From Cauvery to Ganga

Chapter 12: The First Sweat of Borrowed Duty

Sunita woke up to the soft, rhythmic sound of a steel spatula scraping against an old aluminium pan. The smell of mustard oil tadka and onions frying filled the tiny room, sharp, pungent, and slightly smoky from the kerosene stove. Something small and warm was pressed tightly against her chest.

Little Pihu had curled up against her during the night, one tiny arm thrown across Sunita’s heavy breasts, face buried into the faded parrot-green saree. The child’s soft breathing tickled the exposed skin above the blouse. The thin mat beneath them felt rock-hard against Sunita’s back and hips. Her body ached, the waist cincher, the tight blouse hooks digging into her flesh, the mangalsutra chain pressing into her collarbone, and the constant, alien weight of the silicone breasts.

She blinked slowly, disoriented. The small plastic wall clock showed 5:07 AM.

Five in the morning…* she thought bitterly. At this time I would still be sleeping in my soft bed with AC cooling my room…

Ramesh was crouched near the stove in just a lungi, his back glistening with early sweat, cooking quickly. When he noticed her awake, he gave a gentle, grateful smile and spoke in his broken Tamil-Hindi mix.

“Sunita… aaj jaldi kaam hai. Contractor ne bola subah shift. aap so jao, rest karo. Main bana deta hoon khana.”

But Sunita, still half in Satyaraj’s arrogant mind, couldn’t just lie there. She slowly sat up, careful not to disturb Pihu too much. The pallu had slipped off during sleep, exposing the deep neckline of the old blouse and the deep cleavage created by the heavy breasts. She quickly adjusted it, cheeks burning with shame.

She got up to help him anyway.

After Ramesh left for work with a final thankful nod and a small tiffin box, Sunita stood in the cramped room feeling lost. Pihu had woken up cranky and dirty, her clothes stained, hair messy. Sunita looked down at herself. The saree was wrinkled and smelled of yesterday’s sweat and cooking smoke. She needed a bath desperately.

She found an old plastic bag in the corner that Ramesh had pointed to, Sunita’s remaining clothes. Faded, worn-out sarees, blouses, and petticoats. She picked a slightly less dirty maroon one.

Carrying Pihu on her hip and a small bucket with soap, mug, and clean clothes, she stepped out into the colony.

The communal bathing area was already crowded even at this early hour. A long line of Bihari and Odiya women in various stages of undress waited near the few functioning taps. The ground was muddy and slippery. The smell of cheap soap, wet hair, and waste water hung heavy in the air.

Sunita stood in line, pallu pulled tightly over her head and chest, trying to disappear. Women around her chatted loudly in Bhojpuri, laughing and gossiping. Some glanced at her curiously. One older woman said something teasingly that made others laugh. Sunita could only smile weakly, not understanding a word.

When her turn came, she entered the small, semi-open bathing cubicle with Pihu. The water was cold and came in a weak trickle. Bathing a restless three year old while managing her own heavy breasts, saree, and the realistic vagina prosthetic was an exercise in pure humiliation. Water splashed everywhere. The child cried when soap got in her eyes. Sunita struggled to remove and wear the wet clothes in the tight space without exposing herself too much. The rough cotton petticoat and old blouse clung wetly to her smooth skin. The glass bangles kept slipping and clinking against the bucket.

By the time she finished, she was exhausted, wet, and deeply ashamed.

Back in the house, she dried her long hair with an old towel, the damp strands sticking to her neck and back. She fed Pihu the leftover rice and rasam from last night, sitting on the floor, making the child eat with her own fingers. The simple act felt strangely intimate and humiliating at the same time.

Then came the loud knock on the tin door.

Three Bihari women from the neighbourhood stood outside, dressed in similar old work sarees. They spoke rapidly in Bhojpuri, gesturing for her to come with them.

“Sunita didi, kitne din se kaam pe nahi aayi? Aaj chalo, supervisor gussa kar raha hai!”

Sunita didn’t understand the words, but their gestures and impatient tone were clear, they expected her to come to work. With no Nithya in sight and no excuse ready, she had no choice but to go along, carrying Pihu on her hip.

The walk to the small garment packing unit was long and hot. The sun beat down on her. Sweat trickled down her back, making the blouse stick uncomfortably. The saree pallu kept slipping. Her old chappals rubbed against her soft feet, already forming blisters. Pihu grew heavy on her hip. The other women chatted and laughed around her while she remained silent, only nodding.

Inside the noisy, humid factory shed, the real struggle began.

They put her on the packing section, packing women’s undergarments (bras, panties, sanitary pads) into plastic covers. The male supervisors, Tamil men, walked around shouting orders. One of them, a fat, middle-aged man, pointed at her and barked in Tamil, “Ei, new girl! Faster a work pannu! Don’t stand like statue!”

The racism was subtle but constant. “These Bihari people are slow… always making excuses.” “Look at her, acting shy but probably lazy like others.” They made her lift heavy bundles, stand for long hours, and redo packages when they were not perfect.

Her back ached. Sweat poured down her face, mixing with sindoor and making it streak. The tight blouse became soaked. Her breasts felt sore from the constant movement. The bangles clinked annoyingly as she worked. The smell of new fabric, plastic, and hundreds of sweating bodies was overwhelming. Her soft, cream-treated hands developed small cuts from the rough packaging materials.

For the first time, real sympathy began to bloom inside her. These women do this every single day… just to survive.

Evening finally came.

Exhausted, sore, and drenched in sweat, Sunita walked back with the group of women, Pihu sleeping on her shoulder. Her pallu was dusty, hair dishevelled, feet hurting badly.

Ramesh was already home. The moment he saw her tired face, he looked guilty.

“Sorry… sorry Sunita. Aaj bohot kaam tha. Kal se main dekh lunga.”

He helped her sit on the creaky chair and brought her a glass of water.

Sunita sat there silently, waiting for Nithya’s car to appear and take her away from this nightmare.

But as the minutes stretched into an hour, no car came.

The weight of the day, the bath, the work, the constant eyes, the hunger, the heat, the shame, settled heavily on her newly feminine shoulders.

Just this day, she kept telling herself.

But the sun had already set on another borrowed life.