Under the Scorching Sun

The village of Bandhnapur, nestled deep in the parched heart of the Northern peninsula, was a place where life moved slowly, bound by the unyielding grip of tradition. Dust clung to every surface, carried by dry winds that whispered secrets from generations past. The fields stretched endlessly, cracked and barren under the merciless sun, while the thatched huts huddled together like battered soldiers braving a storm.

For Purnima, the youngest daughter of a landless labourer, life was a monotonous rhythm of servitude. At 18, her days began before dawn. She fetched water from the distant well, cooked coarse rotis over a smoky fire, and toiled in the fields alongside her two elder brothers. Her dark almond-shaped eyes spoke of exhaustion beyond her years, while her slender frame bore the marks of a life lived under the weight of expectations. Her dusky complexion and long, unkempt hair often drew unsolicited comments from the women in the village.

“You should be grateful someone wants to marry you,” her mother had snapped, slapping away a stray strand of hair as she braided it roughly.

Her aunt, a scheming woman with a permanent scowl etched into her face, had brokered the arrangement. She spoke grandly of the groom’s family: landowners with fertile fields, a big house, and influence in the nearby town. It was a golden opportunity for Purnima’s impoverished family.

Purnima had never met Ratan, her husband-to-be, before her wedding day. He was 35, wiry but strong, with a crooked nose that had been broken in a drunken brawl years ago. His narrow eyes glimmered with something predatory, but Purnima didn’t dare meet his gaze for long. His parents, Kamal, a hulking man with a face weathered by years in the sun, and Shanti, a sharp-tongued woman with a permanent frown, loomed large in the household.

The wedding itself was a whirlwind of colour and noise. Purnima sat stiffly in her red bridal sari, weighed down by heavy jewellery and loans borrowed from Zamindars. The villagers cheered and danced, oblivious to the anxiety gnawing at her insides.

That night, as the guests dwindled and the dim lanterns cast flickering shadows on the mud walls, she was led to a cramped, dingy room reeking of sweat and alcohol. Ratan stumbled in, his steps unsteady.

Purnima sat trembling on the edge of the bed, her heart pounding as Ratan slammed the door shut. His eyes, bloodshot and glassy, roamed over her like a vulture surveying a dying animal.

“Why are you sitting there like a stone? Take that off,” he barked, gesturing at her sari.

Her hands fumbled nervously at the fabric, but she hesitated. She had been warned about this night by older women in the village, but their cryptic words hadn’t prepared her for the reality.

“Do I have to do everything myself?” Ratan growled, grabbing her roughly by the wrist. The night that followed was a blur of pain, confusion, and humiliation. She had no words to describe what was happening to her, she only knew it hurt and bled in places she didn't expect.

By morning, her body ached in ways she couldn’t have imagined. Ratan snored loudly beside her, the stale stench of liquor heavy in the air. Purnima lay awake, staring at the cracked ceiling, her tears silently soaking into the threadbare mattress.

The days that followed blurred into an endless cycle of labour and abuse. Purnima was woken before sunrise and sent to work in the fields alongside the other women. The sun bore down relentlessly, searing her exposed skin. Her delicate hands, unused to the roughness of the plough and sickle, bled and blistered, but she dared not complain.

Kamal was a tyrant, barking orders from the edge of the field, his watchful eyes missing nothing. “You’re slower than a crippled ox ” he roared one afternoon, striking her across the face with his calloused hand.

At night, Ratan returned drunk, his temper volatile. If the day’s earnings were less than he expected, he beat her. If the food she prepared wasn’t to his liking, he beat her. Sometimes, he beat her for no reason at all, as if her mere presence enraged him.

Each morning, she tied her long hair into a hurried braid, grabbed the short broom, and began sweeping the uneven ground outside the house. Kamal, her father-in-law, would always find an excuse to linger nearby, pretending to inspect the cowshed or sharpen his sickle. Kamal’s eyes began lingering on Purnima for too long. At first, she dismissed it as her imagination. But his eyes betrayed his true intent.

As Purnima bent low to clean the courtyard, her sari shifted, exposing her voluptuous cleavage down her low-cut blouse. She would tug the fabric down instinctively, but the motion only seemed to heighten Kamal's gaze, his eyes crawling over her with a hunger that made her stomach churn.

When she scrubbed the floors inside the house, the suffocating heat forced her to tuck the edges of her sari into her waistband to keep it from dragging. Her legs were exposed up to the knees as she crouched, moving the damp cloth in steady, circular motions across the dusty floor. Kamal always found a reason to be nearby, leaning against the doorway or sitting on a charpoy with a bidi clamped between his teeth.

His gaze was unrelenting, moving from her face to the curve of her waist, lingering on her legs, she felt as though she were being stripped bare, piece by piece, under his scrutiny. The intensity of his stare made her skin crawl, but she didn’t dare stop. If she worked too slowly or left a corner unswept, Shanti, her mother-in-law, would slap her across the face and berate her for being lazy. Her husband, Ratan, would return drunk and add to the punishment.

One afternoon, as she was drawing water from the well behind the house, he sneaked up on her from behind grabbed her ample breasts and started molesting and groping her violently and she couldn't let go of the rope, which was only half drawn. If she released it, the rope would fall into the well, weighed down by the heavy water. Before she could react, Kamal yanked her closer, his grip bruising. She squirmed and tried to pull away, but his strength was overwhelming. Struggling against him with one hand, she felt helpless and was forced to comply.

Purnima froze, the rope slowly slipping from her hands. “You think you’re too good for this house, don’t you?” he sneered, grabbing her arm.

“Let me go” she whispered, her voice trembling with fear.

“Who will you tell?” he hissed, his breath hot against her ear. “Your husband? He listens to me.” The encounter left her shaken, but when she tried to tell Shanti, the older woman’s reaction was brutal.

“Don’t bring your filth into this house,” Shanti snarled, slapping her hard across the face. “Do your work and keep quiet, or I’ll throw you out myself.”

The fear and disgust festered within her, but she swallowed it down. Kamal held power in the household, and Shanti’s wrath was swift and unforgiving. Purnima learned to endure, even though it made her want to shrink into herself and disappear.

Ratan’s nightly abuse grew more violent as his drinking worsened. He returned home late, reeking of alcohol, and demanded food or sex, often both. If Purnima hesitated or resisted, he lashed out with his fists or whatever object was within reach.

One night, after a particularly brutal beating, she crawled to a corner of the room and cradled her bruised ribs, biting back sobs so she wouldn’t wake her infant daughter sleeping nearby. Her body bore the marks of her torment: purple welts on her back, swollen lips, and scars that would never fade.

The final straw came on a stormy night. Ratan stumbled home, drunk and angry, and began yelling about the day’s earnings. When Purnima tried to explain, he struck her across the face, sending her sprawling. But this time, he turned his fury toward their two-year-old daughter, who had woken up crying.

“Shut that brat up, or I’ll do it myself!” he bellowed, raising his hand toward the child.

Purnima moved without thinking. She grabbed a wooden pestle from the kitchen and stood between her daughter and Ratan.

“Touch her, and I’ll kill you,” she hissed, her voice trembling but firm.

For the first time, Ratan hesitated, his drunken bravado faltering. Purnima seized the moment, scooping up her daughter and fleeing into the night.

The village road stretched like a serpent in the moonlight, slippery with rain and riddled with jagged stones. Purnima’s bare feet were cut and bleeding by the time she reached the main road, clutching her daughter tightly to her chest. The child whimpered softly, her tiny hands gripping Purnima’s sari, sensing her mother’s fear. The night air was cold, but Purnima’s resolve burned hot. She did not look back.

She found shelter under a tattered tarpaulin outside a closed tea stall. The rain drummed against the makeshift roof as she tried to comfort her daughter, her heart pounding with fear. Sleep was impossible. The shadows danced ominously around her, and every sound made her jump. She feared Ratan would come after her, dragging her back to the hell she had escaped.

But the night passed without incident, and as dawn broke, Purnima set off for the nearest town.

The journey to the city was gruelling. Purnima had no money, no food, and no plan. Her body, already battered from years of abuse, protested with every step, but she kept walking. When her daughter cried from hunger, Purnima begged at roadside stalls for scraps of food. Some gave her stale bread or half-rotten fruit; others spat at her or told her to move along.

By the time she reached Patna, she was a shadow of herself. Her sari was torn and muddy, her skin blistered from the journey. But the city offered no sanctuary. Its crowded streets buzzed with life, but no one noticed her or cared.

She sought refuge at a temple, sitting quietly in a corner with her daughter. The priests avoided her gaze, and the other worshippers whispered behind her back. She overheard words like “runaway” and “fallen woman.”

In desperation, she approached a man handing out food at the temple gates. He seemed kind, offering her a warm meal and asking about her troubles. When Purnima told him she was looking for work, he smiled.

“I know someone who can help,” he said, his voice smooth.

Grateful for his kindness, Purnima followed him to a dingy building on the outskirts of the city. It wasn’t until she was inside that she realized her mistake. The man locked the door behind her, and the leering faces of other men filled her with dread.

“Fresh meat,” one of them sneered, reaching for her.

Purnima fought like a cornered animal, biting and clawing as they tried to subdue her. Her daughter screamed in terror, her tiny fists pounding against the men. Purnima’s fury gave her strength, and she managed to grab a broken bottle from the floor, slashing at the man closest to her.

Her screams drew the attention of a passerby, and the commotion scared the men off. Bloodied but unbroken, Purnima stumbled into the street, clutching her daughter.

She eventually found herself in the sprawling slums on the city’s outskirts, a labyrinth of makeshift shanties and narrow alleys. Here, life was harsh but oddly communal. The residents, hardened by their own struggles, took pity on her. An older woman named Amba, who had lost her own daughter to trafficking, offered her a place to stay in exchange for help around her tiny hut.

Amba taught Purnima how to navigate the city’s underbelly. She introduced her to a network of women who worked as domestic helpers, earning a pittance but enough to survive. Purnima took whatever jobs she could find, scrubbing floors and washing clothes, her hands raw and blistered.

Her daughter became her sole reason to endure. Purnima’s days were long, her nights restless, but the bruises on her body began to fade. The bruises on her soul, however, were harder to heal.

Months passed, but Purnima’s peace was short-lived. One evening, as she returned from work, she saw a familiar figure lurking near Amba’s hut. It was Ratan, his drunken swagger unmistakable.

“You think you can run from me?” he slurred, grabbing her arm. “You’re my wife. You belong to me.”

Purnima’s heart raced with terror, but this time, she refused to cower. She wrenched her arm free and stepped back, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.

“If you come near me or my daughter again, I’ll kill you,” she said, her eyes blazing with defiance.

Ratan laughed, but there was uncertainty in his eyes. The crowd of neighbours gathering around them unnerved him. Amba stepped forward, her wiry frame trembling with rage.

“She’s not alone,” Amba said, her voice sharp as a blade. “You want to fight her, you’ll have to fight all of us.”

The collective strength of the women in the slum forced Ratan to retreat, but Purnima knew he would return.

Determined to protect herself and her daughter, Purnima sought help from a local women’s organisation. They helped her file a police complaint against Ratan, though the process was gruelling and humiliating. The officers sneered at her, questioning her character and suggesting she return to her husband.

But Purnima stood firm, recounting every detail of her abuse with unwavering resolve. The organisation also connected her with legal aid, helping her file for divorce and custody of her daughter.

Life remained a constant struggle. Purnima faced harassment at work, scorn from society, and the lingering trauma of her past. But she refused to give up. She joined a self-defense class organised by the women’s group, learning how to fight back. She began saving money, little by little, dreaming of a better future for her daughter.

The scars on Purnima’s body and soul would never fully fade, but they became a testament to her resilience. She found strength in her pain, using it as fuel to fight for her freedom and her child’s future.

Her story, brutal and raw, was a reflection of countless others.

But by breaking the chains of her past, Purnima became a beacon of defiance, a reminder that even in the face of unimaginable cruelty, it is possible to rise, to endure, and to reclaim one’s life.

As the crimson sun set over the slums, Purnima stood tall, her daughter’s small hand in hers. She had faced the darkness and emerged stronger, her resolve unshakable. And though the battle was far from over, she knew one thing with absolute certainty: she would never be a victim again.