From Cauvery to Ganga

Chapter 26: The Price of Authenticity

The small house was quiet after dinner. Pihu had fallen asleep early. The single bulb cast long, flickering shadows on the damp walls. Sunita sat on the floor, folding Ramesh’s clean lungis, her faded maroon saree pooled around her. The tight blouse dug into her underarms as usual. The mangalsutra rested heavily between her breasts.

Ramesh sat on the creaky chair, staring at her for a long time before speaking.

“Sunita… tu sach mein sure hai? Jo Swamy ne kaha tha… woh sab… poora karna hai toh… humein bilkul real banana padega. Sirf dikhawa nahi… asli pati-patni jaisa.”

Sunita’s hands froze on the cloth. She knew what he meant.

She lowered her gaze, voice soft and submissive.

“Haan… sure hoon. Poor Bihari household mein yeh sab hota hi hai. Drunk husband… gussa… beating. Agar hum yeh bhi nahi karenge toh log shak karenge. Pihu ke liye… sab kuch real hona chahiye. Please… kar do.”

Ramesh looked pained. “Lekin main nahi chahta tha…”

“I know,” she whispered. “Lekin karna padega. Real karo.”

That night, Ramesh came home drunk.

The smell of cheap desi liquor hit Sunita the moment he stepped inside. His eyes were red. His steps unsteady. The usual quiet tension in the house turned sharp and dangerous.

“Sunita! Khana kahan hai?!” he shouted, voice slurred and loud.

She quickly served him food, head lowered, pallu covering her chest. But he was in no mood to eat peacefully.

He started complaining, about the roti being cold, about the sabzi being too spicy, about how tired he was of this life. His voice grew louder with every sentence. Then came the accusations.

“Tu kya samajhti hai khud ko?! Sirf kuch din ke liye yahan aayi hai aur patni ban rahi hai?! Asli Sunita hoti toh aisa nahi karti!”

Sunita tried to calm him, speaking softly, “Ramesh… maaf kar do… main abhi garam karti hoon…”

But he wasn’t listening.

The first slap came hard across her face.

The sound echoed in the small room. Her cheek burned instantly. The glass bangles on her wrist clinked violently as she stumbled back. Before she could recover, he grabbed her arm roughly and pushed her against the wall.

“Roz yahi natak karti hai tu?!” he shouted, his breath reeking of alcohol. “Mere ghar mein reh ke bhi apni marzi chalati hai?!”

He slapped her again. Then again. His rough hands left red marks on her fair skin. He pushed her to the floor. Sunita curled up instinctively, protecting her head as he kicked her once in the side, not full force, but hard enough to hurt. The tight blouse tore slightly at the shoulder. Her pallu slipped completely, exposing her deep cleavage. Tears streamed down her face, mixing with the sindoor.

“Ramesh… please…” she begged in a broken voice.

Neighbours had heard the shouting. Two women and one man rushed in and pulled Ramesh away.

“Arre bas karo! Bacchi ko maar rahe ho kya?!” one woman shouted.

Ramesh was dragged outside, still muttering angrily. The women helped Sunita up, wiping her tears, adjusting her pallu, and comforting her with the usual “patidev hai… gussa utar jayega” talks.

Sunita sat on the floor, holding her bruised cheek, body trembling. None of them enjoyed it. Not Ramesh. Not her. But it had to be done.

It was what a real poor Bihari household looked like.

A few days passed in heavy silence.

Ramesh was cold and distant during the day, playing the role perfectly. At night he was gentler, sometimes apologising quietly while holding her. Sunita endured everything with silent submission. She had become the perfect traditional wife, quiet, obedient, always adjusting her pallu, always cooking on time, always lowering her eyes.

Her Bhojpuri was now fluent. Her movements were completely natural. She looked, spoke, and behaved exactly like a migrant Bihari woman who had been married for years.

One evening, while they were having dinner, Ramesh’s old phone rang.

It was from his village in Bihar.

His younger sister’s marriage had been fixed suddenly. The family wanted him to come immediately for the rituals. They needed him there for at least 10–12 days.

Ramesh looked at Sunita after ending the call.

“Main akela chala jaunga. Tum Pihu ke saath yahan rehna.”

But Sunita shook her head slowly.

“Hum sab saath jayenge. Jo bacha hai… usko bhi perfectly khatam kar dete hain. Koi kami nahi rehni chahiye.”

Ramesh looked at her for a long moment, then nodded.

The next morning, they started packing.

Sunita folded her old sarees carefully, packed the few utensils, Pihu’s clothes, and their documents. She wore a simple but presentable green saree for the journey, Seedha Aanchal style, pallu on her head, heavy sindoor, mangalsutra, glass bangles, and the old rubber chappals.

As they walked toward the main road to catch the bus to the railway station, they passed along the banks of the Cauvery.

The river flowed calmly beside them, the same river she used to ride along on her bike as Satyaraj. Now she walked as a married Bihari woman, carrying a small bag on her head, holding Pihu’s hand, with her husband walking ahead.

The humid breeze made her pallu flutter. The glass bangles clinked. Her heavy breasts moved with every step. The mangalsutra tapped against her chest.

She looked at the river for a long moment.

See how far I’ve fallen…

From driving luxury cars along this river to walking as a poor migrant wife, going to her husband’s village for his sister’s wedding.

The contrast was devastating.

Yet she kept walking.

Pihu held her hand tighter.

“Chalo Mummy…”

Sunita adjusted her pallu, lowered her head modestly, and followed her husband toward the bus stand.

The journey to Bihar had begun.

And with it, the final stretch of her one-month sentence as Sunita Devi.