From Cauvery to Ganga

Chapter 15: The Weight of a Mother’s Promise

“Fuck… I’m retarded. I’m so fucking stupid.”

Sunita sat on the small, cracked plastic stool inside the tiny bathroom corner, staring at her reflection in the broken piece of mirror hanging on the wall. The early morning light barely reached here. Pihu stood in front of her, playing with the edge of her pallu, completely unaware of the storm inside her “mother.”

The old bottle green saree was already half-wrapped around her body. The tight blouse from yesterday was still damp with sweat. Her heavy breasts rose and fell rapidly with each shaky breath. The mangalsutra hung between them like a permanent collar. Glass bangles clinked softly as her hands trembled while trying to adjust the petticoat string.

She looked every inch the tired, poor Bihari migrant wife.

And that realisation hit harder than ever today.

After finishing the morning bath struggle with Pihu, the cold water, the slippery floor, the constant fear of someone peeking, the humiliating act of squatting and cleaning herself in the realistic vagina prosthetic, she dressed carefully.

The saree today was a faded maroon one with a parrot-green border. She draped it in the now-familiar Seedha Aanchal style, tucking the pallu tightly at her waist. The blouse was particularly old and tight, its hooks straining across her back, digging deep red marks into her soft skin. The petticoat rubbed roughly against her wider hips and thighs. She applied fresh thick sindoor, a large bindi, the cheap nose ring, toe rings, and two dozen glass bangles. Her long oiled hair was tied into a simple bun with a few loose strands sticking to her moist neck due to the humidity.

Every single piece of clothing felt heavier today.

Today’s mission was clear: Get Pihu admitted into the nearby government anganwadi, primary school.

She took Pihu’s hand and began the long walk. The old rubber chappals slapped against the dusty road, already rubbing against her blisters. The morning sun was merciless. Sweat started forming under her arms, making the tight blouse stick uncomfortably. The heavy breasts bounced with every step. The pallu kept threatening to slip off her shoulder. Pihu grew tired quickly and wanted to be carried, adding more weight to her aching hips and back.

At the government school, Sunita did her best to imitate a real migrant woman. She spoke in broken Bhojpuri mixed with Tamil, using the phrases she had learned from the notebook and by observing colony women.

“Sir… admission chahiye… Pihu Kumari… three and half saal…”

She kept her head slightly lowered, pallu covering part of her face, voice soft and shy like a proper uneducated village wife. The teachers looked at her with mild pity and slight suspicion, but eventually processed the papers. Sunita signed as “Sunita Devi” with a thumb impression on some forms, feeling a deep wave of humiliation wash over her.

On the way back, carrying a tired Pihu on her hip, she spoke softly to the child in a mix of languages:

“Padho beta… achhe se padho. Mummy jaise mat banna. Mummy ka life bahut mushkil hai… bahut dukh hai. Tum mat banna aisa…”

Even saying those words felt humiliating. Here she was, a rich man’s son, telling a poor child not to end up like her “mother.”

The return journey took them past the main road near her old neighbourhood.

Gounder Illam stood tall and proud in the distance, gleaming white walls, marble pillars, lush garden, luxury cars parked outside. The stark contrast hit her like a slap.

Just a few weeks ago, she was inside that mansion, sleeping in AC, eating food served by servants, driving expensive cars without a care. Now she was walking past it in a faded, sweat-soaked saree, carrying a child on her hip, feet blistered, body aching, smelling of cheap soap and hard labour.

Tears stung her eyes. She quickly wiped them with the edge of her pallu and kept walking, head lowered.

Back in the small house, she immediately started preparing afternoon food. The kerosene stove smoke filled the room. Sweat poured down her face and back as she chopped vegetables and stirred dal. The tight blouse felt suffocating. The bangles kept interfering with her work. Pihu played nearby, occasionally tugging at her pallu.

By evening, she was exhausted but the house was relatively clean and food was ready.

Ramesh returned later than usual, and he was drunk.

His eyes were red, steps unsteady. The moment he entered, he looked at Sunita differently. As if the line between real and fake had blurred in his alcohol-fogged mind.

“Sunita… khana laga,” he ordered roughly, sitting on the creaky chair.

She served him silently, enduring his slightly slurred complaints about work, contractor, and life. He ate noisily, occasionally glancing at her with a mix of gratitude and possessive hunger. For the first time, he spoke to her like she was truly his wife, ordering her to bring water, massage his shoulders, and sit closer.

Sunita endured everything quietly, heart pounding. Only a few more days… just a few more days…

Late at night, after Pihu had fallen asleep between them on the hard mat, Ramesh started muttering in the darkness, his voice heavy with alcohol and sorrow.

He spoke about his life in broken sentences, the extreme poverty in his Bihar village, how he had dreamed of studying and becoming a teacher or clerk, but had to drop out after 8th standard. How he was married off young to Sunita. How the migration to Tamil Nadu for work had broken them both. How he hated this life of endless labour but had no way out. How he missed the real Sunita but was grateful this “new” one was here.

Sunita lay still in the darkness, understanding only fragments, but feeling the raw pain in his voice.

For the first time, despite everything, she felt a strange pang of genuine sympathy for this broken man lying next to her.

Her own eyes filled with tears as she stared at the cracked ceiling, the mangalsutra heavy on her chest, Pihu’s small hand clutching her blouse, and Ramesh’s tired breathing on the other side.

What had she gotten herself into?

And why was it becoming harder to imagine leaving?