From Cauvery to Ganga
Trailer 1: The Twists and Turns of a River
The evening sun bled orange across the crowded platform of Erode Junction, painting everything in the tired, restless hue of migration. Dust rose in thick clouds as hundreds of tired feet shuffled forward, voices blending into one continuous roar, Tamil, Hindi, Bhojpuri, all fighting for space.
And in the middle of that human flood, moved a small family.
The man, broad shouldered, dark skinned, sweat dripping from his forehead, pushed ahead with two heavy jute bags on his shoulders. A little girl, barely three, clung to his lungi with one tiny hand. But it was the woman behind them who pulled every hidden eye.
She walked barefoot.
Her feet, rough yet strangely soft at the edges, pressed against the burning concrete platform. The faded red cotton saree clung to her body like a second skin, damp with the humid June heat of Tamil Nadu. The saree was old, the parrot green border frayed at the edges, draped in that distinct Seedha Aanchal style, pallu brought forward over her right shoulder, tucked tightly at her waist. The cheap blouse underneath was a size too small, its hooks straining across her back, the faint outline of a black bra clearly visible whenever she shifted. A thin line of sweat ran down the exposed skin between her blouse and petticoat.
Her long, oiled black hair was loosely tied in a bun, yet many strands rebelliously framed her face, sticking to her moist cheeks and neck. A thick layer of bright sindoor sat heavily in the parting of her hair, glowing like fresh blood under the dying sunlight. A small round red bindi rested between her eyebrows. Her lips carried the faint stain of chewed paan, and her palms still showed fading mehendi patterns from some recent ritual.
Around her neck hung a heavy mangalsutra black beads with a small gold pendant that swayed with every step, sometimes catching the light. Her wrists carried dozens of green and red glass chooda bangles that jingled softly. Her toes, painted with alta, wore silver bichiya toe rings that clicked gently against the platform with every hesitant step. A thin silver chain adorned one ankle, though it looked dull from dust.
She kept her head slightly lowered, pallu pulled low over her forehead, trying to hide behind her own hair. Her eyes kohllined but nervous, rarely looked up.
This was Sunita.
Or at least… that was the name on the Aadhaar card her husband handed over when the TTR finally pushed through the overcrowded general compartment.
The train had already left Erode, rumbling heavily as it crossed the mighty Cauvery. Through the iron grills of the window, the river shimmered below, wide, calm, and indifferent. Inside the coach, the air was thick with the smell of sweat, cheap beedi smoke, stale food, and overripe mangoes. Bodies pressed against bodies. Sunita sat on the floor near the lower berth, legs folded, her daughter sleeping in her lap. The rough concrete like floor of the coach vibrated against her thighs. Every jolt of the train made her glass bangles clink and her mangalsutra tap against her chest.
When the TTR demanded tickets, her husband calmly showed the papers.
“Sunita Devi… wife…” he muttered in broken Tamil Hindi mix.
She only nodded shyly, pulling her pallu tighter across her chest, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze.
Days blurred.
The train crossed into Odisha, then finally entered Bihar. The air changed. The rivers changed.
When they crossed the Ganga, the holy river stretched endlessly, muddy, majestic, whispering ancient secrets. Sunita pressed her face closer to the window, eyes moist, as if seeing her past and future drowning in those waters at once.
They got down at a small junction. Then came the overcrowded rural bus, so packed that people hung from the doors. Sunita stood squeezed between other women, one hand holding the overhead bar, the other protectively around her daughter. The bus smelled of diesel, sweat, and damp earth.
Hours later, in the middle of nowhere, the bus stopped for a break near vast open fields. All the women, including Sunita, climbed down and walked into the tall sugarcane fields, pallus covering their heads, moving like silent ghosts. The soil was warm and soft under her bare feet. The shame burned in her chest as she squatted there, surrounded by strangers doing the same, the wind carrying the rustle of leaves and distant temple bells.
By the time they reached the last point, the sun was low again.
Now they walked.
The husband marched ahead with all the luggage, sweat pouring down his back. The little girl had grown tired and was now in Sunita’s arms. Her bare feet stepped on small stones and dry grass as she struggled to keep pace. The saree pallu kept slipping off her shoulder. Her heavy breasts rose and fell with laboured breathing. The glass bangles clinked louder with every hurried step. The mangalsutra swung like a pendulum between them.
“Jaldi chalo na! Kitni dheere chalti hai tu!” the husband scolded without turning back, his voice rough with fatigue and authority.
Sunita said nothing.
She only adjusted her daughter higher on her hip, bit her lower lip, and kept walking. The anklet on her left foot had left a red mark. Her thighs ached. The humid Bihar air stuck to her skin like guilt.
And high above them, the camera slowly rose.
It climbed past the tired couple, past the dusty path, past the fields glowing golden in the setting sun… higher… higher… until it showed the vast stretch of land where two rivers flowed in different worlds, the Cauvery far away in the south, and the Ganga here in the north.
On a lonely rock by the riverbank, half-buried in wet sand, something small glinted.
A single mangalsutra, its black beads broken, the gold pendant half-sunk, as if it had been carried by the current from one life into another.
The wind whispered.
And everything faded to black.
A story by Jerusha Anne Joy...
For Story Collaborations - jerujoy@proton.me