From Cauvery to Ganga

Chapter 25: Sunita Devi's Days

The days had blurred into one long, endless rhythm.

Sunita Devi, wife of Ramesh Kumar, woke up every morning at 4:40 AM to the sound of distant lorries on the highway and the soft breathing of her “daughter” pressed against her chest. The thin mat on the floor had become her bed. The dampness of the concrete seeped through the old blanket, making her back and hips ache constantly. Her body, once pampered and soft, now carried the permanent marks of this life: red lines under her arms from tight blouses, roughened hands, slightly calloused feet, and breasts that felt heavier and more sensitive with every passing day.

She gently moved Pihu aside and sat up. The faded nightie clung to her sweaty skin. The mangalsutra lay sticky between her breasts. She could still feel the faint soreness from last night’s reluctant intimacy with Ramesh.

Main Sunita Devi hoon… Ramesh Kumar ki patni.

This sentence had become her first thought every single morning.

The Routine

She lit the kerosene stove. The sharp smell of fuel and the blue flame filled the tiny kitchen corner. Sweat immediately started forming on her forehead and back as she made tea. The tight blouse she wore dug into her underarms. She adjusted her pallu again and again, the coarse cotton rubbing against her sensitive nipples.

After tea, the communal bath. The line of women. The cold, rusty water. Bathing Pihu while her own heavy breasts swayed and water trickled over her realistic vagina. The humiliation of squatting openly, the casual conversations of other women about their husbands’ demands in bed, the way they teased her about being “newly married again”, she had stopped flinching. She smiled shyly and replied in fluent Bhojpuri now.

Then came cooking, cleaning, washing clothes by hand in the plastic bucket. The rough soap burned the small cuts on her fingers. The constant bending made her lower back scream. Carrying Pihu on her hip while doing chores had reshaped her posture, she now walked with a natural feminine sway, pallu on her head when outside.

Factory work in the afternoon. The heat. The male supervisors shouting. The plastic smell. Packing bras and panties while her own heavy breasts strained against her sweaty blouse. The blisters on her hands. The racist comments she had learned to ignore with a bowed head.

She had become Sunita. Completely.

The Gossip Circle

One late evening, after returning from the factory, Sunita sat with the usual group of women outside one of the houses. The sun was setting, painting the slum in golden-orange light. They sat on plastic sheets spread on the dusty ground, six women in faded sarees, some with babies on their laps.

Sunita sat with her legs folded modestly, pallu draped over her chest, mangalsutra clearly visible. A teenage girl from the next line house had joined them today.

The conversation turned to marriage and life.

One woman complained, “Arre hamari zindagi toh bas pati ki seva aur bachchon ko paalna hai.”

The teenage girl, around 17, spoke dreamily, “Didi, main padhna chahti hoon. Job karungi.”

The women laughed. Sunita felt something twist inside her, but she had to play her role perfectly. To blend in. To survive.

She adjusted her pallu and spoke softly in fluent Bhojpuri, her voice carrying the accent naturally now:

“Betiya… hum auraton ki zindagi yahi hai. Hum dusri degree ke insaan hain. Sirf shaadi karna, khana banana, ghar sambhalna, bachche paalna… yahi humara kaam hai. Isme hi humari izzat hai. Bahar job karke kya milega? Sirf pareshani. Hum patni aur ma hone par garv karna chahiye.”

The words left her mouth so easily.

The women nodded in agreement. The teenage girl looked disappointed but stayed silent.

Sunita felt a deep, burning humiliation settle in her stomach.

Look at what I’ve become…

The once-arrogant, rich, privileged Satyaraj Gounder was now sitting in the dirt in a cheap saree, telling young girls that women are second-grade creatures whose only purpose is to serve men, cook, and raise children.

And she had said it convincingly. To fit in. To not stand out.

The shame was suffocating.

She knew Nithya was still checking on her secretly.

Sometimes she would spot the familiar silver car parked at a distance on the main road. Sometimes she would see Nithya’s silhouette watching from afar. But Sunita never broke character. She always kept her head lowered, pallu on her head, behaving exactly like a modest Bihari wife should. She couldn’t risk anything.

At night, after dinner, while washing the last utensils, she thought about her real family.

What must they be thinking? Their son has been missing for weeks now. Nithya told them I’m on a long vacation with friends… but don’t they miss me? Don’t they suspect something? Or am I really that unimportant?

The thought hurt more than she expected.

She no longer asked for a phone. Women like her didn’t need phones. Their world was the house, the husband, the child, and the colony. She was only meant to serve.

The days continued.

Waking up as Sunita.
Sleeping as Sunita.
Living as Sunita.

The line between acting and becoming had become dangerously thin.

And with every passing day, the one-month deadline felt both like a distant hope and a terrifying cage she was slowly learning to live inside.