From Cauvery to Ganga

Chapter 10: The First Breath as Another Man’s Wife

The first rays of morning sun crept through the curtains like an unwelcome intruder. Sunita lay awake in Nithya’s bed, wrapped tightly in a soft cotton nightie that clung to her new curves. Nithya’s arm was draped possessively over her waist, one hand resting casually on the heavy silicone breast. The chastity cage was a constant, cruel reminder between her thighs, trapped, compressed, and utterly useless.

What absurdity is this… Satyaraj’s mind screamed silently inside the feminine shell. I am Satyaraj Gounder. Rich. Arrogant. Spoiled. I should be sleeping in my AC room, planning which car to take out today, laughing with friends, enjoying life. Yet here I am… lying in a nightie, breasts heavy on my chest, hugged by my girlfriend like some lesbian couple, unable to even get hard. About to become someone’s wife. A poor Bihari labourer’s wife.

A bitter, self-mocking laugh almost escaped her soft lips. Stupid. So fucking stupid. But anyway… it’s just for a few more hours, right? Just the inspection. Then I go back. Everything returns to normal.

She tried to console herself, but the words felt hollow.

Nithya stirred behind her, stretching lazily like a cat. She pressed a soft, lingering kiss on Sunita’s neck, right above the thin chain.

“Good morning, my sweet bhabhi~” she whispered playfully. “Time to transform you properly.”

The bath was slow and torturous.

Robby Roberta had arrived early, full of energy. While Sunita stood under the shower, Robby and Nithya supervised every inch. The warm water made the breasts bounce heavily. The realistic vagina prosthetic felt every drop, every trickle. When she soaped herself, her hands moved over soft, wide hips and a plump ass that jiggled slightly. The sensations were too real, too feminine. Shame burned hot in her chest.

After drying, they began the real dressing.

They started with Sunita’s original undergarments, old, faded, and worn. A cheap, discoloured cotton panty that was slightly loose and had faint stains from years of use. The bra was equally old, yellowish white, with stretched straps and hooks that dug uncomfortably into her back. The breasts settled heavily into the cups, creating a very natural, slightly sagging look of a woman who had given birth.

Next came the petticoat, a faded maroon cotton one, tied tightly around her narrowed waist. Then the blouse, a cheap, tight parrot-green cotton blouse with short sleeves that dug into her soft arms and left deep marks under the armpits. The back was low, exposing skin.

Finally, the saree.

It was one of Sunita’s daily wear sarees, old, thin cotton, parrot green with a frayed maroon border. Robby and Nithya draped it in perfect Seedha Aanchal style, the pallu brought straight down in front over the right shoulder, tucked firmly at the waist. The fabric was coarse against her smooth, cream softened skin. In the humid morning air, it already started sticking slightly to her body.

They completed the poor Bihari housewife look with ruthless detail:

- Thick, bright red sindoor filled the parting of her hair heavily, some even smeared on her forehead for that lived in look.
- A large, slightly faded red bindi.
- A cheap metal nath (nose ring) in the left nostril.
- Silver bichiya (toe rings) on both feet.
- A thin, dull mangalsutra around her neck.
- Dozens of cheap green and red glass bangles that clinked loudly with every movement.
- A small black thread around one wrist.
- Hair oiled and tied into a simple, messy bun with a few strands left loose.

When they finally stepped back, Sunita stood before the mirror.

She looked exactly like a tired, poor Bihari migrant wife in her mid-20s, modest, slightly worn out by life, yet carrying that quiet, fertile beauty. The old saree, tight blouse, heavy breasts, wide hips, and the way the pallu kept slipping slightly, everything screamed “struggling housewife.”

Robby smiled proudly. “Hello, Sunita… wife of Ramesh Kumar.”

Sunita’s feminine voice trembled with shame. “Just… just a few hours.”

Nithya laughed loudly. “Haan haan, yes sir. But for now, you call me Madam. You are a simple labourer’s wife. Act like one.”

They made her wear Sunita’s old, worn-out chappals, cheap rubber, slightly torn at the edges, dirty from colony mud. The moment her feet slipped into them, the humiliation deepened. The rough texture against her soft soles felt degrading.

Every step made the bangles jingle, the saree pallu shift, the heavy breasts move, the mangalsutra tap against her chest, and the tight blouse dig into her skin. Sweat was already starting to form under her arms and on her back in the humid Tamil Nadu morning.

They drove her in Nithya’s car to a spot just outside the contractor’s office.

Ramesh and little Pihu were waiting nervously. The moment Ramesh saw her, his eyes widened in pure shock. For a second, he genuinely believed it was his real wife who had returned. He stepped forward, voice breaking.

“Sunita…?”

Nithya quickly intervened. “This is my sister. She’s standing in for today. Don’t worry, she looks exactly like her, right!?.”

Pihu, the innocent three year old, didn’t care about explanations. She ran forward with a happy cry and hugged Sunita’s legs tightly, burying her face into the old cotton saree.

“Mummy! Mummy aa gayi!”

The feeling of the child clinging to her legs, the smell of the old saree mixed with her own perfume and sweat, the weight of the breasts above ,Sunita felt dizzy with humiliation and a strange, unwanted warmth.

Nithya handed her Sunita’s old Aadhaar card and other documents.

Inside the contractor office compound, the sun was merciless.

Male and female lines were separate. Sunita was pushed into the long female line, surrounded by real Bihari, Odiya, and Tamil migrant women in similar sarees. The heat was brutal. Sweat trickled down her back, making the cheap blouse stick to her skin. The petticoat felt rough. Pihu refused to leave her side, holding her leg constantly.

Nearby women started chatting in Bhojpuri, occasionally glancing at her and commenting. Sunita couldn’t understand most of it, but she caught words like “new wife”, “looks submissive”, and soft laughter. She could only lower her head, pull her pallu tighter over her face, and stay silent, cheeks burning.

The wait felt eternal.

When her turn came, she went inside with Ramesh and Pihu. Documents were checked. Thumbprint taken. A quick photo was clicked, her face looking shy and nervous, sindoor bright, mangalsutra visible. Then a family photo, Ramesh standing beside her, Pihu in her arms. The weight of the child on her hip felt disturbingly natural.

Outside, thinking it was finally over, Sunita looked around for Nithya’s car.

Instead, Nithya rolled down the window from a distance, smiled, and called out.

“I’ll come pick you up in the evening from Ramesh’s house. Just stay with him for now. Be a good wife!”

Before Sunita could protest, the car drove away, leaving her standing there in the hot sun, dressed as a poor Bihari migrant wife, holding a child on her hip, with her “husband” Ramesh standing gratefully beside her.

The old chappals felt hot against the dusty ground. The glass bangles clinked. The pallu slipped slightly off her shoulder.

Ramesh looked at her with deep gratitude and something else in his eyes.

“Chaliye… ghar chalte hain.”

Sunita, Satyaraj, stood frozen for a moment, the absurdity of her situation crashing down fully.

A few hours?

It was only just beginning.