From Cauvery to Ganga

Chapter 35: The Servant at Gounder Illam

A few days had dragged by in painful slowness.

Mahendran Gounder had survived the heart attack, but he was still weak and confined to bed rest at home. The doctors had advised complete rest and family support. The new “Satyaraj”, the real Sunita in disguise, had been staying at Gounder Illam, playing the role of the dutiful son who had returned from his sudden “spiritual retreat.”

I knew all this because Nithya kept me updated through secret calls and messages.

And every single update made the ache in my chest worse.

Even though I was never really close to my father… even though our relationship had always been cold and transactional… he was still my father. The man who raised me. The man whose blood ran in my veins.

I needed to see him.

Just once.

Even if it meant humiliating myself beyond anything I had endured so far.

Nithya met me in secret near the colony one evening.

We sat inside her car with the AC running. I was still fully dressed as Sunita, a simple faded blue saree, tight blouse, mangalsutra, permanent anklets jingling softly, sindoor bright in my parting.

“You really want to do this?” Nithya asked, concern clear in her voice.

I nodded, eyes down.

“I have to. Just to see him. Even if it’s from a distance. Even if I have to go as… this.”

Nithya sighed but didn’t argue. She knew how stubborn I could be.

The plan was simple, yet utterly humiliating.

I would go to Gounder Illam as a new migrant servant woman, hired temporarily to help with extra housework while the family was in crisis. A poor Bihari married woman looking for daily wages.

The preparation was soul crushing.

Robby helped again. She made sure I looked completely different from the “Sunita” who had lived in the slum. Darker foundation to make my skin tone appear more typical of a sun-exposed migrant woman. Slightly messy hair with more strands falling on my face. A cheap, heavily worn dark maroon saree with a torn pallu edge. An old, yellowish blouse that was too tight and had sweat stains that never washed out. No fancy jewellery, just the permanent mangalsutra, a few cheap glass bangles, and the silver anklets and toe rings that could not be removed.

I looked exactly like a tired, struggling Bihari domestic worker.

When I saw myself in the mirror, I felt a fresh wave of humiliation so strong that my knees nearly buckled.

This is me now. Going back to my own house… as a servant.

The next morning, I walked toward Gounder Illam.

My feet ,already sore from the permanent anklets ,ached inside the old, cracked rubber chappals. The saree pallu kept slipping off my shoulder no matter how many times I adjusted it. Sweat was already forming under my arms and down my back, making the cheap blouse stick to my skin. The heavy breasts swayed with every step. The glass bangles clinked loudly. The mangalsutra tapped between them.

No one recognised me.

The security guard at the gate barely glanced at me.

“New servant? Go to the back entrance.”

I walked through the familiar driveway, the same path I used to drive my Thar and BMW on. Now I was walking as a lowly migrant worker, head lowered, carrying a small cloth bundle with cleaning supplies.

The reality hit harder than I expected.

Inside the house, the superiority complex of the Gounder family was on full display.

My mother, Lakshmi Amma, was directing servants with her usual sharp tone.

“These Bihari people are so slow! Clean that corner properly! I can still see dust!”

My elder sister, Dr. Priya, barely looked at me as she passed by, talking on the phone about some important surgery.

My elder brother and his wife sat in the living room, complaining about “these outsiders coming and spoiling the city.”

And then I saw him.

The new Satyaraj, the real Sunita in disguise, sitting beside my father’s bed, talking softly to him. He looked so natural in my old clothes, with my old mannerisms slightly adjusted. My father was listening to him with a weak but proud smile.

I felt a painful twist in my chest.

I was assigned to clean the rooms on the ground floor. I worked silently, head lowered, pallu covering half my face. I mopped the marble floors I used to walk on as the young master. I dusted the furniture I once owned. I washed dishes in the sink where servants used to serve me food.

Every single moment was pure humiliation.

One of the older servants scolded me loudly in front of everyone.

“Ei Bihari! Kitna dheere kaam karti hai? Jaldi kar! Memsaab gussa karengi!”

My mother walked past while I was on my knees scrubbing a corner and muttered, “These people come here only to eat and make the house dirty. No sincerity.”

The racism and class superiority were casual, open, and cutting.

I endured it all.

Because in the corner of the main bedroom, I could see my father lying on the bed. Pale. Weak. But alive.

I wanted to run to him. To hold his hand. To tell him it was me.

But I couldn’t.

I was just a servant.

Hours later, when my work was done, I was paid a small daily wage and told to leave through the back gate.

As I walked out of Gounder Illam, my eyes burned with tears.

I had seen my family.

But they had not seen me.

They had looked at me with the same contempt they always showed toward “these migrant people.”

The superiority, the casual racism, the way they treated servants as lesser beings, it was all so clear now.

I returned to the small house in the colony, exhausted, humiliated, and heartbroken.

I sat on the floor in my sweat-soaked saree, pallu fallen from my shoulder, mangalsutra heavy on my chest, permanent anklets jingling softly.

How bad my family really is…

And how much I have changed.

I cried quietly, hugging my knees, the weight of everything pressing down on me.

Even though I was never really close to them… seeing them from this side hurt more than I ever imagined.

And the worst part?

A small, terrifying voice inside me whispered:

Maybe this life… as Sunita… isn’t as bad as going back to that.