Grandmother, Who, Me?

Grandmother, Who, Me?

Chapter 27: The Village House

Lakshmi’s POV (Satish)

Weeks had passed.

I had kept the act going. Every day I sharpened my tongue a little more. I criticised the way Shreya rested. I compared her to imaginary previous daughters-in-law who had been “more hardworking.” I sat on the veranda with the neighbour Amma and let the gossip flow. I made certain Rajan and I appeared as a settled, long-married couple in front of her. The loving mother-in-law was dead; the difficult, traditional one lived in her place.

And still, every night or every other night, I had to submit to the override. The stimulations returned after twenty-four hours like clockwork. Clear thinking required Rajan’s body inside mine and the quiet deposition the manual demanded. I had lost count of how many times I had knelt or lain beneath him in the dark, counting the seconds until the heat finally switched off again. The practical necessity never became easy. It only became familiar.

Then, on an ordinary Thursday morning, Shreya changed everything.

She stood in the living room wearing a simple maternity saree, one hand resting on her belly, and spoke in a calm, almost gentle voice.

“It’s about time you go home, Attai. I’ll take care of everything here. My friend is coming over to take you.”

I stared at her.

“What?”

“You and Maama,” she continued, as if discussing the weather. “You’ve done enough. It’s better you return to the village now. I’ve already arranged everything.”

Shock froze me in place. The careful strategy I had built for weeks collapsed in a single sentence. I tried to switch masks at once, soft eyes, softer voice, the old caring tone.

“Ma… don’t send us away. I’ll be better. I’ll help more. The baby needs...”

It did not work. Her expression remained polite and closed. The remote rested openly on the side table, a quiet reminder of who still held the final authority.

Within the hour our bags were packed. Two medium suitcases contained every saree, every blouse, every set of underclothes that had been accumulated for me, along with Rajan’s few shirts and veshtis. Shreya had booked a cab. The driver loaded the bags without curiosity. She walked us to the gate, helped me into the back seat with the same careful politeness she might show any departing relative, and closed the door.

No long explanation. No dramatic confrontation. Just the soft click of the car door and the engine starting.

The journey lasted nearly four hours. Rajan sat beside me in silence. The further we travelled from Trichy, the more the roads narrowed and the landscape turned into dry fields and scattered palm trees. My mind raced in useless circles. The stimulations were currently off, I had made certain of that the previous night, yet clear thinking brought no solutions, only the growing certainty that I had been outmanoeuvred.

The cab finally stopped in front of a modest but well-kept house on the edge of a quiet village. Red oxide floors, a small veranda, a neem tree in the front yard. The driver placed our bags on the steps, accepted his payment from an envelope Shreya had given him, and drove away.

We stepped inside.

The house was fully furnished. It looked lived-in. There were steel vessels in the kitchen, folded towels in the bathroom, a double bed already made with clean sheets. On the walls and on a low wooden shelf stood framed photographs, the same fabricated albums Jessica had created. Our wedding. The childhood of “our son.” The marriage of Satish and Shreya. Every image that proved Lakshmi and Rajan had existed as a couple for more than twenty years now decorated this house as if we had always lived here.

My phone rang.

Shreya’s voice was calm, almost warm.

“Hope you like your new life, MIL. The house is in your name and Maama’s. There’s a small bank account with enough for the next few months. Jessica will check on you if anything medical is needed. I’ll call when the baby is born. Take care of each other.”

The line went dead.

I stood in the centre of the main room holding the silent phone, the thali heavy against my chest, the familiar weight of the breasts pulling at my shoulders, and the quiet village air moving through the open windows.

Rajan set the suitcases down and looked at me.

We had been sent away.

The game had not ended.

It had simply changed location.