early age, she knew what struggle meant. She took up a job as a non-technical assistant in a local hospital, where she met her husband, Biswadashi Ranjan Kumar, who worked in the same hospital. Their friendship grew into love, and at 22, she got married.
Happiness, however, was short-lived. Soon after marriage, she became pregnant and had to leave her job. With a newborn to care for and in-laws to support, financial difficulties deepened. Her husband’s earnings weren’t enough, and with her younger siblings still dependent on their parents, there was no support from her side of the family either.
Poverty, struggle, and deprivation became the fabric of her life.
When her second child, a daughter, was born, she knew she couldn’t stay at home any longer. “I had to do something. But in Anugul, opportunities were limited. I convinced my husband to move to Bhubaneswar, thinking the city would give us a better life.”
But dreams and reality are rarely the same.
“Life in Bhubaneswar was much harder than we thought,” she admitted. Through acquaintances, her husband got a job as a private bus driver. But with two small children at home, Sukanti couldn’t work right away. As financial stress mounted, she had no choice but to step out.
“I started working in households—cleaning, washing, whatever work I could find.”
Her day is relentless.
“I wake up at 4:30 AM, make breakfast, and pack tiffin for my children and husband, then leave for work. I clean and cook in seven different houses, finishing by 1:30 PM. Then I rush home, cook for my children, and head back to work in the evening. I return by 7 PM,” she explained.
Exhaustion is a constant companion.
“But I have to do it. My son is in Class 9, and my daughter is in Class 6. I want them to study well and make a name for themselves. I don’t want them to live the life I have lived,” she said, her eyes glistening with hope.
Sukanti earns around ₹12,000–₹13,000 a month. Most of it is spent on tuition fees and rent. Her husband sends part of his income to his parents and uses the rest for daily expenses.
While asking Sukanti about the support her husband provided, she hesitated for a moment before responding, “It’s okay… Sometimes he helps; sometimes he doesn’t.” Her voice was resigned, as if she had accepted this reality long ago. “He is my husband; I can’t force him to do household chores or share my burden. Instead, I must cook according to his preference, and now, even my son expects the same.”
“What about your choices, Sukanti?” I asked gently. She smiled faintly and remained silent.
As I sat writing about Sukanti’s struggles, another face kept coming to my mind—Runi, my cook. Her life, though different in details, carried the same weight of sacrifice and silent endurance.
Runi is only 27, yet she bears responsibilities far beyond her years. She has three children—a 14-year-old daughter, a 10-year-old daughter, and a little boy who is just three. Unlike Sukanti, Runi has only recently started working in households. Every morning, she prepares breakfast for her children and husband before leaving for work. By the time she returns home, she must cook lunch and manage the house. Her youngest child is often left in the care of his older sisters or, sometimes, a kind neighbor.
Runi’s husband, an auto driver, earns a decent living. But he spends most of it on alcohol, leaving her to struggle alone. “I want to work in more houses,” she told me one day, her voice barely above a whisper. “My husband earns, but he doesn’t spend on the children or the household. And if I ask him about it, he gets angry. What can I do? After all, I married him… I have no choice.” Her words carried an air of helplessness, but her eyes reflected quiet strength.
As the only daughter-in-law in her family, Runi is also responsible for caring for her in-laws. She was married off young, eloping with her husband, Manas Jena. “I was just a girl,” she recalled, “but my in-laws wanted a child right away. At 17, I gave birth to my first daughter. We were happy, but soon, there was pressure for a second child. That’s when I realized they wanted a boy.”
A year later, she had another daughter. By then, Runi’s health had deteriorated. Doctors advised Runi, who was weak and anemic, not to have more children. But her husband refused to consider family planning. “His family insisted on a son,” she said. “I wasn’t strong, and I suffered multiple miscarriages. Finally, four years ago, I gave birth to a baby boy. But my body had already endured too much… my son was born weak, with poor immunity.”
“Did you undergo family planning after that?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Unless my husband allows me, how can I?” Her voice was barely audible, but the meaning of her words was loud and clear.
Even today, in many parts of society, a woman’s reproductive rights remain in the hands of men.
Sukanti and Runi—two women from different backgrounds, yet united by the same struggles. Their stories mirror those of countless working-class women who carry the weight of both financial and domestic responsibilities, often with little to no support.
I know I cannot change their lives entirely. But perhaps, in small ways, we all can—by acknowledging their struggles, respecting their resilience, and offering support in whatever way possible.
In every home, there is a maid who cleans, a cook who prepares meals—women who make our lives easier yet remain invisible, their efforts unrecognized. They, too, deserve respect, dignity, and appreciation.
Their stories may never make headlines. Their sacrifices may go unnoticed. But every day, they fight a silent battle—for survival, for dignity, and for a better future for their children.
And that, in its quiet way, is empowerment.