The Karnataka sun beat down on Varsha’s back, heavy and unforgiving. The village of Hulimavu, nestled within the hills, seemed to hum with a life she only observed from the periphery. Three years. For three years, she’d been married to Prasad.
She was transplanted from the bustling streets of Bangalore to this rural quietude. Three years of hushed saris, dutiful chores, and a suffocating sense of being unseen.
On a particularly sweltering afternoon, she was collecting water from the village well. That’s when she witnessed it. Durgi, the washerwoman, was stout and weathered. Her face was a roadmap of wrinkles etched by the relentless sun.
She had shed her simple cotton saree and was bathing in the small, secluded pond beyond the well. Varsha had frozen, a strange mix of shock and fascination coursing through her. The sun glinted off Durgi’s wet skin. It transformed her into a figure of unexpected grace.
A creature utterly liberated from the constraints of village life. The image lingered in Varsha’s mind for days, a forbidden seed taking root. The stifling air of her small, meticulously clean house seemed to press in on her.
The weight of her bangles, the tightness of her sari. The constant awareness of being a “good wife” suffocated her.
One afternoon, the seed sprouted when Prasad was away at the market in the next village. She found herself drawn to the pond, the memory of Durgi’s uninhibited joy a siren song. She checked the path for onlookers. Her heart was hammering against her ribs. The coast was clear.
With trembling hands, she untied the knot of her blouse, the silk cool against her skin as it peeled away. She hesitated, glancing back at the village, a cluster of terracotta roofs shimmering in the heat. But the pull was too strong. She shed her sari and petticoat until she stood naked under the vast, indifferent sky.
The water was shockingly cold, stealing her breath. But she submerged herself. A feeling of liberation washed over her, a powerful sensation that almost brought her to her knees. She floated, weightless, the sun warming her face, the silence broken only by the chirping of unseen birds.
For the first time in years, Varsha felt truly free. But the illusion shattered with a screech. She surfaced, gasping, to find a troop of monkeys ransacking her clothes. They scattered, playful and chaotic, streaks of crimson and gold silk disappearing into the pond’s thick foliage.
Her sari. Her blouse. Everything. Panic seized her. She was stranded, naked, and vulnerable, miles from home in a village. Even a glimpse of the ankle was enough to ignite gossip and whispers. The joy she had felt moments ago evaporated, replaced by a cold, gnawing fear.
This wasn’t the imagined liberation she had craved. This was a nightmare. Her mind raced, desperately trying to formulate a plan. Staying put wasn’t an option. Someone would eventually come to the pond. She had to get home. Now.
She scanned the surroundings. Thick shrubs and a tangle of thorny bushes surrounded the pond. It was her only cover. She waded to the edge, the muddy bottom squelching between her toes. The thorns snagged at her skin, leaving angry red scratches.
She bit back a cry, pushing through, knowing any sound could betray her. Emerging from the thicket, she assessed her situation. The route back to her house was a gauntlet.
She had to cross the main path leading into the village and skirt the temple. Then, navigate the narrow, winding lanes between the houses. Each step was a potential disaster.
She hugged the shadows, her bare feet silent on the parched earth. The sun beat down, baking her skin. She felt exposed, raw, every rustle of leaves, every distant shout, sending jolts of terror through her.
She reached the main path. Two women were approaching, their brass pots glinting in the sunlight. Varsha ducked behind a sprawling banyan tree, her heart pounding against her ribs.
She could hear their voices, their easy laughter. The normalcy of their lives, the simple rhythm of their existence, felt impossibly distant.
They passed.
She waited, counting to a hundred, then darted across the path, her body low to the ground. She reached the relative safety of the temple wall, its cool stone. It was a welcome relief against her burning skin.
But the temple was a hub of activity. Men sat gossiping in the shade, and children played near the entrance. The air was thick with the scent of incense and jasmine. She couldn’t risk being seen.
Crawling on her hands and knees, she made her way along the base of the wall, using the uneven stone as cover. A dog barked, startling her. She froze, her breath caught in her throat. The dog strained against its leash, barking furiously in her direction.
A man emerged from the temple, his eyes scanning the surroundings. Varsha pressed herself against the wall, willing herself to disappear. The man shrugged, dismissing the dog’s agitation, and disappeared inside.
She waited, her muscles screaming in protest until the dog quieted. Then, she continued her agonizing crawl.
The final stretch was the most treacherous. The narrow lanes between the houses were a labyrinth of open doorways, curious eyes, and prying ears. There was no cover.
She moved like a ghost, flitting from doorway to doorway, her senses on high alert. The smells of cooking spices, the sounds of children singing, and the snippets of conversations – all amplified her fear. Each moment felt like an eternity.
She saw a flash of colour in the corner of her eye. A group of women were sitting on a verandah, shelling peas. Their eyes met hers.
Time seemed to stop.
For a split second, she thought she was caught. But then, one of the women, old and wizened, with eyes that had seen too much and judged too little. Simply nodded a small, almost imperceptible gesture of understanding.
Varsha didn’t break eye contact. She just continued moving, her heart pounding, past the women, past the houses, towards the sanctuary of her home.
She slipped through the back door, collapsing onto the cool tiles of the kitchen floor. The familiar smell of turmeric and cardamom filled her nostrils, a comforting reminder of normalcy.
She was home. She found an old saree in the attic, one Prasad’s mother had discarded years ago. It was faded and worn, but it covered her, shielding her from the world’s prying eyes.
Later, when Prasad returned from the market, he found her preparing dinner, her face flushed, her movements too hurried. He asked if she was feeling well. She smiled a tight, strained smile and said she was fine.
She never told him about her afternoon sex adventure. She never told anyone. The shame, the fear, the sheer terror of being discovered. It was a secret she would carry with her, a dark, pulsating secret buried deep within her soul.
But something had shifted within her. The demure housewife, the silent observer, had tasted freedom. She had braved the gauntlet of social judgment and had survived. The experience had stripped her bare, literally and figuratively.
In doing so, she had revealed a resilience she never knew she possessed. The village of Hulimavu would still see Varsha, the dutiful wife.
But beneath the surface, something had changed. A spark had been ignited, a flicker of defiance in the eyes of a woman who had glimpsed a world beyond the confines of her gilded cage.
The fear remained a constant companion, but so did a newfound understanding: she was capable of anything. And that knowledge, bought at such a high price, was a power all her own.