From Cauvery to Ganga

Chapter 11: The Weight of Borrowed Feet

The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly on the dusty path leading to the migrant colony. Ramesh walked a few steps ahead, carrying little Pihu on his shoulders. The child giggled softly, her tiny hands holding her father’s head. And a few paces behind them walked Sunita, old rubber chappals slapping against her soft feet, the parrot green saree pallu constantly slipping off her shoulder, heavy breasts swaying with every step, glass bangles clinking like mocking bells.

What a life… What fucking absurdity, Satyaraj’s mind screamed inside the feminine body. I am Satyaraj Gounder. I should be driving my Thar, sitting in AC rooms, ordering whatever I want. Instead, here I am, walking behind my “husband” like a proper village wife, pallu on my head, sweat running down my back, breasts hurting from the cheap bra, and this coarse saree sticking to my thighs.

Yet he kept walking. The humid air made the cheap cotton cling obscenely to her body, outlining the shape of her wide hips and plump ass. Every step reminded her of the realistic vagina between her legs, the weight on her chest, and the complete loss of male stride.

Ramesh kept turning back, speaking in his broken Tamil-Hindi mix, his voice full of genuine gratitude.

“Thank you, didi… bahut bahut shukriya. Aapne itna bada upkaar kiya. Aaj inspection clear ho gaya… mera contract bach gaya. Pihu ko bhi mummy mil gayi.”

He didn’t know. He had no idea the woman walking behind him in his dead wife’s clothes was actually a rich Tamil boy. Sunita could only smile shyly, lowering her gaze like a modest Bihari wife, nodding gently. The sindoor in her parting felt heavier than lead.

The narrow lanes of the slum greeted them. Most men had left for the power looms and garment units. Only a few housewives remained ,some washing clothes in plastic buckets outside, some cooking on kerosene stoves, some breastfeeding babies in the open. They glanced at the “missing” Sunita with curious eyes. A couple of them smiled and waved. Sunita pulled her pallu lower, trying to hide her face.

Inside the tiny 10x10 feet house, the reality hit even harder.

The room was stifling. A single charpoy bed in one corner, a cracked plastic chair, two aluminium trunks, a small kerosene stove, and a few steel utensils. The walls were damp and stained. A faint smell of previous meals, sweat, and cheap agarbatti lingered. There was no fan, only a small plastic table fan that made more noise than air.

Ramesh immediately offered her the only proper chair.

“Baitho na… aap thak gayi hongi.”

Sunita sat down carefully, the tight blouse digging into her underarms, the petticoat string pressing into her soft waist. The chair creaked loudly under her weight. Ramesh looked at her with such pure thankfulness that it made her stomach twist with guilt and shame.

After some time, he scratched his head awkwardly.

“Sunita didi… mujhe abhi thoda urgent kaam hai factory mein. Contractor bula raha hai. Main jaldi aata hoon.”

He left, taking Pihu with him for a short while.

Now Sunita was alone in the tiny, suffocating space.

She stood up and slowly explored. The “kitchen” was just a corner with a few containers of low-quality rice, dal, some spices, onions, and tomatoes. The rice looked dusty and broken. There was no proper fridge, no gas stove, only the old kerosene one that smelled of fuel.

Soon, Pihu started crying and pulling at her saree pallu, saying something in Bhojpuri. Sunita understood from the gestures, the child was hungry.

With a deep sigh and much effort in the cramped, hot space, Sunita lit the kerosene stove. The smoke made her eyes water. She cooked the only thing she somewhat knew, plain white rice and simple rasam. The rice turned out sticky and uneven. The rasam was watery. Nothing like the rich sambar or ghee rice she was used to at home.

As she cooked, sweat poured down her face, mixing with the sindoor. The tight blouse became soaked under the arms. The pallu kept falling. The bangles kept getting in the way. Yet looking at the hungry Pihu waiting patiently, something strange stirred in her.

How do these people survive every day? she thought. And here I was… complaining about food at home when it was made by servants.

When Ramesh returned, he was shocked to see food ready. His eyes filled with emotion again.

“Didi… apne khana banaya? Bahut bahut dhanyawad…”

They sat on the floor on an old mat. Ramesh and Pihu ate with relish. Sunita ate slowly with her fingers, the taste plain and slightly burnt, but she forced it down. The contrast with her mother’s elaborate meals at Gounder Illam was devastating.

Later, nature called.

Ramesh pointed outside. “Toilet communal hai… bahar mug leke jao.”

Carrying a plastic mug of water, Sunita walked to the communal toilet block in her old saree. The stench hit her first. The small, dirty cubicle had no proper door, just a sack curtain. She had to lift her saree and petticoat carefully, squat like a woman, and pee through the prosthetic. The humiliation was complete as she heard other women chatting outside.

Night fell.

Nithya finally arrived late in the evening, parking her car a little away. She entered the small house and looked at Sunita, tired, sweaty, pallu on her shoulder, sitting on the floor like a proper housewife.

“Looks like you’re enjoying yourself, Sunita,” Nithya said with a wicked smile.

Sunita replied sarcastically in her feminine voice, “Yes, Madam… enjoying a lot.”

Nithya laughed. “If you’re enjoying so much, why don’t you stay here for one more day? Help them a little more.”

“What? No! Never!” Sunita whispered fiercely.

Nithya tilted her head, eyes gleaming. “What? Scared? The great Satyaraj Gounder is scared of living one more day as a poor man’s wife? I thought you were more courageous than that…”

She dug exactly where it hurt, his ego.

Sunita’s feminine face flushed. After a long internal battle, she muttered, “Okay… one more day. That’s it.”

Nithya smirked. “Your wish, sister.” She left soon after, waving cheerfully.

They had a simple dinner, the leftover rice and rasam. Then it was time to sleep.

There was no separate room. Just the small hall.

Ramesh laid an old, thin mat on the floor. One old, rough blanket. Pihu slept in the middle. Sunita had to lie down beside her, still in the same old saree and blouse. Ramesh lay on the other side.

The floor was hard. The mat thin. The blanket smelled of previous use. Mosquitoes buzzed around. The distant noise of the slum, crying babies, arguments, dogs barking, filled the night. Her heavy breasts made it difficult to find a comfortable position. The mangalsutra pressed into her chest. The blouse hooks dug into her back.

Sunita lay there in the darkness, listening to Ramesh’s breathing and Pihu’s soft snores.

This morning I woke up in a luxurious bed with AC and silk sheets… and tonight I’m sleeping on the floor like a servant, dressed as another man’s wife, next to a stranger and his child.*

Tears silently rolled down her cheeks, mixing with the dried sindoor.

Just one more day, she told herself again.

But the river outside the colony flowed on, indifferent to promises and lies.