Sleep had withdrawn its grace from the Dombottu family that night. Some were haunted by the aftermath of what had transpired, while others courted insomnia by merely succumbing to the quiet pressure of the family.
Vihaan lay somewhere in the middle.
Maya had stayed back at the Dombottu house to help the family, while her grandmother and uncle had returned to their home. Finding themselves lost amidst the silent family chaos, Vihaan and she had spent most of their time sitting beside each other, rarely saying anything.
Malathi and Harish had locked themselves in a room, refusing to talk to the rest of the family. Keshav sat in a chair next to his mother’s bed. Jyothi was resting her head on Daniel’s lap, while he fidgeted with both of their areca nuts.
Shekar was nowhere to be found.
Vihaan checked the time; it was almost six in the morning, and yet the dawn hadn’t invited the sun. Or maybe it had, and it was simply blocked by the dark monsoon clouds. He realized that he had been up for almost two days now without even a semblance of proper sleep.
Should I just go and sleep? he thought. No, not now.
He felt something brush his ear, and then his shoulder felt heavy and warm. Maya had rested her head on his arm and closed her eyes. He closed his eyes, too.
Both of them had their slumber prospects stripped away as a loud, howling cry shrilled into their ears. It came from Baby’s room. Vihaan and the others ran to the matriarch’s chambers to find her screaming her lungs out.
Vihaan walked toward his grandmother, shifting his eyes toward his uncle Keshav, who sat distressingly on Baby’s bed, trying to comfort her. Malathi was there, too. Keshav gave a piercing stare at Vihaan but said nothing.
Baby wailed, her voice breaking and folding into itself. The sounds spilled out raw and uneven, scraping against the walls of the room. At first, it was nothing more than noise—incoherent and illegible to Vihaan’s ears. But slowly, the noise turned into words. Syllables. Names. His grandmother’s voice, fractured and struggling, slowly found its way back to language.
“Kesanna,” she muttered, “Why doesn’t he just take me and spare my family?”
“I am the last of them,” she breathed heavily. “My granddaughter is innocent; don’t let her bear the burden of my sins.”
That day, the Dombottu house overflowed with life. Children laughed and chased each other across the veranda while elders sat admiring the floral decorations, though none could rival the tender beauty of the young girl seated at the very center.
She was no more than sixteen. Her husband was a hardworking tailor who had made a name for himself by dressing the local girlfriends of foreign sailors at the ports of Mumbai. He was a busy man—busy enough not to write to his wife or visit for her baby shower.
But his absence was made up for by the entirety of Dombottu, which had assembled to celebrate the special day of its favorite landlady. She wasn’t a queen, but the village treated her as one. Names rarely hold an apt description of the bearer, but the village considered hers to be an exception.
“Sundari” meant a beautiful girl. And beautiful she was.
She sat there smiling while her aunts served exaggerated versions of all her favorite foods: huge chaklis imported from the city with her name carved into them, chicken curry, and laddoos that were larger than her tiny head. Once they were finished, one could hardly see her behind the massive pile of food.
Her uncles stood there, promising to stay sober for just that day. They gave her flowers and gifted her jewelry they had bought in exchange for their wives’ ornaments. Once the family members were done feeding the soon-to-be mother, it was the villagers’ turn. They appeared one by one, bringing all sorts of gifts. None were displays of grandiosity, yet each showed gratified respect. They brought locally woven clothes, fruits, vegetables, and grains from the village’s excellent yield, which grew better every year.
“Baby!” Sundari exclaimed to her old friend. “Such a pleasant surprise to see you.”
Baby smiled at Sundari, trying to ignore the brewing gossip between Sundari’s aunts.
“Yes, I just came last week,” she told her friend. “I am so happy for you.”
“For you, too,” Sundari replied, pointing at Baby’s tummy, which was disproportionately large for her size. “How far along are you?”
“Three months.”
“That’s nice,” Sundari said. “Where is your husband? Hasn’t he come?”
“Probably drank his way into a muddy puddle,” one of the aunts tattled.
Baby heard that but pretended otherwise.
“Perhaps too drunk to know if he is even the father,” an uncle followed. “Heard she kept inappropriate company in the city.”
This time, Baby shot them a piercing stare, making sure they saw it.
“Hush,” Sundari muttered to her family. “I am sorry,” she told Baby.
“It’s okay,” Baby accepted the comments. “He isn’t here. But my brothers are thrilled to see you,” she added. “They will be here soon.”
Sundari’s eyes glittered. “Yes, I want to see them, too. It’s been very long.”
The uncles stopped gossiping and began staring at each other. Baby noticed the sudden silence and internally smirked. She stood in place for a while, staring at Sundari. She raised her hand and placed it on her friend’s face.
“You look beautiful,” she remarked. “Just like a queen.”
“Thanks,” Sundari said as Baby walked away, letting the rest have their audience with the woman of the moment.
As the ceremony neared its conclusion, lunch was served. The seats emptied as the audience left to feed themselves. Whatever heads were left turned when a merry bunch of men arrived. Six of them, to be exact, came in all ages, shapes, and sizes—except for a distinct, round, puffy face that each one of them bore. They were a local barkeeper’s sons. Their dubious family occupation and association with their sister, Baby, ensured they were recognized by all of Dombottu.
They walked up to their sister, and the eldest of them flashed a piece of paper. “It is ready,” he said. “Just as you planned.”
“Good,” she replied.
He then pulled her aside and whispered in her ear, “You sure about all of this? Look at the place. Everyone… they look happy.”
Baby did not respond, letting silence supplement her thoughts. She turned toward Sundari and the huge pile of food in front of her, the magnificent array of gold necklaces, and the pair of beautiful earrings she wore. And that smile—a smile that radiated nothing but joy and glee, something that held the power to defy all odds just to be present.
Baby turned back toward her brother. She held her belly and spoke. “Six months later, when it’s my turn to be behind that pile of food, do you think I would be smiling like that?”
“I do not understand,” her brother answered.
She smiled, offering one look at Sundari before settling her eyes back on her brother. “Do it,” she said.
Her eldest brother hesitated, but noticing no reluctance in his sister’s eyes, he sighed. “Very well,” he said, then turned toward his brothers. “Boys, it is time.”
The brothers walked up to the mother-to-be and bowed their respects.
“Congratulations,” the eldest said.
“Thank you,” Sundari replied. “I am so delighted you all came.”
“Same here,” he remarked. “But I bet your uncles would not share the feeling. We are here to collect the debt that your uncles owe us,” he continued.
He passed over the papers he was holding. “We have orders from the court,” he proclaimed. “The debt shall be paid, or we have the right to take immediate control of your lands and this house.”
“How dare you come here and create a nuisance on such an occasion!” one of the uncles chimed in. “Your debts will be paid, I assure you of that.”
“Your assurance means nothing,” Baby interjected. “You are way past your due. Upon my arrival, I took control of my father’s accounts, and I intend to see every penny settled.”
Sundari’s smile faded as she watched her friend speak. She looked at her uncles, who avoided her eyes. She took a deep breath.
“Why would you put the house up as collateral?” she questioned them. “You could have come to me.”
“I am sorry,” her eldest uncle said. “I don’t know how it all happened. We were all drunk and we needed money. They were ready to give. I am really sorry.”
She sighed. “What is the amount?” she questioned her eldest uncle.
“A few hundred rupees,” the uncle replied.
“Very well,” Sundari said. “I will pay it. It is a considerable amount, but I can settle it.”
Baby laughed, her brothers following suit. “A few hundred rupees?” Baby mocked. “You sure, man? Do you need to check the papers once?”
Sundari fetched the paper and read it. Her eyes moved faster as she read, and then the pace suddenly dropped. The firm resolve in her face dissolved; her hands shook as she almost crumpled the legal document.
“Easy there,” Baby remarked as she snatched the papers back gently—almost kindly. “Do you still wish to pay?” she asked. She tilted her head. “Can you pay?”
“What does it say?” one of the aunts inquired.
Sundari didn’t speak. But Baby did.
“Oh, it says your husbands owe us a lot more than a few hundred rupees,” she sneered. “Ten thousand rupees, to be precise.”
“Ten thousand rupees!” one of the younger uncles erupted. “Is this a joke?”
“We did not take that large of an amount from you,” the eldest uncle said in a calmer manner. “I doubt you even have that much.”
“Does it matter?” Baby leaned forward and almost whispered. “That is what the paper says. And you all signed it. A whole bunch of you.”
“We were drunk,” the angry uncle growled. “You cheated us. This is false.” He lunged forward.
The movement barely registered before one of Baby’s brothers caught him by the collar and drove him to the floor. Another uncle rushed in, then another—but the brothers had grown strong behind bar counters and broken bottles. The scuffle was short, loud, and one-sided.
When the noise settled, Baby hadn’t moved. She adjusted the edge of her saree, glanced once at the men sprawled on the floor, and then looked back at Sundari and the women clustered behind her.
“Well,” she said calmly, “since the boys have settled matters of the fist, we girls shall talk money. Now, since there is no way any of you can repay the debt, all of you must leave. Leave your things behind; if there is any excess after the accounts are settled, I will send it back. And I will take that, too.”
Baby walked toward Sundari, grabbed her necklace, and began pulling it apart. She succeeded in snatching one of them before Sundari could stand. Baby then went for the rest, but this time Sundari resisted. She would not let Baby take another family heirloom. When Baby did not stop, her face met Sundari’s jolting palm.
“You are pathetic,” Sundari commented.
Baby rubbed her cheek; the slap hurt, as did Sundari’s words. But after taking a deep breath, Baby lunged again to get the rest of the necklaces. Sundari held Baby’s hands, but Baby snapped them free and dug her fingers into Sundari’s neck. Sundari defended herself with another slap.
Baby saw it coming; she shoved the expecting mother aside to save herself from the attack.
Oh no, Baby’s thought came a little too late.
Sundari’s feet slipped. Her body tilted forward, helpless, instinctively curling in on itself. She hit the floor belly-first—the sound dull and wrong—followed by a silence so abrupt it swallowed the room.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then everything erupted.
Baby did not remember the aftermath. She remembered a distinct female scream, men yelling at each other, and people coming and going. There was blood and there was noise. There was noise everywhere.
Slowly the noise settled, and Baby found herself swinging in an unjal at the Dombottu house. It was hers now.
“Go away,” Baby heard one of her brothers yell at someone outside.
She got down from her swing and walked out to find a woman in a grand yet disheveled saree, holding a baby wrapped in a white blanket. The saree was red with blood, and the baby was not moving.
“Sundari,” Baby muttered.
“Did you get what you want?” Sundari questioned. “I bet you did. Look at my son,” she raised the corpse for everyone to see. “He is beautiful, right? You took everything. You can have him, too.”
Sundari tossed the baby into the center of the veranda and turned her back, limping her way out of the Dombottu house. She turned toward Baby one last time.
“May your family, this house, this village, and its people be your kingdom,” she said. “May their cries be its tax.”
Kesanna was born.
Baby was now in bed, old and frail, surrounded by her children and grandchildren. There was a great-grandchild, too. She cried; the tears flowed from her eyes and ran through the rest of her wrinkled face.
“They treated me like a flower,” she cried. “My dear brothers. They all died.”
“Sundari,” she muttered, startling everyone until they realized her eyes were now set on Maya.
Maya walked forward and sat beside the Dombottu matriarch. Baby placed her hand upon Maya’s.
“I am sorry,” Baby said.
“It’s okay,” Maya replied. “I forgive you.”
There were tears in Baby’s eyes, but she smiled. “You look beautiful,” she remarked. “Just like a queen…”
Maya felt Baby’s grip loosen. Baby stopped crying. She lay there, eyes closed, a smile on her face. No longer breathing.