From Cauvery to Ganga

Chapter 30: The Favourite Bahu

The days in the village had settled into a strange, exhausting rhythm. Sunita Devi had become the favourite daughter-in-law of the household.

It was humiliating in every possible way.

From dawn till late night, she was the first to wake and the last to sleep. The mother-in-law’s sharp voice would cut through the morning mist ,“Bahu! Uth! Chulha jalaa! Paani bhar! Doodh garam kar!”

Sunita would rise quietly, drape a faded cotton saree, tie the petticoat string tightly around her softer waist, and slip into the tightest blouse she owned. The hooks always dug deep under her arms, leaving fresh red marks on her fair skin. The heavy breasts strained against the thin fabric, making every movement a reminder of her borrowed femininity.

She swept the mud courtyard with a broom made of dried palm leaves, the dust rising and sticking to her sweaty skin. She fetched water from the handpump, the cold metal handle rough against her once-soft palms. She milked the two buffaloes in the shed, their warm bodies pressing against her as she sat on a low stool, the smell of dung and milk filling her nose. She cooked on the earthen chulha, the smoke making her eyes water and her throat burn. She washed clothes at the village pond, squatting for hours, the wet saree clinging to her thighs and breasts while other women gossiped around her.

And yet… she was the favourite.

“Bahu toh bahut kaam karti hai,” her mother-in-law would say proudly to visiting relatives. “Chup chaap rehti hai, zubaan nahi chalati. Pihu ko bhi sambhal leti hai. Ramesh ki kismat acchi hai.”

The praise came with more duties. More expectations. More subtle control.

Sunita felt something she couldn’t name.

It wasn’t happiness. It wasn’t joy. It was something quieter, deeper, and far more dangerous.

In her old life as Satyaraj Gounder, everything was comfortable. Luxurious even. Big house, servants, expensive food, cars, freedom. But it was hollow. His parents were busy with business. His siblings were distant. Conversations were superficial, marks, money, marriages, politics. No one really knew him. No one touched him with real affection. He was just another character in the grand Gounder family drama.

Here, it was different.

Skin to skin.

Pihu slept pressed against her chest every night, her small hand clutching the mangalsutra or the edge of her blouse. Ramesh’s rough arm would eventually find its way around her waist in sleep. Her mother-in-law would occasionally pat her head after a long day of work. The neighbours would call out to her warmly when she passed by.

She was seen. She was needed. She was valued, even if that value was objectified. Even if it reduced her to a womb, a pair of hands, and a submissive body.

She hated it.

And yet… some broken part of her felt strangely anchored.

One quiet afternoon, while Sunita was sitting in the courtyard shelling peanuts with her mother in law and a few aunts, the conversation took a dangerous turn.

Her father in law, an old man with a white beard, looked at her thoughtfully while smoking his beedi.

“Bahu… tu yahan hi kyun nahi reh jati forever? Ramesh ko yahan hi koi chhota kaam dhoondh denge. Tirupur ki factory mein kya rakha hai? Ghar sambhal, bachche paal, sasural ki seva kar. Yeh sab modern chakkar chhod de.”

The mother-in-law immediately joined in, nodding vigorously.

“Haan bahu. Yahan gaon mein reh. Humare paas hi. Agla bachcha yahin paida hoga. Ladka hoga toh ghar roshan ho jayega. Kya zarurat hai wapas jaane ki?”

Sunita’s hands froze on the peanuts. Her heart started racing. The glass bangles on her wrists suddenly felt ice cold.

Forever?

Stay here as Sunita Devi… for the rest of her life?

Images flashed through her mind, waking up here every day, bearing children, growing old in this village, never going back to her real identity, never driving her car again, never being Satyaraj again.

Fear gripped her throat.

She kept her head lowered, pallu covering half her face, and whispered in a soft, trembling voice:

“Ji… aap Ramesh se baat kar lijiye. Jo woh kahenge…”

Her father-in-law nodded, satisfied with the obedient answer.

That night, after dinner, when Pihu had fallen asleep, Ramesh looked at her in the dim light of the bulb.

“Ma-Baba ne kaha tha… yahan hi rehne ko.”

Sunita’s breath caught. She stayed silent, eyes down.

Ramesh continued quietly, “Lekin maine mana kar diya. Humara kaam Tirupur mein hai. Wahan better hai. Yahan kya hai? Sirf garibi aur mehnat.”

Sunita felt a rush of relief so strong that her eyes filled with tears.

Thank God…

But even as relief flooded her, a tiny, confusing voice whispered in the back of her mind:

But…

But what?

She didn’t know.

She didn’t want to know.

She simply adjusted her pallu, lowered her head like a good wife, and whispered:

“Ji… aap jo theek samjhein.”

Ramesh looked at her for a long moment, then gently touched her shoulder.

“Tu bahut samajhdar hai, Sunita.”

Sunita lay down that night with Pihu in the middle, Ramesh on the other side. The hard floor pressed against her body. The mangalsutra rested between her breasts. The faint smell of cow dung and mustard fields drifted in through the window.

She was still Sunita Devi.

And the extended one-month period was coming to an end.

But something inside her, something she couldn’t name and didn’t want to face, was no longer sure if she wanted it to end.