Kumaresan replied calmly, ‘This is my wife, uncle. We got married just this morning.’

‘Look at that! You went away to work, but you managed to find yourself a nice cow! Does your mother know?’ he said, and scrutinized Saroja again from head to foot.

Saroja wondered if he would come closer and inspect her teeth. Although she was not wearing silk, she looked very much like a new bride in her new sari and blouse and with the yellow thread of the taali around her neck. Her face, strained by the exhaustion of the journey, looked like a painting shrouded in smoke. She tried to shrink her frame and hide behind Kumaresan, but the man’s gaze hounded her wherever she moved.

‘Amma will know only once we get home,’ Kumaresan said.

‘You have done something unexpected, bringing a girl from elsewhere. What caste?’ the man said.

‘Our caste only,’ Kumaresan replied.

Since he wanted the man to leave, he kept his answers short. But it didn’t look like the man had any intention of leaving. He got off his bicycle and leaned around Kumaresan to get a good look at Saroja. Seeing her struggle to hide herself, he frowned, hummed, and furrowed his eyebrows in suspicion.

‘Can’t I tell by the face?’ he prodded relentlessly. ‘This is not a face from our caste, mapillai. Does a face that wanders over fields and rocks look like this? This is the face of someone who hasn’t toiled, a body that hasn’t suffered summer’s heat. All right, tell me the truth—whatever it is . . . Is she from our caste?’

‘Yes, maama,’ Kumaresan replied patiently.

Once the man realized he wouldn’t be able to drag out any more information from Kumaresan, he intoned, ‘All right, all right, this heat is punishing. Go home. There must be some leftover rice gruel for you to drink. Your mother might even become overjoyed at the sight of her new daughter-in-law and decide to kill a chicken and make some kozhambu and some sambar rice with cumin and everything. This is the first time such a daughter-in-law has come to our village, isn’t it? Such a rare piece of sweet jaggery!’ Saying this, he pedalled away, his bicycle moving slowly as its tyres pressed into the mud on the path. ­Saroja and Kumaresan could see the loose end of the man’s loincloth dangle in the air when he hoisted himself up from the seat and pedalled with force to move faster. He turned back many times to look at them. Saroja watched with fear as the man pierced through the day’s heat, leaving a trail of dust suspended in the air.

‘He is from our village,’ Kumaresan explained. ‘We call him Podhaaru, because that is exactly what he looks like—a bush. Did you see the hair all over his body? Everyone has such a nickname. I do too, as you will find out for yourself. Anyway, now the news of our marriage will reach the village before we do. That is good in a way. We won’t have to say anything. It is going be a grand welcome, you wait and see. Don’t be scared by it all,’ he said as he lifted the bag and placed it on his head.