There was no way Saroja could shout that loudly. She had a shrill voice. Her brother called her his ‘sister sparrow’. When they were young, he used to make fun of her voice. He would shriek ‘keeeech keeech’ and laugh at her. Conscious of his teasing, she had resolved to speak in a low voice ever since. At times, only she could hear what she was saying. Occasionally, when she had lost her temper and raised her voice, the neighbours had asked, ‘Is that really Saroja talking?’ Her brother often said, ‘She has grown, but her voice is still like a sparrow’s.’ What could she do now with that voice? How would she handle this man if he came again?

She rose from the cot and got ready. As the day slowly leaned over and fell to the west, her charm as a new bride grew. She combed her hair, wove it into a thick braid, and fixed the flowers the old woman had given her earlier in the day. The arms of her blouse had zari borders and she wore a new sari. She applied some talcum powder on her face, came outside and sat under the tree. She kept staring at the winding path, expecting Kumaresan to return any minute.

She heard her mother-in-law’s ‘Ho! Ho!’ as Marayi herded the goats back home. The animals wandered back and drank water from the tub. Wary of confronting her mother-in-law just then, Saroja turned her face away. The moment Marayi spotted her, she shouted, ‘Ayyo!’ It was a lament that seemed to tumble out of this crone’s mouth all the time: ‘Ayyo!’

Saroja stood up in fear. Marayi pointed at her and started her dirge, ‘I have one son only—one son to continue my family line. After destroying his life and burying him alive, here she stands on top of his grave, lush like the erukku shrub. I cannot bear to look at this plant! O God! How can I uproot it?’ Barely pausing to catch her breath, she continued her tirade, ‘At dusk, any good woman would be expected to take the goats in and tether them. She would light the fire to heat water so her husband can have a wash, and stoke the fire in the kitchen to start cooking. That is what a farmer’s wife does. But look at her! She has decked herself up in all her finery. Only prostitutes stand like this on the streets of Kunnoor town! And my son has brought one of them home! Has she bewitched him by mixing something in his food? How can I release him from her magic? Which doctor can I take him to? How much will I have to spend? Will I ever get my son back, or have I lost him forever to this wretched woman?’

Saroja suddenly felt disgusted at her own appearance. She wanted to tear everything off. In the year that Kumaresan had spent getting to know her, talking to her in a voice dripping with desire, and planning to bring her to the village, he could have given her some idea about how things here would be. She could have asked him to talk about it more. At the time, his words and his affection were all that mattered. Now she wondered if she should have considered her decision more sensibly rather than rely on him alone. But back then, they had been in no state to think carefully about anything.