From Cauvery to Ganga

Chapter 27: The Long Road to Bihar

The morning they left for Bihar was humid and unforgiving.

Sunita woke up at 4 AM, heart heavy with the knowledge that this journey would seal her fate even deeper. She quietly prepared tea and packed the last few things, a small steel tiffin with food, two spare sarees, Pihu’s clothes, and a thin blanket. Ramesh carried the heavier bag.

As they stepped out of the small house for the last time before the trip, her old rubber chappal snapped on the uneven ground near the colony entrance. The strap broke completely.

“Ab kya karun…” she whispered.

Ramesh looked back. “Chappal toot gaya? Koi baat nahi, station tak barefoot hi chal le. Wahan dekh lenge.”

Sunita nodded submissively. Barefoot.

She walked through the dusty, stony paths of the migrant colony barefoot, carrying Pihu on her hip with one arm and a small bag on her head with the other. The rough ground dug into her soft soles. Small stones and broken glass pieces pricked her feet. By the time they reached the main road, her feet were already dirty and slightly bleeding from tiny cuts. The pain was sharp with every step, but she bit her lip and kept walking silently like a good wife.

The Tirupur railway station was crowded with migrants. They somehow managed to push their way into the general unreserved coach of the train to Bihar.

It was hell.

The compartment was packed beyond imagination. Bodies pressed against bodies. The smell of sweat, beedi smoke, cheap food, urine from the toilets, and unwashed clothes was overwhelming. Sunita stood squeezed between strangers, one hand holding an overhead rod, the other protectively around Pihu who was on her hip. The heavy breasts pressed against the woman in front of her. Her pallu kept slipping due to the constant pushing. Sweat poured down her back, making the cheap blouse stick transparently to her skin.

There was no place to sit. For the first two hours, she stood like that, legs aching, back hurting from Pihu’s weight, breasts sore from being crushed. Ramesh managed to find a tiny space on the floor near the door for her to sit later. She sat on the dirty floor, legs folded, Pihu in her lap, surrounded by men’s feet and luggage.

The TTR finally pushed through the crowd.

“Ticket! Ticket dikhao!”

Ramesh handed over the tickets and Sunita’s Aadhaar card. The officer glanced at it.

“Sunita Devi… wife?”

“Haan sahab,” Ramesh replied.

Sunita kept her head lowered, pallu covering half her face, looking every bit the shy Bihari wife. The officer stamped the ticket and moved on.

Ever imagined this? she thought bitterly.

Satyaraj Gounder… sitting on the dirty floor of a general coach as Sunita Devi, wife of a Bihari migrant labourer, going back to his village.

The journey lasted nearly two and a half days.

The heat was unbearable. The train stopped at every small station. The coach became hotter and smellier with every passing hour. Sunita had to use the filthy toilet multiple times, the small, stinking cubicle with no water half the time. She had to hold Pihu while relieving herself, lifting her saree and petticoat carefully, squatting over the dirty hole while the train jolted.

Food was whatever they had packed or bought from vendors, dry rotis, stale sabzi, watery tea. She fed Pihu first, then ate whatever was left with her hands, sitting on the floor. Crumbs fell on her breasts and lap. Flies buzzed around.

At night, she slept sitting up, Pihu in her lap, head resting against Ramesh’s shoulder. His arm was around her protectively. The mangalsutra pressed into her chest. Her body ached from the uncomfortable position. The constant noise, the crying babies, the snoring men, sleep was almost impossible.

Through it all, she took care of Pihu, wiping her, feeding her, singing soft lullabies when the child got cranky. She had become a real mother in every sense.

On the second day, the train crossed into Bihar.

When the mighty Ganga came into view, Sunita pressed her face closer to the iron bars of the window. The vast, muddy river flowed endlessly under the bridge. The sight was majestic and heartbreaking at the same time.

Ganga… she thought. I’m really here. As someone’s wife. Going to my sasural.

Tears silently rolled down her cheeks.

They finally got down at a small junction station late in the evening.

From there, they boarded an overcrowded rural bus. People were hanging from the doors. Sunita stood squeezed between other women, one hand holding the overhead bar, the other around Pihu. The bus smelled of diesel, sweat, and livestock.

After a few hours, the bus stopped for a break in the middle of nowhere, vast open fields on both sides.

All the women, including Sunita, got down to relieve themselves. There were no toilets. They walked into the tall sugarcane fields in a group, pallus covering their heads and faces.

Sunita found a somewhat hidden spot. She lifted her saree and petticoat, squatted down barefoot on the warm soil, and did her business while other women did the same around her. The rustling of leaves, the distant sound of birds, the feeling of vulnerability, it was deeply humiliating.

This is my life now… Sunita.

She wiped herself with whatever leaves she could find, adjusted her saree, and walked back to the bus with the group, feet dirty with mud and grass.

As the bus continued its journey toward Ramesh’s village, Sunita stared out at the passing fields.

She had become Sunita Devi completely.

From the rich boy who once rode along the Cauvery in his luxury car to this, a tired, saree clad Bihari woman traveling to her husband’s village with calloused feet, a child on her lap, and a mangalsutra around her neck.

The journey was long.

But the real journey, the one that had changed her forever, had already reached its deepest point.