a while but she kept on going.
Time was running out.
Megha stepped on something sharp. It felt like a hot blade slicing into her flesh, sending a stab of pain all the way up her leg and into her groin. She was sure she’d suffered a deep cut, but she didn’t stop to investigate. Shards of broken glass were always a menace on the streets. She couldn’t afford the luxury of stopping to examine her injuries.
Suresh was probably out there, chasing after her. Distance between the Ramnaths and herself—that was all she cared about at the moment. She didn’t dare slow down. She was running for her life. Death was not an option and neither was giving in to weakness.
After negotiating innumerable private yards, she abruptly emerged into a street, gasping for air. Blinking, she skidded to a stop and wiped the sweat out of her eyes.
Streetlights illuminated the houses on either side. In her confusion it barely registered that it was nearly Diwali, the annual festival of lights, and many of the homes had the traditional terra-cotta oil lamps adorning their front steps and their verandas. At least the lights allowed her to see her surroundings instead of running blindly in utter darkness.
Some of the homes on this street had elaborate lighted akash-deeps, the colorful paper lanterns of Diwali, hanging above their stoops. But in Megha’s mind they were objects of no importance.
She didn’t know what street she was on. The homes were larger and more opulent than the ones in her neighborhood, with neatly laid-out gardens and fences and gates. Well-lit streets meant danger—she would be visible, the perfect prey. But, as long as she could feel the pavement under her feet, she would keep moving—until she ran out of steam.
Exhausted and out of breath, she stopped for a brief moment, panting, gulping mouthfuls of air. In the isolation of the dead of night she felt totally disoriented. The nausea hit once again with ferocious intensity. No amount of swallowing the saliva helped to keep the bile down. This time it rose like boiling lava in her throat. Bending over someone’s bushes, she held her head in her hands as her stomach emptied itself out in a single, violent motion. Then she straightened up and stood still for a minute until she felt it settle. Despite the bitter taste in her mouth and the burning in her throat, the sense of relief was enormous.
Her breath became less labored. Wiping her mouth with the edge of her sari, she shifted her throbbing foot and looked down. There was a small cut with blood oozing. But what was a minor wound when her life was at stake?
She picked up the pace again and soon reached an intersection she recognized. She knew the commercial area well. She shopped there often for food and other essentials. It looked different now with the stores dark and shuttered. There was an eerie look about it—a neighborhood she generally associated with dense crowds—the mingling smells, colors and sounds of people moving about in a mad rush, buying, selling, haggling, and arguing. The stray cow that usually ambled up and down the street and survived on fruit and vegetables tossed out by the merchants was missing, too. The lame mongrel that scavenged for food was nowhere in sight either.
She caught her reflection in one of the store windows and stopped short. The sight was so unexpected and alarming, she nearly gasped. It was like discovering a ghost. Her own ghost! Staring back at her was a narrow oval face with huge, dazed eyes, full lips trembling, a bloody scratch on the chin, and a smudge of dirt on the nose. Locks of hair had come loose from her normally neat plait and hung about her sweaty face. Her cheeks looked almost hollow in the murky light, her eye sockets dark and deep. In the tinted glass her faded blue sari appeared gray and rumpled.
What was happening to her? She could hardly recognize herself.
Good grooming had come naturally to her, and despite her meager wardrobe and lack of fancy cosmetics, she had always taken pride in her appearance. She was used to receiving compliments about her looks and dress sense, and yet now she looked like a homeless teenager, combing the streets late at night looking for scraps. A young woman from a dignified family and a decent home had no right to look like she did right now. In less than an hour she had gone from being a bride with a future to a homeless woman. How could that be? It was inconceivable.
Without her wristwatch Megha had no way of telling how long she’d been running, but by now Amma and Suresh had to know she was missing. They would surely set the police after her. Then she’d be arrested and dragged back to her in-laws. That, too, was unimaginable, and yet, it was likely to happen sooner or later. It was the only outcome she could foresee.
She went rigid at the sound of an approaching automobile. The police! Desperately looking for a place to hide, she did the only thing she could: she fell to the ground and crawled behind a discarded cardboard box lying on the footpath. The box smelled of rotting fruit and God knew what else. It was hardly large enough to cover her, but it kept her somewhat concealed from the streetlight. Her dark sari would have to do the rest.
The vehicle, a compact light-colored car, came closer. Her heart thudding like mad, she rolled her body into a tight ball, hoping she remained invisible. God, what if the driver saw her? What if it was a policeman? Or could it be one of Amma’s brothers, combing the town for her?
When the car didn’t slow down and kept going at a steady pace, she let her breath out. Only after the car turned the corner and disappeared did she realize it was merely a passing vehicle and not a direct threat. She rose to her feet. How long could she keep herself hidden?
There was no time to think. She had to run some more. But where exactly could she go? Surely not to her parents—they would send her right back to Suresh. “A married woman belongs in her husband’s home, no matter how he treats her,” her father, Lakshman Shastry, would remind her in that annoyingly righteous way of his, his dark eyes turning to ice. “It is a wife’s duty to remain loyal to her family at any cost.” He’d then escort her to the Ramnath household and abandon her on their doorstep once more like a bag of rubbish. “Now be a good wife to your husband. Behave yourself!” he’d order her, his gnarled arthritic index finger raised like a whip. He wasn’t above using his twisted hand to swat her bottom if necessary.
If she was condemned to die in an inferno, would he even care? With his burden gone he wouldn’t have to worry about producing that wretched dowry. Maybe he’d even welcome the news of his youngest daughter’s demise.
Megha’s mother, Mangala, although a caring woman, was the quintessential Brahmin wife: conventional, obedient, and compliant to a fault. She would support her husband in all matters, even to the extent of letting her child die a gruesome death.
So, what were Megha’s options? She had no living grandparents on either side. Her mother’s two older brothers lived around Chennai—too far for her to travel. And they hardly ever kept in touch with the family. If she showed up at their homes, they wouldn’t even recognize her. The last time they’d seen her was when she was about nine years old. Her father had no living siblings. His two sisters and one brother had died young, and their children were scattered throughout India. Longevity didn’t seem to exist on her father’s side of the family. No wonder Appa talked about dying all the time.
If she went to her best friend, Harini Nayak’s house, the police would easily track her down there. Amma knew Harini was Megha’s closest friend. Besides, she couldn’t show up at Harini’s door at this time of night. Perhaps she could go to her older sister Hema’s house in Hubli? But there would be no bus leaving for Hubli until the morning, and in any case, she had no money for the bus fare. Other than the clothes she was wearing she had nothing. Besides, the bus depot and the train station would be places the police were most likely to monitor.
Without money and support, Amma would have her back in a minute. Amma had made up her mind
