From Cauvery to Ganga

Chapter 28: The Village of Chains

The bus finally stopped at a small dusty stop near Muzaffarpur district late in the evening. The air here was different, cooler, heavier with the scent of wet earth, cow dung, and mustard fields. Sunita stepped down barefoot, her old chappals long discarded. The rough village road felt sharp under her tender soles. Pihu was sleeping on her shoulder, heavy and warm. Ramesh carried the bags ahead.

They walked for nearly twenty minutes through narrow mud paths lined with mud-brick houses and thatched roofs. Dogs barked in the distance. Oil lamps flickered inside homes. The night air carried the sounds of women singing bhajans and the occasional cry of a baby.

Sunita’s heart pounded with every step. The heavy maroon saree she had changed into before getting off the train clung to her body from the journey’s sweat. The mangalsutra felt like a chain around her neck. Her glass bangles clinked softly in the quiet village night.

This was Ramesh’s village.

Her sasural.

The moment they reached the modest mud house with a small courtyard, a loud voice rang out.

“Arre Ramesh aa gaya! Aur bahu bhi saath laaya!”

An old woman, Ramesh’s mother, around 58, came out with a lantern. She was thin, wrinkled, with sharp eyes and traditional silver jewelry. Behind her stood Ramesh’s father, two younger brothers, and several relatives who had gathered for the sister’s wedding.

The mother-in-law looked Sunita up and down critically.

“Bahut din baad ghar aayi hai tu. Aur itni fair bhi ho gayi? Kya khati hai Tirupur mein?”

Sunita kept her head lowered, pallu covering her face modestly, and touched the old woman’s feet.

“Pranam Maaji…”

The mother in law blessed her half-heartedly and immediately started complaining.

“Chhoti bahu ko dekh lo… kitni patli ho gayi hai. Aur yeh ladki ko school bhej rahi thi? Ladkiyon ko padhane se kya hoga? Ghar sambhalna nahi aata kya?”

The questions came like arrows.

“When will you give us a grandson? One girl is enough. We need a boy to carry the family name.”

“Ramesh, is baar zaroor beta hona chahiye. Bahu ko dawai khilao.”

Sunita stood silently, eyes down, feeling every word like a slap. The misogyny was open and casual, as natural as breathing in this rural household. She was no longer just playing a role, she was being judged as a real daughter-in-law.

The next few days were a whirlwind of wedding functions for Ramesh’s younger sister.

Sunita was thrown into the deep end of village life.

She had to wake up even earlier, 4 AM, to help with cooking for 50+ guests. The chulha (earthen stove) smoke filled her lungs. Her eyes watered constantly. She rolled hundreds of rotis, cut vegetables, washed endless utensils in cold water from the handpump. Her hands became raw. The tight blouses and heavy sarees made her sweat profusely in the humid Bihar weather.

During the functions, she was expected to serve everyone, sitting on the floor, serving food with her head covered, eyes lowered. Relatives constantly commented on her:

“Bahut sundar bahu hai, lekin kitni chup-chup rehti hai.”

“Ramesh ko ek beta de de jaldi.”

One elderly aunt even pulled her aside and said, “Bahu, abhi se dawai shuru kar do. Ladka hona chahiye. Ladkiyan toh paraya dhan hoti hain.”

Sunita could only nod meekly and whisper, “Ji Mausi…”

The Humiliations

Every moment was saturated with degradation.

- Bathing at the village pond with other women, openly, with just a thin saree wrapped around her while washing. The cold water, the stares, the casual comments about her “fair” body and “good childbearing hips.”
- Sleeping on a thin cot in the corner of a crowded room with other women during the wedding days.
- Having to massage her mother-in-law’s feet every night.
- Being scolded publicly when she didn’t cook something perfectly.
- The constant pressure to get pregnant soon “Abhi se pet mein rakh lo… ladka hoga toh ghar ki roshni badhegi.”

She had become the perfect submissive bahu.

Inside, Satyaraj was breaking.

Look at me… serving food to strangers, getting scolded for salt in the dal, being told my only purpose is to produce sons…

Yet she endured. For Pihu. For the vow.

On the third night after the wedding, while the house was still buzzing with relatives, Ramesh found a quiet moment with her near the backyard.

He looked exhausted.

“Sunita… yahan sab kuch alag hai. Maaji bahut strict hain. Lekin humein yeh mahina poora karna hai. Pihu ke liye.”

Sunita nodded, adjusting her pallu.

“Haan… main samajh gayi hoon.”

Ramesh touched her shoulder gently.

“Tu bahut strong hai…”

For a brief second, there was something almost tender in his eyes.

As the days passed, the family announced that they wanted Ramesh and Sunita to stay until Chhath Puja, which was still more than ten days away.

“Beta, bahu ko yahan Chhath karwa ke hi bhejenge. Itni badi baat hai… pehli baar sasural aayi hai.”

Sunita stood silently as Ramesh agreed.

Another extension.

Another chain.

She looked at the vast Bihar fields outside the house, the mud walls, the cows tied in the courtyard, the women grinding spices on the sil-batta.

This was her life now.

Sunita Devi, bahu of this rural household.

And the month was far from over.