From Cauvery to Ganga

Chapter 24: Sunita Devi, Wife of Ramesh Kumar

Main Sunita Devi hoon… Ramesh Kumar ki patni.

The words had become her morning prayer, her daily reality, her prison.

It had been two and a half weeks since the temple wedding. The one-month vow now felt less like a temporary sacrifice and more like her actual life. Every trace of Satyaraj Gounder was fading, buried under layers of cheap cotton sarees, thick sindoor, glass bangles, and the constant weight of mangalsutra against her chest.

She had become… exactly what she was pretending to be.

Morning

The day always began the same way.

At 4:40 AM, Sunita woke up before Ramesh. Pihu was curled against her side, breathing softly. The thin mat on the floor had left its usual ache in her back and hips. She gently disentangled herself, careful not to wake the child, and sat up.

Her body was changing. The hormone creams and constant wear of the heavy prosthetics had made her breasts feel more natural, more sensitive. Her hips and thighs had softened further. Even her voice now came out naturally soft and feminine.

She lit the kerosene stove. The blue flame flickered as she made tea. The smoke stung her eyes, but she had grown used to it. She wore a simple faded green saree, the pallu tucked tightly, blouse digging into her underarms as always. Sweat already started forming on her back even before sunrise.

After tea, she took Pihu for the communal bath. The line, the stares, the cold water, the struggle of bathing a restless child while managing her own heavy, swaying breasts and the realistic vagina, it had all become routine. She no longer flinched as much when other women commented on her body or teased her about being “the quiet new wife.”

Back home, she cooked breakfast, dal, roti, and sabzi. Her hands moved with surprising efficiency now. She had become a fast learner. The food was simple, but it was edible. Ramesh would eat silently, sometimes nodding in approval, sometimes scolding her if the roti was too hard or the dal too watery.

“Zyada namak daal diya hai aaj,” he would mutter roughly, even though inside he felt guilty for speaking to her like that. But the Swamy’s words weighed on him too, he had to treat her as a real wife.

Sunita would only lower her head submissively and whisper, “Maaf kar do… agli baar dhyan rakhungi.”

She had become the ever-submissive traditional wife.

Factory Work

After sending Pihu to school (or leaving her with a neighbour), she walked with the other women to the garment unit. The walk itself was now familiar, the old chappals slapping against the road, pallu on her head to protect from the sun, heavy breasts bouncing, sweat trickling down her back, making the blouse stick transparently to her skin.

At work, she was no longer the shy, confused newcomer. She packed women’s inners quickly and efficiently. The male supervisors still shouted, still made racist comments, but she had learned to endure in silence, head bowed, just like the other Bihari women.

“Ei Sunita! Jaldi kar! Soch rahi hai kya?” they would bark.

She would only nod and work faster, her bangles clinking rhythmically.

The money she earned, however little now felt important. She understood the value of every rupee in a way the old Satyaraj never could.

Evening Housework

Coming back home, she would first wash Pihu, feed her, then start the endless cycle of housework, sweeping, mopping, washing clothes by hand in the bucket, cleaning utensils, preparing dinner. Her once-soft hands were now rough with small cuts. Her back ached constantly. The tight blouses left permanent red marks on her skin.

She had grown fluent in basic Bhojpuri. She could now chat with the colony women in short sentences, laugh at their jokes, and complain about husbands and rising prices like everyone else.

The Gossip Circle

One evening, after finishing her work, Sunita sat with five other Bihari women outside one of the line houses. They were all in faded sarees, some breastfeeding babies, some shelling peanuts. The evening sun cast long shadows. The air smelled of cooking food and damp earth.

Sunita sat with her legs folded, pallu modestly covering her chest, mangalsutra visible. She had become one of them.

“Arre Sunita didi, tumhara pati kitna gussa karta hai na? Kal raat toh zor-zor se chillaya tha!” one woman teased.

Sunita gave a shy, embarrassed smile exactly like a real wife would.

“Haan… kabhi kabhi ho jata hai. Lekin dil ka accha hai,” she replied softly in Bhojpuri, her accent now almost natural.

The women laughed. Another one complained about her own husband’s drinking. Sunita listened, nodded, and even added small comments. She gossiped about the factory supervisor, about the price of rice, about whose daughter was getting married soon.

Inside, Satyaraj was screaming in horror.

Look at yourself. Sitting in the dirt with migrant women, wearing a cheap saree, gossiping like an illiterate housewife…

But on the outside, Sunita Devi smiled shyly, adjusted her pallu, and continued the conversation.

Night

Ramesh had slowly become more dominant.

He would come home tired and sometimes snap at her over small things, if dinner was late, if his clothes weren’t properly washed, if Pihu was too noisy. He never hit her, but his tone had become that of a traditional Bihari husband, authoritative and short-tempered.

Sunita endured everything with bowed head and soft replies.

“Ji… abhi laati hoon.”

“Maaf kar do… agli baar dhyan rakhungi.”

At night, after Pihu slept in the middle, Ramesh would sometimes pull her closer when the child was deeply asleep. His hands would roam possessively over her body. Some nights he wanted her again. Some nights he just held her tightly.

Sunita let him.

She had to.

It was all part of being a real wife for one month.

As she lay there that night, Pihu between them, Ramesh’s arm eventually finding its way around her waist even in sleep, Sunita stared at the ceiling.

An entire month ahead.

She had become fluent in the language.
She had become skilled in household work.
She looked, moved, and sounded exactly like a migrant Bihari woman.

And worst of all… a small, terrifying part of her was starting to feel like she belonged here.