From Cauvery to Ganga

Chapter 5: Threads of a Faded Existence

The morning sun rose harsh and unforgiving over the outskirts of Erode, casting long shadows across the crowded migrant colony nestled dangerously close to the Cauvery riverbank. The air here was thick, a heavy mixture of damp mud, cooking smoke from kerosene stoves, raw sewage from overflowing drains, and the constant hum of power looms in the distant factories. Narrow lanes snaked between rows of cramped “line houses,” each one barely more than a single concrete box divided into a tiny hall cum bedroom and an even smaller kitchen space. Communal toilets stood at the far end of the block, their stench carrying on the humid breeze.

This was where Ramesh Kumar lived.

Nithya parked her discreet silver sedan a little away from the main cluster, not wanting to draw too much attention. She had changed into a simple salwar kameez, modest enough to blend in, yet expensive enough that the locals still eyed her with a mix of curiosity and respect. As she walked through the muddy lane, her sandals squelching slightly, groups of Bihari women in faded sarees paused their morning chores to stare. Children with runny noses ran barefoot, playing with broken plastic toys. Men sat outside smoking beedis, discussing the upcoming factory inspection in hushed, worried tones.

Ramesh’s house was one of the smaller ones, a 10x10 feet hall that served as living room, bedroom, and dining area all at once. A thin curtain separated it from the kitchen corner where a single kerosene stove and a few steel utensils sat neatly. A small charpoy bed occupied one corner, with a faded mosquito net hanging limply. A few old aluminium trunks held whatever little possessions they owned. The walls were damp, decorated only with a cheap calendar of Lord Hanuman and a small photo of a smiling woman, Sunita.

Ramesh welcomed her respectfully, offering a plastic chair and a glass of watery tea. His eyes were still red from last night’s crying. Little Pihu sat in the corner, playing quietly with an old doll made of cloth scraps, occasionally glancing at the door with hopeful eyes.

Nithya asked gentle but probing questions in Hindi. About Sunita’s disappearance. About their life together. About her habits, her clothes, the way she spoke, the food she cooked, the jewellery she wore, even intimate details about her body and daily routines.

From the answers, Nithya pieced it together in her sharp mind.

Sunita had been fed up.

Eight months of this grinding poverty, the constant smell of sweat and factory dust, a husband who drank too much on bad days, raising a child in a single room with no privacy, no future, it had broken her. She had run away not because of one fight, but because she could no longer bear this life. There was likely no coming back. Searching for her seriously would be pointless. The real Sunita had chosen to disappear.

But that didn’t matter right now.

For the inspection in a few days, they needed a wife. A visible, breathing, documented wife. And Nithya had the perfect, almost too perfect, temporary solution standing by in the form of her boyfriend.

“she is my younger sister,” Nithya lied smoothly to Ramesh. “She’s a bit… different. Shy. Doesn’t speak much. But she has agreed to help for one day only. We will make her look exactly like Sunita. No one will doubt.”

Ramesh’s face lit up with desperate gratitude. He didn’t question much. Poor migrants rarely did when hope was offered so freely.

Before leaving, Nithya carefully collected whatever she could:
- Several old photographs of Sunita, some alone, some with Pihu, some during festivals wearing a red saree.
- A few of Sunita’s remaining clothes, faded cotton sarees in parrot green, maroon, and mustard yellow, a couple of well-worn blouses, petticoats, and even a few sets of old, discoloured undergarments.
- Accessories: Glass bangles of different colours, a broken pair of silver anklets, a nose ring, toe rings (bichiya), a few faded mehendi cones, and a heavy mangalsutra that Sunita had left behind.

She packed everything into a large bag with quiet satisfaction.

Back in the cool, luxurious comfort of her air conditioned room at home, Nithya sat before her large computer screen.

On the left side: A high resolution photo of Satyaraj, carefree, long-haired, fair, slightly delicate features, exact height and weight noted.

On the right side: The clearest photo of Sunita she had taken from Ramesh.

Nithya leaned forward, eyes widening with growing excitement.

The resemblance was almost supernatural.

Same height ,5'6".
Same weight range, around 58-60 kg.
Same fair skin tone that was unusual for typical Bihari women but matched perfectly.
Facial structure, the shape of the eyes, the nose, the jawline that could easily be softened. Even the length of their natural hair was similar.

Nithya’s lips curved into a slow, sky,high smile.

“Remembering his words… ‘It has to be perfect. Foolproof.’”

She whispered to herself, voice laced with thrill.

“Interesting… Very interesting. This is a challenge I gladly take up.”

Her fingers flew over the phone as she began making calls.

Each conversation grew more detailed, more committed.

“Full body transformation… Yes, including voice practice… Hormonal creams if needed for skin texture… We have only a few days, make it perfect.”

As she spoke, her eyes kept drifting back to the two photos side by side on the glowing screen.

Satyaraj Gounder on the left.
Sunita Devi on the right.

Two lives.
One face.

The river outside continued its silent journey, carrying away old identities and quietly preparing to deliver new ones.

Nithya leaned back in her chair, a dangerous, satisfied smile playing on her lips as another call connected.

This was no longer just helping a poor migrant family.

This was the beginning of something far more intoxicating.