From Cauvery to Ganga

Chapter 16: The First Day of a Borrowed Motherhood

The morning sun had just begun painting the slum in dusty orange hues when Sunita stood in the tiny room, carefully getting Pihu ready for her very first day of school.

She had chosen the best frock the child owned ,a faded pink one with small flowers, washed and ironed yesterday evening. Sunita combed Pihu’s hair into two neat pigtails with colourful rubber bands, applied a small bindi on the child’s forehead, and helped her wear tiny plastic slippers. All the while, Pihu giggled and called her “Mummy” repeatedly, hugging her legs.

Sunita looked down at herself and at the little girl, and a wave of pure horror crashed over her.

Oh God… what have I become?
Satyaraj Gounder… the spoiled rich son of Mahendran Gounder… is standing here in a cheap faded saree, oiling and dressing a migrant worker’s daughter like a real mother…

Her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted the pallu of her mustard-yellow saree. The tight blouse dug painfully into her underarms. The heavy silicone breasts shifted with every small movement. The mangalsutra rested heavily between them. Glass bangles clinked softly as she worked.

Ramesh watched from the side, not entirely happy with the school decision, but he stayed quiet. He was grateful ,deeply grateful and that gratitude had become the strongest chain holding her here.

After a simple breakfast of rice and dal, Sunita took Pihu’s hand and began the long walk to the government school. The old rubber chappals rubbed against her blistered feet with every step. The humid morning air made the saree stick to her back and thighs. Sweat was already forming under the tight blouse, creating dark patches. The pallu kept slipping off her shoulder, forcing her to adjust it constantly with one hand while holding Pihu with the other.

A group of colony women passing by commented loudly in Bhojpuri. Sunita caught enough to understand, they were questioning why she was sending a girl child to school.

“Padhai kya karegi? Ghar ka kaam aur bachche sambhalna hi toh zindagi hai…

Sunita stopped for a moment, gathered her courage, and replied in her soft, accented voice:

“Merri beti hai… meri marzi. Woh padhegi. Achha future hoga uska.”

The women looked surprised but didn’t argue further. Sunita felt a strange mix of pride and deep humiliation. Here she was, defending a daughter’s right to education while dressed as an uneducated Bihari housewife.

She left Pihu at the school gate after hugging her tightly and whispering encouragement. The little girl looked nervous but excited. Sunita felt an unexpected tightness in her chest as she walked away.

From there, she went straight to the garment packing unit.

The work was brutal as usual. The male supervisors shouted orders. Her hands moved mechanically, folding, packing, sealing plastic covers filled with women’s innerwear. The plastic smell mixed with sweat from dozens of bodies created a nauseating atmosphere. Her back ached from constant bending. The tight blouse felt like a torture device, squeezing her breasts and leaving fresh red marks. Sweat poured down her face, mixing with the sindoor and making it streak.

At the end of the long shift, she received her day’s wages, a small bundle of crumpled notes. As she counted the meagre amount, a heavy realisation settled over her.

This is what real money feels like when you earn it with your own hands…
As Satyaraj, I never understood the value of even one rupee. Now I know how much sweat, pain, and humiliation goes into it.

She picked up Pihu from school in the evening. The child was tired but happy, showing her a drawing she had made. They walked back home together, Pihu holding the edge of her pallu like a lifeline.

Over the next few days, the routine became almost dangerously normal.

Waking up at 4:45 AM. Communal bath with Pihu. Cooking. Cleaning. Washing clothes by hand. Factory work. Coming back exhausted. Cooking again. Sleeping on the hard floor. The constant feel of the saree, the tight blouses, the jingling bangles, the weight of the breasts, the mangalsutra, the smell of kerosene and sweat, everything had started to feel… familiar.

She told herself she was doing all this so she wouldn’t be a burden on Ramesh. But deep down, she knew it was also because resisting had become too tiring.

One evening, Pihu came back from school with a runny nose and mild fever. Sunita felt strangely worried. She spent the entire evening caring for the child, wiping her nose, making khichdi, giving her water, and gently rocking her to sleep.

That night, they made Pihu sleep in the corner on a separate small mat so she wouldn’t catch a chill from the floor draft.

For the first time, Sunita had to sleep directly beside Ramesh.

She lay stiffly on her side, still in her old saree, heart pounding. Ramesh was respectful at first, keeping distance, murmuring a quiet “good night.”

But as the night deepened and sleep took over, his body moved unconsciously. His strong arm slid around her waist, pulling her closer. His rough hand rested possessively on the soft curve of her hip. She could feel his warm breath on the back of her neck, smelling of beedi and the simple meal they had shared. His chest pressed lightly against her back, the heat of his body seeping through the thin nightie.

Sunita froze, eyes wide open in the darkness.

Damn it… only a few days left, right?* she repeated desperately in her mind.
Just a few more days…

But Ramesh’s unconscious embrace felt disturbingly natural. The weight of his arm, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way her body, this borrowed feminine body, seemed to fit against his… it all created a terrifying warmth she didn’t want to acknowledge.

Pihu slept peacefully in the corner.

And Sunita lay there, trapped between a sleeping “husband,” a sick child who called her Mummy, and the growing fear that “a few more days” was becoming the biggest lie she had ever told herself.