‘A cursed omen has arrived here too,’ Marayi complained. ‘All it does is stand under the tree as though possessed, and then it runs to hide inside its burrow. It doesn’t even think about helping the house by fetching some water. No. Such basic things shouldn’t have to be taught. You just need to be able to learn them yourself.’

Hearing Marayi’s conversation with Velayi, Saroja’s hand tightened into a fist. She felt like punching her mother-in-law’s face. If she had had people here who cared for her, who spoke up for her, would Marayi dare call her a bad omen so openly? Saroja had no one to protect her—that’s what gave Marayi the courage to say whatever she wished. Provoked by Marayi’s latest slew of insults, Saroja ran into the hut and emerged with a pot. ‘Akka, I will go with you,’ she told Velayi.

‘If a woman carries such a small pot, one meant for children, she won’t get enough water to even wash one’s feet,’ Marayi sniped, looking elsewhere.

But the mud pot was quite heavy. Saroja was not used to carrying a pot on her head, and she didn’t know how far she would have to walk with the pot on her hips. So she decided to take the small pot, no matter what Marayi said. Resolute, she looked impassively at Velayi and asked, ‘Shall we, Akka?’

Velayi cackled with amazement. ‘Look at this! The new girl speaks!’

Saroja immediately recalled Kumaresan’s warning not to talk much. She quickly pursed her lips. Once, she was convinced that not talking was going to be the most difficult thing for her to do. After all, she could talk to anyone easily. In the evenings, when her father and brother returned from work, she would chatter non-stop until they said, ‘That’s enough. Get some sleep now.’ But here, in the village, things were different—she was simply afraid to talk. Besides, the fact that she didn’t fully understand the way people spoke here, especially if someone spoke very fast, only made things worse. She lived with the constant fear that they would laugh if she said anything.

The well was quite far. To get there, they had to first walk on a path often traversed by bullock carts that sent white dust flying everywhere, and then follow a narrow path that snaked through a harvested field. Velayi had covered her head with the loose end of her sari. Saroja was not used to wearing her sari that way, so her face burned under the sun’s glare. It was not until she stood in the shade of the few coconut trees surrounding the well that she felt some respite.

Velayi had talked throughout their arduous walk in the scorching heat. ‘How do you pleat your sari in the front?’ she queried. ‘I have seen women from town doing that. Now all the women here are talking about the front pleats in your sari.’

Only then did Saroja realize that all the women she had seen so far in the village—even the young girls—wore their saris pleated at the back. She had not anticipated that the way she wore her sari would become such a topic of conversation. So she happily offered, ‘If you want, I can tie the sari on you that way.’