22-08-2026, 11:15 AM
Then, without any warning, Arjun, Muthu and Balu were gone.
One morning the three of them simply did not appear at the river. The other sand smugglers were still there — loading sand, shouting, moving around the trucks as usual — but the three men who had claimed Sathyavathi, Malliga and me were nowhere to be seen. By midday it became clear they had left during the night. No one in the village knew why. Some said the MLA had called those three to another site. Others whispered that something had gone wrong between them and the rest of the group. Whatever the reason, Arjun, Muthu and Balu did not return the next day, or the day after that.
Sathyavathi, Malliga and I felt the relief first.
For the first time in many weeks I could walk to the river without the tight fear of seeing Arjun step out from among the trees. No thick, shirtless body waited to pull me against a sweaty chest. No filthy mouth waited to cover mine. Sathyavathi no longer had to steel herself for Muthu’s hands. Malliga no longer had to follow Balu into the bushes with that quiet, frightened surrender. The three of us met near the washing stones one morning and simply stood there for a while, feeling the absence of the particular men who had owned us on that path. The relief was real and deep, even if the other smugglers still worked the river and still looked at the village women with open hunger.
The rest of the village felt the change too, though more quietly.
The husbands of the three of us walked a little freer. The daily dread that had sat specifically on our three houses lightened. Swaminathan noticed the absence as well, though he said little about it in the meetings under the banyan tree. The other sand smugglers continued their work and their harassment of the remaining women, but the three most persistent and possessive among them were gone.
As the days without Arjun, Muthu and Balu continued, another kind of energy slowly returned to the village.
The annual festival of the Goddess was approaching.
People began to prepare in the old ways. Women cleaned their houses more carefully. Men repaired the small paths leading to the temple. The older women started discussing which flowers would be offered and how many oil lamps would be needed. Children ran around with more freedom than they had shown in weeks. The black stone idol of the Goddess, which had stood quietly through all the months of fear, once again became the centre of daily talk. The temple that had been managed by the villagers themselves since the old priest was taken away began to see more people coming in the evenings just to stand in front of the idol and feel something steady again.
Sathyavathi, Malliga and I joined the preparations like everyone else.
We helped wash the temple steps. We sorted flowers. We talked about ordinary things again — the festival food, the new sarees some of the women planned to wear, the way the children were already excited. For a short while it almost felt as if the particular darkness that those three men had brought into our lives had lifted.
Yet even in that relief, a thin uneasiness remained inside me.
Arjun had left without a word. He had not taken what he had waited for so patiently. The promise I had made to my sons in the middle of the night still sat unanswered. And somewhere beneath the festival preparations and the lighter feeling in my own chest, I could not completely believe that a man like Arjun would stay gone forever.
For now, though, he was gone, along with Muthu and Balu.
The river path no longer held the same personal threat for the three of us.
And the village turned its attention toward the coming festival of the Goddess.
Sathyavathi and Malliga were completely relieved.
In the days after Arjun, Muthu and Balu disappeared, the two of them could not stop talking about it. Whenever the three of us met near the river or under the banyan tree, the first words out of their mouths were curses aimed at the men who had been enjoying them.
“That bastard Muthu…” Sathyavathi would say, her voice sharp with leftover anger.
“Every time I walked that path I felt his eyes on me. I hope he never comes back.”
Malliga’s relief was quieter but just as deep. She would shake her head and speak in a softer voice, still carrying the memory of how easily she had surrendered to Balu out of fear.
“I used to feel sick every morning knowing he would be waiting. I am glad he is gone. I hope all of them leave.”
That was the common feeling among the three of us. The absence of the three men who had been enjoying us was a real mercy, yet the other sand smugglers were still at the river every day. Their trucks still came. Their eyes still followed the remaining women. The harassment had not ended for the village as a whole — only for us three. Sathyavathi, Malliga and I wanted every last one of them gone. We wanted the river clean again, the path safe, and the daily fear lifted from every house.
A few evenings later, Swaminathan called a secret meeting.
It was not held under the open banyan tree where anyone could see. He sent quiet word to a small number of trusted people — the older men who still had some influence, a few of the stronger younger husbands, and, unusually, he also asked Sathyavathi, Malliga and me to come. We met after dark in the back room of his house, the door closed, the oil lamp kept low.
Swaminathan looked more tired than usual, but there was a steady purpose in his eyes that had been missing for months.
“The elections are coming in six months,” he told us without wasting time.
“I have already begun speaking to the opposition leaders. Not the ones who take money from the same people who protect these sand smugglers — the others. The ones who still have some interest in cleaning up places like ours.”
He explained that he had travelled quietly to the town and beyond on certain days, meeting men who might be willing to challenge the sitting MLA. He did not give full names that night, only enough for us to understand that he was no longer simply submitting complaints that disappeared into drawers. He was trying to build a political path that could remove the protection the smugglers enjoyed.
“If the present MLA stays, these men will keep coming back,” Swaminathan said.
“Maybe not the same three faces, but others like them. The river will keep being destroyed. The women will keep being touched. The only real chance we have is if someone who is not in their pocket wins.”
Then his tone changed. He looked around the small room and spoke more firmly.
“But for now, forget about the elections.”
We all went quiet.
“Next month is the Seed Sowing Festival,” he continued.
“That is what we must prepare for. We will celebrate. We will honour the Goddess the way our parents and grandparents did. We will clean the temple, light the lamps, offer the flowers, and walk in the procession as if these sand smugglers do not exist. Let them dig their sand. Let them stare. We will not give them the power to stop us from living our own life. The Goddess has protected this village longer than any of us have been alive. We will show her respect, and we will show ourselves that we are still a village, not just a place these men use.”
He paused and looked at each of us in turn.
“Ignore the remaining sand smugglers as much as you can. Do not give them the satisfaction of seeing us broken. Prepare for the festival. Celebrate. Honour the Goddess. That is the work for the coming weeks.”
There was a moment of silence, and then the room agreed.
The older men nodded. The younger husbands muttered their acceptance. Sathyavathi, Malliga and I exchanged a quick look and then nodded as well. The relief of the three men who had been enjoying us being gone was still fresh, and the idea of turning our full attention to the Goddess and the Seed Sowing Festival felt like the first clean breath we had taken in a long time.
When we stepped back out into the dark village lanes, the decision was already settling into us. The festival preparations that had begun quietly now had a clear purpose. We would clean, we would cook, we would decorate, and we would celebrate. For the next month the village would turn toward the Goddess and away from the men who still worked the river.
The three men who were enjoying us were gone.
The other smugglers remained.
But for now, under Swaminathan’s word, we would ignore them as best we could and prepare to honour the Goddess the way she deserved.
The Seed Sowing Festival was only days away now.
The whole village had taken Swaminathan’s words seriously. Houses were being cleaned, the temple steps were washed every morning, and the smell of fresh flowers and oil already hung lightly in the air. For the first time in months the village felt busy with something other than fear.
In the middle of all that preparation, my husband was getting ready to leave for Chennai.
His textile work could not wait. He would be gone for a full month — longer than usual. That morning I stood in the kitchen preparing breakfast, still wearing my white nighty with my white bra and white panties underneath. The familiar work of grinding and mixing kept my hands busy while my mind kept returning to the same thought. I would have to attend the festival without him. The Goddess procession, the lamps, the collective singing, the way the whole village would stand together in front of the black stone idol — I would see all of it alone this year. No husband walking beside me. No familiar presence to return to when the evening ended. The missing had already started, even though he was still in the house.
I was making idli and sambar, the batter already poured into the moulds, the sambar simmering on the stove with the smell of mustard and curry leaves rising into the small kitchen. I moved between the vessels in my white nighty, stirring, checking the steam, arranging the small plates, my thoughts heavy with the month ahead
One morning the three of them simply did not appear at the river. The other sand smugglers were still there — loading sand, shouting, moving around the trucks as usual — but the three men who had claimed Sathyavathi, Malliga and me were nowhere to be seen. By midday it became clear they had left during the night. No one in the village knew why. Some said the MLA had called those three to another site. Others whispered that something had gone wrong between them and the rest of the group. Whatever the reason, Arjun, Muthu and Balu did not return the next day, or the day after that.
Sathyavathi, Malliga and I felt the relief first.
For the first time in many weeks I could walk to the river without the tight fear of seeing Arjun step out from among the trees. No thick, shirtless body waited to pull me against a sweaty chest. No filthy mouth waited to cover mine. Sathyavathi no longer had to steel herself for Muthu’s hands. Malliga no longer had to follow Balu into the bushes with that quiet, frightened surrender. The three of us met near the washing stones one morning and simply stood there for a while, feeling the absence of the particular men who had owned us on that path. The relief was real and deep, even if the other smugglers still worked the river and still looked at the village women with open hunger.
The rest of the village felt the change too, though more quietly.
The husbands of the three of us walked a little freer. The daily dread that had sat specifically on our three houses lightened. Swaminathan noticed the absence as well, though he said little about it in the meetings under the banyan tree. The other sand smugglers continued their work and their harassment of the remaining women, but the three most persistent and possessive among them were gone.
As the days without Arjun, Muthu and Balu continued, another kind of energy slowly returned to the village.
The annual festival of the Goddess was approaching.
People began to prepare in the old ways. Women cleaned their houses more carefully. Men repaired the small paths leading to the temple. The older women started discussing which flowers would be offered and how many oil lamps would be needed. Children ran around with more freedom than they had shown in weeks. The black stone idol of the Goddess, which had stood quietly through all the months of fear, once again became the centre of daily talk. The temple that had been managed by the villagers themselves since the old priest was taken away began to see more people coming in the evenings just to stand in front of the idol and feel something steady again.
Sathyavathi, Malliga and I joined the preparations like everyone else.
We helped wash the temple steps. We sorted flowers. We talked about ordinary things again — the festival food, the new sarees some of the women planned to wear, the way the children were already excited. For a short while it almost felt as if the particular darkness that those three men had brought into our lives had lifted.
Yet even in that relief, a thin uneasiness remained inside me.
Arjun had left without a word. He had not taken what he had waited for so patiently. The promise I had made to my sons in the middle of the night still sat unanswered. And somewhere beneath the festival preparations and the lighter feeling in my own chest, I could not completely believe that a man like Arjun would stay gone forever.
For now, though, he was gone, along with Muthu and Balu.
The river path no longer held the same personal threat for the three of us.
And the village turned its attention toward the coming festival of the Goddess.
Sathyavathi and Malliga were completely relieved.
In the days after Arjun, Muthu and Balu disappeared, the two of them could not stop talking about it. Whenever the three of us met near the river or under the banyan tree, the first words out of their mouths were curses aimed at the men who had been enjoying them.
“That bastard Muthu…” Sathyavathi would say, her voice sharp with leftover anger.
“Every time I walked that path I felt his eyes on me. I hope he never comes back.”
Malliga’s relief was quieter but just as deep. She would shake her head and speak in a softer voice, still carrying the memory of how easily she had surrendered to Balu out of fear.
“I used to feel sick every morning knowing he would be waiting. I am glad he is gone. I hope all of them leave.”
That was the common feeling among the three of us. The absence of the three men who had been enjoying us was a real mercy, yet the other sand smugglers were still at the river every day. Their trucks still came. Their eyes still followed the remaining women. The harassment had not ended for the village as a whole — only for us three. Sathyavathi, Malliga and I wanted every last one of them gone. We wanted the river clean again, the path safe, and the daily fear lifted from every house.
A few evenings later, Swaminathan called a secret meeting.
It was not held under the open banyan tree where anyone could see. He sent quiet word to a small number of trusted people — the older men who still had some influence, a few of the stronger younger husbands, and, unusually, he also asked Sathyavathi, Malliga and me to come. We met after dark in the back room of his house, the door closed, the oil lamp kept low.
Swaminathan looked more tired than usual, but there was a steady purpose in his eyes that had been missing for months.
“The elections are coming in six months,” he told us without wasting time.
“I have already begun speaking to the opposition leaders. Not the ones who take money from the same people who protect these sand smugglers — the others. The ones who still have some interest in cleaning up places like ours.”
He explained that he had travelled quietly to the town and beyond on certain days, meeting men who might be willing to challenge the sitting MLA. He did not give full names that night, only enough for us to understand that he was no longer simply submitting complaints that disappeared into drawers. He was trying to build a political path that could remove the protection the smugglers enjoyed.
“If the present MLA stays, these men will keep coming back,” Swaminathan said.
“Maybe not the same three faces, but others like them. The river will keep being destroyed. The women will keep being touched. The only real chance we have is if someone who is not in their pocket wins.”
Then his tone changed. He looked around the small room and spoke more firmly.
“But for now, forget about the elections.”
We all went quiet.
“Next month is the Seed Sowing Festival,” he continued.
“That is what we must prepare for. We will celebrate. We will honour the Goddess the way our parents and grandparents did. We will clean the temple, light the lamps, offer the flowers, and walk in the procession as if these sand smugglers do not exist. Let them dig their sand. Let them stare. We will not give them the power to stop us from living our own life. The Goddess has protected this village longer than any of us have been alive. We will show her respect, and we will show ourselves that we are still a village, not just a place these men use.”
He paused and looked at each of us in turn.
“Ignore the remaining sand smugglers as much as you can. Do not give them the satisfaction of seeing us broken. Prepare for the festival. Celebrate. Honour the Goddess. That is the work for the coming weeks.”
There was a moment of silence, and then the room agreed.
The older men nodded. The younger husbands muttered their acceptance. Sathyavathi, Malliga and I exchanged a quick look and then nodded as well. The relief of the three men who had been enjoying us being gone was still fresh, and the idea of turning our full attention to the Goddess and the Seed Sowing Festival felt like the first clean breath we had taken in a long time.
When we stepped back out into the dark village lanes, the decision was already settling into us. The festival preparations that had begun quietly now had a clear purpose. We would clean, we would cook, we would decorate, and we would celebrate. For the next month the village would turn toward the Goddess and away from the men who still worked the river.
The three men who were enjoying us were gone.
The other smugglers remained.
But for now, under Swaminathan’s word, we would ignore them as best we could and prepare to honour the Goddess the way she deserved.
The Seed Sowing Festival was only days away now.
The whole village had taken Swaminathan’s words seriously. Houses were being cleaned, the temple steps were washed every morning, and the smell of fresh flowers and oil already hung lightly in the air. For the first time in months the village felt busy with something other than fear.
In the middle of all that preparation, my husband was getting ready to leave for Chennai.
His textile work could not wait. He would be gone for a full month — longer than usual. That morning I stood in the kitchen preparing breakfast, still wearing my white nighty with my white bra and white panties underneath. The familiar work of grinding and mixing kept my hands busy while my mind kept returning to the same thought. I would have to attend the festival without him. The Goddess procession, the lamps, the collective singing, the way the whole village would stand together in front of the black stone idol — I would see all of it alone this year. No husband walking beside me. No familiar presence to return to when the evening ended. The missing had already started, even though he was still in the house.
I was making idli and sambar, the batter already poured into the moulds, the sambar simmering on the stove with the smell of mustard and curry leaves rising into the small kitchen. I moved between the vessels in my white nighty, stirring, checking the steam, arranging the small plates, my thoughts heavy with the month ahead
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