Munni was crying. Her wails were ricocheting off the walls like tennis balls on a grass court. As steady as a waterfall and as loud as a hammer when it hits a nail, she continued crying. In between there were sobs; that breathless break that involuntarily supports the act of crying, even as it appears to hamper its progress. As needful as a tennis racquet, as essential as the current in the water willing to fall, and as effective as the strength in the hand that wields the hammer, the sobs continued to intervene till exhaustion finally caught up with her, thereby forcing her to stop.

But Rita was silent. Her eyes were dry. Her face was expressionless. Her mind was blank.

The only source of light in the hut was thanks to a window. But with the waning sunlight streaming into the bars, the shadows had no option but to lengthen. Slowly they began to extend their dark spindly fingers and cover lost ground till there was nothing left to overpower.

Rita got up from the corner of the hut and walked over to the lone lamp. It was time for it to be lit. Maybe it was a furtive attempt at overcoming the darkness; maybe even a futile attempt at making her surroundings bright. But once she was done, even if keen, there indeed was light.

“Here, have this.” she said, tearing off a piece of a Roti and dipping it into a bowl of water. “You will feel better.”

Munni was already tired, and had no strength left to argue. She quietly chewed the frugal meal and then curled up on the mat, her body limp with fatigue. Rita fanned her nearly five year old daughter with a Beejnon and after she had fallen off to sleep, got up to pour herself some water from the an earthen pot in a corner of the kitchen. Only then did she begin to have her share of the rotis, with some left over pickle too spicy for her daughter. Leaning against the locked kitchen cabinet, she willed herself to swallow and waited for the hunger to finally ebb away like a low tide.

By the time their main door was unshackled from the outside and vigorously knocked, both mother and daughter had embraced the solitude of a deep slumber. Yet like peace, so fleeting in their lives, their dreamless sleep was not to be. Rita got up from her bed on the floor and rushed towards the door, while simultaneously covering her head with the dupatta of her salwar kameez.

She reached for the latch that closed the door on the inside and stepped back as the door finally creaked open to reveal the visitor standing in a pool of moonlight. It was Jogiya.

A terrifying fear swept across her very being, sending shivers scampering across her skin like Hyenas after an abandoned prey, while her heart began to beat, making it impossible for her to control her heaving bosom.

Jogiya peeped inside, looking at the dimly lit room where Munni was waiting, rubbing her eyes with the palms of her hand. “Make her go back to sleep” he whispered, pointing at Munni, I will wait outside by the field.

Her hands trembling with trepidation, she reached out to her daughter and began to pat her on the back, even as her lips began to hum a tune from the depths of her memory. Within minutes the combined effect of the rhythmic patting and soft lullaby had sent her back to sleep.

As Rita walked to the door, she paused, her mind suddenly awash with memories long forgotten, of the desires, the emotions, and the pain that followed as she bled away her virginity.

Covering her head with the dupatta, more out of habit than need, she slowly walked towards the field ahead and followed the silhouette silently. He finally stopped a few yards into the field of wheat and turned, his eyes burning into her skin “I heard how they treated you when I did not return” he said, and continued, not waiting for a reply, “and I know how your in-laws treat you now, especially after you gave them a granddaughter instead of a grandson. It is true, isn’t it that your husband Girish is in Dubai, and does not wish to take you along?”

Rita did not speak. She looked up at him, and wondered. Would her life have been different if she had ended up with Jogiya instead of Girish? Would her life had been better if she had stayed back in her village and not been married off in distant Rajasthan? Would her life have been satisfactory if she had not given in to his charms and…” her mind reeling with the weight of possibilities, she gasped slightly and took a deep breath, closing her eyes.

“You don’t really need to answer anything. After all, who am I to ask you of an explanation? But then, I feel I have a right to ask you about your daughter Munni. Is she…?”

“Stop!” she said, suddenly breaking her silence and looking at him straight into his eyes. “Why have you come back into my life now? Why now after almost six years? Why now, when you know there is no one at home? Why now, when you know there is nothing left for me to give?”

Tears were streaming down her eyes as she spoke. The pent up emotions overflowing in one final act of revolt, even as her body shook to the rhythm of the pain that seemed to emanate from the very core of her hurt soul.

It was he who made the first move, gently letting the dupatta drop, while caressing her hair and letting it stream around her face instead of being tied behind in a bun, even as Rita silently watched, neither welcoming not protesting.

As he started unraveling her skin, he noticed the dark trickle of blood trailing along her inner thighs.

“Damn!” he said, suddenly taking a step back. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You never did ask if you could, now, did you?” she answered, breaking her silence and staring at his eyes. The eyes in which she had once wished to drown. The eyes whose assurance she had once sought. The eyes whose twinkle had once made her overcome each and every inhibition she had, and hopelessly tumble along a path from where there was no turning back. The eyes were just the same. But they had lost that which had once captivated her.

“I do not have a lot of time today.” She said, while picking up her clothes and putting them on after taking care of that which she had no control over. “But you may come back after four days. I will be ready for you then. However I have one condition.”

Jogiya looked at the woman he had thought he knew better than anyone else, suddenly unsure about her for the first time in his life “and what do you want from me?”

Trying her best to dwarf the steadily rising pain from the bowels of her very existence, and keeping her face as calm as she possibly could, Rita softly answered. “I need food and medicines for her.”

“Munni?” he asked, suddenly worried for the first time that day “what is wrong with her?”

“She has fever, and we hardly have enough food. Meet me here tomorrow, but just after the sun sets, and let me have the medicines, and the food. And before you leave, please lock the door from the outside.”

“But you never told me about her. Is she your husband’s daughter?” he asked trying to match her pace as she began to walk back towards the hut in the distance. “You never replied to my post card. Nor did you answer me when I met you by the well, when you had returned during your pregnancy. You had always chosen silence over the truth. But I need to know now. Is she really your husband’s child?”

Suddenly Rita turned, her eyes gleaming with the first hint of tears, “Munni is mine. I am her mother. I am the one who gave her birth. She will always remain mydaughter.”

Rita continued, suddenly lowering her voice to a whisper. “Remember to get her some medicines to take care of her fever. And like I said, get us some food. She loves Daal Baati and Kiccha ka Sabzi, and yes, her favorite sweet is Jhajhariya.” replied Rita, stopping by the archway of the door.

Jogiya’s heart was beating profusely by the mention of his favorite sweet. “You never liked that sweet, even though I loved it now, isn’t it?”

Rita smiled, maybe for the first time that day, eyes as her gaze wandered over the wheat fields in the distance, gently allowing the memories to swim across the surface of her conscience, before dipping down like dexterous fish, knowing that now was not the time to surface.

She locked the door from inside before answering, loud enough for him to hear every word spoken, “Girish loved Jhajhariya too. It was his favorite dessert.”