From Cauvery to Ganga

Chapter 37: The Servant Who Chose to Stay

I never thought I would return to Gounder Illam like this.

Not as the spoiled youngest son.
Not even as a guest.

But as Sunita Devi, a temporary migrant domestic servant hired to help during the family crisis.

The first day I reported for work, my heart was pounding so hard I thought it would burst through my chest.

I stood at the back entrance in a deliberately worn-out dark maroon saree, pallu covering my head and half my face, old rubber chappals on my feet. The permanent silver anklets and toe rings were hidden but still jingled softly with every step. My tight blouse was already damp with nervous sweat. The mangalsutra rested heavily between my breasts. I carried a small cloth bundle with cleaning rags and basic toiletries.

The head servant, an older Tamil woman named Lata, looked me up and down with mild disdain.

“Bihari? Achha. Work hard, no talking too much, no stealing. Understand?”

I nodded meekly, eyes lowered. “Ji Akka.”

No one recognised me.

Not my mother, who walked past me without a second glance while talking on the phone.
Not my sister Priya, who ordered me to clean her room without even looking at my face.
Not my brother.

And certainly not the new “Satyaraj”,the real Sunita in disguise , who was now living in my old bedroom, playing the role of the dutiful son.

The work was relentless and degrading.

I scrubbed the same marble floors I used to walk on barefoot as a child. I dusted the expensive furniture, polished the cars I once drove, washed the clothes of the family that raised me. The superiority complex of the Gounders hit me like acid every single day.

My mother would complain loudly in the kitchen while I was washing dishes:

“These Bihari servants are so lazy. Look at her ,moving like a snail. In our time, servants knew their place.”

My sister would throw her dirty clothes at me without a word.

One afternoon, while I was mopping the corridor near my father’s room, my brother passed by and muttered, “These outsiders are spoiling the city. They come here, multiply like rabbits, and expect us to feed them.”

I kept my head down, pallu covering my face, and continued working. The glass bangles clinked loudly as I wrung the mop. Sweat trickled down my back, making the blouse stick transparently to my skin. My heavy breasts ached from the constant bending. The permanent anklets felt like iron weights.

Every humiliation burned deep.

But I endured.

Because this was the path I had chosen.

In secret moments, I taught the new Satyaraj how to be me.

We met late at night in a quiet corner of the garden or in Nithya’s car when possible.

I taught him my old mannerisms, the arrogant way I used to walk, the lazy drawl in my Tamil, the way I used to flirt with girls, the casual way I spoke to my parents. He was surprisingly good at it. Bright, quick learner, just like the real Sunita had always been.

Sometimes, while teaching him, I felt a strange pang of jealousy and loss.

That should be me.

But I pushed the feeling down.

One evening, after a particularly humiliating day (my mother had scolded me loudly in front of guests for “not cleaning properly”), I slipped away and went to meet the mysterious Swamy who had appeared at the hospital.

He was waiting in the same isolated temple by the river where the real Sunita had once cut her hair.

I knelt before him in my servant saree, pallu on my head, tears in my eyes.

“I want to change things,” I whispered. “For my family. For Pihu. For everyone. I want a better ending. Tell me what I must do.”

The Swamy looked at me with those piercing, calm eyes for a long time.

Then he spoke:

“To change the threads of destiny, you must give birth to a new life. Not just symbolically. The process must be real. The sacrifice must be complete. Only then will the path open for what you seek.”

I felt cold fear grip me.

“Give birth…?”

Robby was waiting when I returned.

She explained the solution, an extremely advanced prosthetic belly system. Seamless, adaptive, realistic. It would start at 16 weeks (slightly noticeable bump) and gradually grow over the next 21 weeks to a full 37-week pregnancy, complete with realistic weight gain, movements, symptoms, back pain, cravings, and even simulated contractions if needed.

It was expensive. Painful. Life-altering.

But it was the only way the Swamy said would work.

I sat there in silence for a long time, hands resting on my currently flat but already feminine belly.

Then I whispered:

“…Let’s do it.”

Robby nodded.

“Tomorrow we begin.”

That night, back in the small house, I lay on the hard mat with Pihu sleeping against me.

The decision weighed heavily on my heart.

I could have gone back. I could have become Satyaraj again in a week.

Instead, I had chosen to stay.

To endure.

To carry a child, even if prosthetic, for the sake of changing everything.

The mangalsutra felt warmer than usual against my skin.

I touched my belly gently.

“Oh fuck…” I whispered into the darkness. “Let’s do it.”

A strange, terrifying calm settled over me.

I was still Sunita Devi.

And for now, that was exactly who I needed to be.