From Cauvery to Ganga - Trailer 2

From Cauvery to Ganga

Trailer 2: Something feels familiar!?

The late afternoon sun hung heavy over the dusty lanes of Tirupur, wrapping everything in a blanket of humid heat that made the air feel thick enough to chew. The narrow road leading toward the upscale residential area was lined with half finished garment factories on one side and high compound walls on the other. A small group of women walked together, all migrant workers, their sarees faded from countless washes, their plastic slippers slapping against the hot tar.

Among them moved Sunitha.

She walked a little behind the others, silent.

Her parrot green cotton saree, damp with sweat, clung to every curve of her body. The fabric had turned slightly translucent at the back where sweat had soaked through. The tight black blouse underneath pressed hard against her skin, the hooks digging into her flesh with every breath. Her heavy, oiled hair was tied in a loose bun at the nape of her neck, with several rebellious strands sticking to her moist forehead and neck. A thick streak of vermillion sat boldly in her hair parting, slightly smeared from the heat. Her forehead carried a large red bindi, and her lips were dry, stained faintly with the taste of cheap tobacco she had chewed earlier.

Around her neck, the mangalsutra rested heavily between her breasts, the black beads warm from her body heat. Dozens of green glass bangles clinked on both wrists. Silver toe rings clicked softly against the road as she walked barefoot now, her cheap slippers had broken earlier, forcing her to carry them in one hand.

The other Bihari women around her chatted loudly in fast Bhojpuri, laughing and gossiping about their husbands, factory supervisors, and rising prices of rice. Their voices rose and fell like a noisy river. Sunitha remained completely silent, eyes lowered, pallu pulled low over her head, trying to disappear into her own shadow.

Suddenly, a warm gust of wind swept through the lane.

It caught her saree pallu without warning.

The thin fabric flew upward for a moment, completely exposing the prominent, rounded curve of her pregnant belly, smooth, stretched, and glistening with sweat under the harsh sunlight. The tight petticoat string dug into the flesh just below it. For a few humiliating seconds, the gentle swell was on full display before she quickly clutched the pallu back to her body, cheeks burning. One of the women laughed teasingly in Bhojpuri, but Sunitha only bit her lip harder and kept walking.

They finally reached the towering gates of a massive bungalow.

Gounder Illam.

The house stood proud, freshly painted cream walls, marble pillars, and a lush garden that felt like another world compared to the dusty migrant colony they came from. As they entered through the side worker’s gate, Sunitha pulled her pallu even tighter across her chest and belly, almost hiding her face.

A loud male voice boomed from the veranda.

“Ei! Speed up da! Don’t waste time! Work finished by 6 o’clock sharp!”

The owner, a stout, middle aged man in a white veshti and gold chain, stood with his hands on his hips, impatiently checking his watch. The women quickly scattered to their duties.

Inside, the real struggle began.

The man’s mother, an old, sharp faced woman with eyes full of contempt, followed them like a shadow. She was openly racist, her voice dripping with disgust.

“These Bihari people… always lazy. Look at that one,” she pointed at Sunitha, “already looking like she’ll drop any day, still coming for work. Useless. Scrub the bathroom properly today. Use your hands, not just water. I don’t want any smell left.”

Sunitha lowered her head further and moved silently.

She entered the young daughter’s bedroom. The spoiled 19 year old girl, lying on her bed scrolling on her phone, suddenly threw a bundle of dirty clothes at her without even looking properly. A used black panty landed straight on Sunitha’s chest before falling to the floor.

“Wash this also. And don’t mix it with others. It’s expensive.”

Sunitha bent down slowly, her pregnant belly making the movement awkward and painful. She picked up the soiled garment with trembling fingers, the faint musky smell hitting her nose. Shame burned deep in her throat.

Later, during lunch break, she sat alone in a secluded corner behind the kitchen, on the bare cement floor. No plate. Just a small steel tiffin box opened in front of her. She mixed sattu and rice with her fingers, eating quietly while flies buzzed around. The taste was plain, the heat made sweat drip into the food, but she ate without complaint, one hand gently resting on her swollen belly.

At that moment, a young girl, perhaps 22 or 23, walked into the backyard to fill water. Their eyes met.

For a brief second, something passed between them. Recognition? Confusion? Pity?

Sunitha forced a small, tired smile. The girl stared a moment longer, then looked away awkwardly and left without saying anything.

Evening came.

Work finally finished. The women started leaving one by one.

Sunitha stepped out of the grand gate last. She stopped for a moment and turned back. Her eyes slowly traced the elegant golden letters on the wall:

Gounder Illam

Her gaze dropped. She looked down at herself, the faded saree stretched over her pregnant belly, the cheap glass bangles, the silver toe rings now covered in dust, and finally at the mangalsutra resting heavily against her chest.

A single tear escaped the corner of her kohl-lined eye before she quickly wiped it away with the edge of her pallu.

She adjusted her saree one last time, took a deep breath, and began the long walk back toward the migrant colony as the sun disappeared behind the factories.

The wind whispered again.

And the screen slowly faded to black.

A story by Jerusha Anne Joy

For Story Collaborations - jerujoy@proton.me