Easy Savitri

Future was like yards and yards of plain-cloth in her imagination; new and uncut. It had the untouched feel and the seminal smell of starch. Present was a sewing machine that runs over the cloth, monotonously, for hours. Present stitches the future into many shapes and sizes. Present sweats. The smell is peculiar; coital. Past is like wash and wear, again and again for years, and has the smell of everything around; general.

She is now her past. She lived her future long ago; only if life was a silai center. It’s not, she knows well. She has lived it playing hard.

Those who thought their charm was good to sponsor their lust mostly got themselves in a tight spot. It won’t work with Savitri. Some came out stifled. Others were pressed hard to shell out twenty rupees to calm their horses down. The pinch was obvious.
Some had Savitri, and some saved their twenty bucks. All earned a right to denounce, “Savitri is a whore.”

There were others, fond of exclusivity. Jealousy making desire wait is not so uncommon. Promise of a better future could never beguile Savitri. She was deft enough to face perilous risks from a kissing distance. She wouldn’t allow anyone to own her. She had seen where this comfort leads to. After having played all their cards, such snobs were also seen fuming. They found a stronger reason to snub, “Savitri is a whore of a woman.”

Let them, but Savitri wouldn’t crack up without her twenty bucks. Twenty rupees was something when Savitri was not even 30. She is now on the shadowy side of sixty.

Her face still radiates. It’s more the glow of fulfilment. Widowhood’s been a severe loss always, everywhere; here it was first a stigma and then a torment continued. Living within the dotted circle of this tragedy, there were still were some gritty sufferers who really made their life worth living. The realization that the well covered part of the body can actually turn the wheel of life comes when everything else is gone. Among men, insightful appreciate this art of living without a husband. Worldly wise know that not moral character, but a careful involvement with immorality is what keeps one’s head high. They called it the ‘chest’ that means heart and everything around heart. If one has that one has the vivacity. The majority whined, “It is brazen shamelessness.”
And, to top, some of these not-so-sad widows made it better than they would have with that fucking marital bliss. Savitri is one I know.

Prabhati was a lanky young man. His structure gave a promise of a tall and stout man soon getting there. Asthma came to belie the hope just before it was about to come real. Not from nowhere; witnesses were aplenty to testify that it descended straight from his father.

In wee hours of their first night appeared the first sign. The mix of uncontrollable anger and ripping anxiety triggered the attack, and no doubt, Savitri caused it.

A commonplace virgin, Savitri had no practical experience of sex. Not that she conscientiously saved herself for the great nuptial night. In those swarming surroundings, getting vaginal membrane ruptured was pretty difficult than keeping it intact. Fuck the desire. Yet, Savitri had a good dope of how sex is experienced without having it; more than anyone at her age would have. Blame it on her mother. She too was an early widow. Fate hits some at the same spot again and again like a vengeful killer.
Cherishing a dream to become a contractor, Savitri’s father went far into the eastern woods and what came back was his dead body. After lot of deliberations death alone came out to be its own cause. Like mostly it does. Her mother knew how a sewing machine works and that coupled with early widowhood made her everyone’s favourite choice to run the first silai center, waiting to come up in the village. It was the roti, kapda and makaan time in India. While grains, clothes and house were in man’s account; cooking, sewing and up-keeping were woman’s burden of the beast, nearly in the same order. Sewing next to cooking came to be a necessary skill a girl was required to develop before womanly contours were visible on her physical frame.

Those who have not personally known what women talk at a place like silai center, their claim to have known the animal, is fraught with ignorance. There are also morons like me, who can’t stop wondering what women want, despite having the luck of overhearing for days, and remembering for life, their sleazy talks in a silai center. Silai center is purely a women’s world. Men exist there merely as quaint sets of genitals. They are always around, sometimes as symbols, and mostly as straight and crude comparisons with similar looking things. That’s all. Men don’t deserve more in the imagination of those dove-eyed— nymphs— if you agree they should be named. Woman’s body was the only piece of creation worth elaborate discussion; one could be easily pushed to believe. They have amazing metaphors and similes for the prized parts of their divinely designed anatomy. The talk might begin from anywhere but it will finally come to the territory between two legs. Never were they found wanting a sexual expression for any part or movement of the sewing machine, be it the pairing of the thread and the needle or the incessant motion of the quick piston or something as weird as oiling the machine through its few curious and tiny holes. A tight blouse or a pair of over-sized pyjamas would never pass hands without a double entendre. A caution here: linking this kinky stuff to their character is nothing short of male myopia. Truly speaking, it had more to do with the character of the oppressive society that every day tore them apart while they playfully tried to stitch their life together. Screw your deep philosophy; it was a pure pastime for them.

Her age never allowed her to feed into the kitty but Savitri intently listened to every bit of this vagina chinwag. The juicy palaver never let her seriously take up her school-books. She got trained like a recruit ready to neutralize the enemy, without having ever gone down to the battlefield.
Then came the day, wrapped in a wedding sari she followed the footsteps of Parbhati to his house. And then came the night she showed what Parbhati wouldn’t have imagined in his wildest dreams. Beginning with the modesty of a worshipper, she took control like a performer and went up and up. It was her way to show her uninhibited devotion to her man. Parbhati found himself in heaven for a while. He wished it continues forever. Climax is the beginning of the end; and it came. Along came the wave of disgust. He gave Savitri a kick in that darkness; targeting the middle of her body.

‘Get down of my bed, you bloody whore.’

This was the first time she was titivated with the adjective. The word passed like a single yap of a stray dog in a winter night; heard but not registered. Little did Savitri know that the word ‘whore’ had come to claim its twin-hood with her womanhood? It did and she was made to live with the moniker for the rest of her life.

Find her still crumpled on his bed, he got up, dragged her down and delivered one more kick. This time on her butt.

She didn’t cry. She waited for the brute to stop. It would. Sex is a tranquilizer; the silhouetted source of violence becomes calm like a sedated bull before the victim properly wipes off the lees. She had heard such ghastly still enticing tales from many in the silai center. Genitals sent to rest, a violent ghost appears sometimes from nowhere. Don’t speak a word to the demon. The advice came to be repeated every time such an incident was recounted.

A few more spells of abuses came before it got over. She spread herself on the floor and went to sleep. Sexual gratification was terrific still not apposite to soothe Parbahti’s ignited mind. A part of him was awake to quarry the past of this woman; now his wife.
She woke up hearing sounds of heavy breathing. He did allow her to massage his chest but only till he regained his normal breath. She was shown her place quickly after. Asthma that was knocking at the door for some time came to be reckoned that night.
A few kicks here and there are acceptable from eff’ing life so far the devil provides the essentials to remain on its side. Savitri was game.

A new bride was like an incident, no one would fully know about. Those who would see it happening were usually not good at describing. And those with a sniffer’s nose would hardly get a whiff. Savitri’s appearance and conduct evoked mixed reactions. Days passed. Nights too but never without a ghastly hour. Brutal insemination is curiously more fructifying than the pleasant sex. It was just over a month and Savitri missed her monthly routine for the first time. And bingo. She was pregnant.

Parbhati came to know only through a harridan; that too after a couple of months. While patting Parbhati’s manhood, the old garrulous woman succeeded in throwing a seed of doubt in his mind, “Lucky Parbhati, you will be a father in just nine months. Savitri has brought good luck to you. Good deal you got, my son. Now don’t hit her at a wrong place, you butcher; a woman is very fragile inside. One who boots his luck asks for ill-luck.” She said many things with many more meanings in her short sermon.
Pregnancy brought some solace in Savitri’s harried life. Now when agitated, Parbhati was verbally cruel as ever, yet restrained. He avoided hitting her. When couldn’t control, did it at very safe spots; mostly legs. It reminded Savitri of her mother’s advice, “Aye chhori, be careful, don’t lash the buffalo now. And not at all on the belly. She is carrying now. Her signs are of a female calf this time; one more buffalo in next three years, God willing.”

Signs Savitri showed were of a boy— a harbinger of the clan. The fruit of one’s Karma of the last birth; bestowed upon by one’s happy gods.

“She is light and agile. A girl would have caused sluggishness.” Grandmothers opined.

The sign had failed, but rarely. Same Parbhati was now kind enough to get her murmura or bhujiya every other night. Pickles she would manage from considerate neighbours who had been there and experienced this blissful lap. Life was getting on track. The moral deductions that came at the end of every dirty discourse at the silai center were not wrong. Taming a man was a game of endurance. Savitri saw it happening for herself.

Asthma’s visits were on; intermittently, and then frequently. Local remedies were working. Savitri would make him kadha with cloves and black pepper before getting into bed. Her sister-in-law would sleep with her while Parbhati slept in the cowshed. This was a way to check freaky intrusions. An aroused man is a wild animal. A woman has no choice than to give in. Her health or pregnancy was not a reason enough to stop the bout from a tormentor- till -yesterday and a sympathizer today.

Winter is not on the side of an asthma-patient; even a neighbour will woefully vouch. Asthma doesn’t allow the patient to sleep and the jarring sounds of heavy breathing in those sepulchral nights would not let anyone around sleep. The chest needs to be kept warm to down the risk of attack. Warm smoke of home-made tobacco was a relief in dew-drenched nights of paush and maah.
Pangs very much around, life was, nevertheless, steady for Savitri. It’s sometimes the way, the devil corners its victim.

There was no income. Money was still coming from somewhere. Parbhati was going down into debts every day. He was pledging his ancestral land one acre after another. Five acres is a short run when one has a hope of getting it released from the money that will come from somewhere. From where, he had little idea. Savitri was uneasy at this sudden and suspicious turn of life. Something bad is in offing, she felt. It was a voice from her heart, like a look of suspicion in a child’s eyes comes when offered more than the promise. She would hush her inner bird every time it came to squeak.

Savitri had first the glow of a would-be and then the blues of an about-to-be mother and then came the fateful day of labour pain. The elderly women were around, cheerleading, while the seasoned naeen kept teasing with her pet lines while setting up for the final haul. “It was you only who had the fun lying down. Remember your mother now. You fuck-loving ass, you have squeezed a stout man into a skeleton, now give him a lovely boy.” She pulled the slimy lump out with a heave; head first. Before it was fully out, she knew it was a girl. Her rambling was suddenly over. She threw it aside; a mild cry came. The news was out. Parbhati got a daughter.

The gloom was not of a daughter’s birth but of the death of a son that was expected. There was no reward for the naeen, so she had to scamper away, immediately after howsoever uncaringly she finished her basic job.

Preparations were left half way. Savitri would eat some hot laapsi for a few days before returning to her regular meals; no jachcha’s special recipes for her. The luxury of accoutrement will be cut short and she will be back to work within a week. There will be weeks of sighing, and cursing the fate. The new-born and the mother will face a deadening neglect. Nonstop barbs from the corner Parbhati’s ailing mother was lying were boding. Life was set to come back in a more merciless version. Savitri knew.

When Parbhati’s silence broke, it broke like an iron nail pierces into a bare foot. One realizes only after it’s almost an inch into the flesh. He slapped her from behind. Suddenness made her release a ‘puppy cry’. It left her ear juddering. Words followed, “Haraamzadi kutiya, where have you brought this sin from, to put in my lap.” It took a while for Savitri to grasp the import.
Her gaze went up, for the first time and stopped only after got fixed into Parbhati’s eyes. It just happened, she had no such intent. She had never imagined the moment would come one day. She couldn’t take her stare away. It was like a statue you see every day, one day lifts its eye-lids, looks straight into your eyes and turns stony-still again. It will not blink now, you know. You are asked to choose. You might be the king of your universe; you will be shaken for a moment. But since you are the king of your universe, your choices are unlimited. You choose to ravage the posture of revolt. Parbhati turned into a vehement four-armed demolisher. Savitri was now a daruma doll. She falls every time he hits her, gets up and stares back into Parbhati’s eyes. It went 7 to 8 times. Something in her was rising for the first time to fight against and overcome her misfortune.

It was dusk. First time she didn’t try to overcome her feeling to not have the meal. The echo of her mother’s wise counsel went unheard. Now it was her turn to sleep in the cowshed with her newborn. Her sister-in-law went to sleep on the side of her mother. Parbahti took charge of his regular bed; the biggest item he got as dowry. It was like a new setting for the next act.

It opened with the next day. Savitri’s sister-in-law went to check when Parbhati didn’t come out till 7 in the morning. He was lying like thrown by a storm; half of the body on his bed and legs dangling like half-broken branches of a tree. His eyes were open, pupils still. His body was cold.

Neighbours and passers-by recalled the sounds of heavy breathing they heard past mid-night. Some said it was quiet after the three hirnis crossed Gurdaram’s haveli. It would mean 3 in the morning if it was a long night of winter at its descent.

Asthma finally took Parbhati’s life away, the general opinion came. He was sent to the other world with proper rituals. A close relative did the formalities for the male survivor in the family. Gurdaram didn’t allow anyone to spend a penny. That made finally all the five acres pledged against an amount, in Gurdaram’s calculation, surely out of reach for Parbhati’s survivors to repay.
Before people were back from the murthali, the rumour was rife. ‘It’s somebody’s handiwork’. The way he had beaten Savitri last evening was in everyone’s knowledge. She did or it happened: ‘The dayan had eaten up her own suhag’ was an irrefutable conclusion. Parbhati’s mother put her stamp on it.

Gurdaram bore the burden of running late Parbhati’s household for a couple of months, and then one day sent a message. It was for Savitri to come and check the hisab. She was now the head of the household. His stance was, “I can’t afford to have a dot of blemish on my white chaadar. I have also to go to His house one day. She better take this account-sheet and check for herself. My house is always open to her but the account should be kept clear. My father— God give him a place in heaven— always taught me fair dealing.”

She held the paper in her hand like a verdict that could take a lot away or give a lot back. The momentous improbability sent a chill down her spine. Gurdaram’s face was calm; unreadable to her. She gathered herself, “The paper is fine lambardar; I know you will not be unfair to a helpless woman like me. But the point is a job; I need some work to run my house. I have to earn now, you know.”
Gurdaram was softer, “That will also happen; don’t worry. The one who gives the beak also gives the feed. Let some time pass.” He gave a few currency notes into her hand with a postscript, “The undemanding give -and -take I had with Parbhati I will have with you too. I will never turn my back on a needy widow.”

After having touched the bottom, life was to take off into a different direction, here from. Savitri recalled the train journey she only had once in her life. A new world comes to you at a fast speed and goes past without staying for a moment. Watch it, feel it, live it. Good, bad or ugly. But quickly.

She started working as a help to a mason. Her job was to bring water from the pond, mix water and mud to make daub, fill it up in a cast-iron salver and then pass it on to the bricklayer. For hours, for days. Ten rupee a day.

Saving twenty thousand will take more than a life. She knew with her uneducated calculation. She had to repay Gurdaram twenty thousand rupees. Bringing up her daughter and feeding Parbhati’s old mother was a part of her extended existence.

She knew the meaning of sympathetic lines, respected people passed to see her crossing by. Her work brought her down to a level that allowed some liberty with her veil. She would do it now, just half way, to avoid some piercing glances of old eyes struggling to know who this naked female face was. Her eyes would now meet many eyes with different intentions.

One day Savitri came to know through an oblique remark that she was available. She didn’t know who made this announcement on her behalf. She soon learnt that Savitri was ready to do anything for money. Anything was not as general as it sounds; it was pretty specific— she is ready to loosen her garter.

She didn’t mind it much. She looked into herself and honestly came to the conclusion- ‘yes, I am ready for a quick-fix, if it could make some money for me’. She had to save twenty thousand to reclaim her 5 acres from Gurdaram.

I heard lot of stories about her. “Savitri could sort out five men in a day. She had the skill to finish the job in five minutes; either down or out.” Days went like sparrows pick up grains. It was there yesterday and it’s not there today and it will be perhaps tomorrow.

From nowhere came Emergency; a boon to her. She went to the hospital, like people went to a fair; happy and excited for her nasbandi. What she got was a compensation of two hundred rupees and some more benefiting contacts in the town. After it was open to all, Gurdaram also made some passes that she simply shrugged. Agitated, he made some blunt offers by doubling the amount; not cash, but to be adjusted in her hisab.

“No, lambardar, no adjustment with you; and no lying down under your sinful weight, certainly not. I am a chaste woman. No man has really been able to have me yet.” She was full of vitriol.

“You bloody whore, don’t give your talk to me.”

Seeing him fuming, she was in giggles.

But that was not true. She had a man- Ladha, the vegetable vendor, she would sleep with without her 20 bucks. In Ladha’s small kothri, I heard so many things about Savitri. In our house, no would talk about her; and certainly not when there was a man around. Savitri will never come to our courtyard. She would coyly pass by like a new bride.

I saw her face for the first time while she was at her teasing best with Ladha. She knew me so well, I never thought. It’s a strange feeling to meet a person you have been seeing for years in veil. That’s the time you realize that the person has been watching you every day. The veil makes it a one way show.

She shot an overtly double meaning teaser to Ladha, “Your brinzals stale fast, you should keep them sprinkled.”

Ladha knew what she meant. His retort was, “It’s still good enough for you.”

“For me?” she made a quick turn with a few loud clicks of her tongue, “You don’t know my taste. I like something as fresh as bunch of grapes.” And looked at me through the sides of her eyes. Ladha was amused; not jealous.

The simile ‘bunch of grapes’ for male genitals was beyond my thoughts. It was a painter’s or a sculptor’s imagination. I was amazed to hear it from Savitri.

“So you want a taste of this young boy.” Ladha laughed his heart out like a child. I was ill at ease.

“He’s of my Pankhuri’s age; may be a couple of years elder. He looks like a raw mango; I am salivating to bite one.” She again looked at me. This time straight. I was pink with embarrassment. She scurried away.

Pankhuri was Savitri’s daughter. The name Pankhuri was again a coinage of silai center. She heard the word there and it stayed with her. Every pregnant woman at the center prayed for a phal- the fruit of conjugation; a boy. Phal was a metaphor for male genitals. A girl was pankhuri —a petal. Women at the silai center always preened about their vaginal petals but when it came to delivering; craved for a ‘fruit’ always.

Savitri was not sad to give birth to a girl. She was happy; it was her first one. She always dreamed of having her home full of children. She will have her phal, she was sure. Her wish was cut short. She named her daughter Pankhuri. While giving her bath, she would always wash her petals concernedly, and fondly.

Panhkuri was 15 now; talkative and charming. Open hearted like her mother. I always found her looking at me. Infatuation overflowing from her eyes. She would rub herself against me whenever got a chance. I was a good looking boy with a promise; a poor girl’s perfect version of her dream- prince. We would meet at crowded functions. Our bodies would try to cross their physical limits to get twined. We met at places where we felt each other more closely. We huddled and we fiddled. I felt guilty whenever I crossed the limits under the cover of darkness. She was always restrained; tried to push away my overtures as much as she could do. Getting physical is the last thing for a female; it’s first for a male, I realized. For her it was like stealing flowers to offer to her deity, nothing sinful; for me it was like snatching a few from her basket to have the fragrance and throw away; disgusting.

It was soon over as I left my village to go to college. From there I went straight to my job of a journalist. Only when on leave, I would go to my village, for a day or two.

Savitri had taken back her five acres of land from Gurdaram. Paid every penny she owed to him. She never cribbed about the atrocious rate of interest he charged for the money her husband owed him. She had no right when she had refused to get de-chastised herself from this usurper. She married off her daughter to a good-looking teacher; what if he was a doojvar. He was tall and healthy. His first wife died just after six months of the marriage. And if it was not so why he would marry the daughter of an ill-reputed woman? There was another reason, worldly-wise knew— the five acres of land. Whatever it may be, Pankhuri was happy and Savitri was relaxed. As much as one should be; after getting the highest honour of one’s field of talent. She would now spend most of her time helping others. Once morally deficient Savitri was now socially in demand. When no man was around, she would slip into our courtyard, only to deliver two quick clamps of her regard on the forelegs of elderly women chilling out in the sun. She always liked to spend a few hesitant moments more to know the well being of these supposedly one-man’s women. Whenever she saw me, she would come and put her hand on my head. To bless me.
Then came the time she herself was qualified to be old.

I could never forget Savitri. Whenever I wrote a story, she would every time come to my mind.

Like teasing me, “If you don’t have something more interesting; think of me.”

I would every time pass it for not having the courage to wield her. Or I don’t know what was stopping me.

The day came I decided to write her story and then left it half way. It was up to the point I have portrayed above and it remained incomplete for years. To complete it, I strongly felt I had to know one thing for sure— the truth about how Parbhati died. Did Savitri kill her husband or it was just a rumour? It was my story, I could have twisted it the way I wanted; many would think. No, it’s not so; you can’t do that. A story has to be true at the core, how much of fiction you might add to it. I had to know the truth.

Last time when I was in my village I finally got a chance. After paying her respect to my mother she came inside asking for me. She blessed me with her kind words.

I gathered courage to broach the topic.

“I have written a story about you Savitri chachi.”

She was amused to hear. “A story about me? You must be joking, my son. What’s there to write about me— a poor, illiterate and a base woman. You should write a story about yourself. We saw you running around naked in these streets as a child and you are today a well known person. We have seen your pictures in newspapers.”

“That’s not a story, chachi. There has to be something interesting and mysterious about a person to become a story. And you have that. ”

She felt flattered but was casual still.

“Your choice, my son! Write the story of this characterless woman. People will read about and ridicule Savitri; a woman of low virtues. There was one sati Savitri who brought her husband back from the god of death and here it’s me, the sinner.” She laughed with a tinge of pain. She was about to leave.

“But I can’t complete the story till I know the truth of…” I stopped to judge her reaction.

“The truth of what?”

“Your husband’s death. Did you kill him or he died of his illness?” I poured, out of panic.

“Oh!” she had a long pregnant pause, “And you can’t complete your story without knowing that, right?” She was not expecting this overture from me, I guessed.

Unnerved, I offered an explanation. “It’s not that I am going to write something about what really happened. It will only help me to write the story better.”

“I will help you, my son.” She sounded cold and firm, and was quiet for a while.

“No”, her tone changed, “I didn’t kill him. I helped him to die. He was asking for death. If he would have lived, I and my Pankhuri were to die. I chose what I thought was right. I don’t mind even if you write this. The whole world wants to know this truth.” She walked out. Offended, I was not sure but resolute, yes.

Next day I was to come back. My wife was busy packing our meals for the journey while my mother played a friendly admonisher. She was too old, and would take some time to recognize a person standing right in front.

It was Savitri with a thin and shy boy.

“My grandson”, Savitri spoke loud for my mother’s benefit. “Pankhuri’s elder son, very intelligent like your son was. He is a topper of his school; like your son was. He will be going to college now. Come, Jeet, and take grandma’s blessings.”

“She brought him closer to my mother. Look, he’s exactly like your son looked when he was in school.”

“My mother blessed the boy, and to cut her, markedly ignored her gush of unsolicited comparison.” While watching these silent frames through my window, I had an uncanny feeling.

Savitri quickly delivered two massage clamps on my mother’s forelegs dangling over the cot. That was to convey, “Keep your angst with you, oldie. If you don’t want to talk I don’t have time too. Fling your muffled blessings, and I am going.”

Savitri brought the boy inside our house. Her agility showed purpose. She stopped at a point as if she has to take a penalty kick. Her grin was unreadable.

“Look at my grandson; I want him to be someone like you. He would be one day, I am sure.”

“Jeet, now go home, my son. I will be coming in five minutes.”

The boy, already feeling awkward, was waiting for the signal.

Savitri was a broad smile; spread on the uneven floor of sarcasm.

“He looks like you, no?” Her face stiffened.

Beat.

I was feeling weakened, suddenly. My blood circulation went slow. And there was no obvious reason.

“I thought you had just done some regular mischief with my Pankhuri. That’s why I asked your mother to scold you. Thinking you were a nice boy gone aberrant for once. I only realized the blow when I came to know Pankhuri was pregnant. It was too late. You were gone away with your family. I had to marry her off immediately. God bless the widower teacher. He came as an angel from nowhere. My Pankhuri was lucky to escape the ignominy. She got her Jeet.” She spoke breathlessly, in a low husky tone.

And came back, after a pause, “Now, you have a story about yourself; interesting, with mystery, and also with some sin, if you wish to write, no?”

She was gone before her sentence was over.

My mother’s annoyance was obvious, “What was this bitch whispering in your ear for so long? Now get ready. You have to go. You keep on doing favours to these ungrateful people and they keep chasing you like beggars.”

I am not sure she came to remember the day she had reprimanded me. Her words came reverberating in my head.

“If I hear something like this again, I will never forgive you. Thank God, she has not told it to your father; he would have beaten you to death otherwise.”

I was stoned to hear my mother’s words. The scene is vivid in my memory. I had done something with Pankhuri, against her wish, I knew. I know. And I would never forget. She was under my awe, and couldn’t resist.

It was put aside as a boy’s misdemeanour and not a man’s sin. I got away with a minor punishment. That’s what I had believed so far. The past will come to haunt me like this, one day, I never imagined.

I saw Savitri again while I was leaving. She came close. Her hand was on my head when she said, “No issue, I got my phal finally.

I am happy.”

It was by far the most difficult moment of my life. She was easy. Easy like ever.

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