Historical 1
Author's P.O.V.
The first light of morning slipped quietly through the small jaali window, falling gently across the stone floor. That golden light moved slowly, brushing against the walls, creeping closer to the statue of Lord Krishna that stood in the corner. Carved from smooth black stone, his face held a playful, peaceful smile. Around his neck were fresh marigold flower holding onto their color. The sandalwood paste on his forehead had dried slightly, but its soft scent still hung in the air.
The room was small and simple. The walls were plain, but clean. The floor was swept neatly and cooled by the night air. In the corner near the idol, a brass plate sat ready-arranged carefully the night before. Everything was in its place, untouched, as if waiting for the moment to begin.
She sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the idol, her back straight, her movements calm and gentle. Her eyes were still heavy with sleep, but her heart felt light. She had woken before the sun, as she always did, while the rest of the haveli was still lost in dreams.
She reached for her dupatta, a soft cotton fabric in faded pink, and covered her head with slow, respectful hands. Her hair was still damp from the early morning wash, tied loosely behind her. The dupatta fell across her shoulders and arms like a soft promise-one of faith and routine.
Her fingers moved next to the thali. A small brass diya, its surface dull but clean, sat in the center. Around it, two fresh marigold flowers, a pinch of kumkum, a few grains of raw rice, and a single sandalwood incense stick rested in a neat line. Everything on the plate had a meaning. A purpose. She had learned this ritual from her mother long ago-back when life had felt safer.
She picked up the diya and lit the cotton wick soaked in ghee. The flame flickered, small and golden, and she cupped her hand around it to protect it from the breeze. A soft glow lit her face, reflecting in her eyes. She leaned in slightly and whispered a short prayer, her lips barely moving.
Then, she lit the incense stick. The soft crackle of the burning end was the only sound in the quiet room. Slowly, the smoke rose in graceful spirals, curling through the air.
Just then, a quiet sound came from the door. Ramya, her closest friend, stood silently at the entrance, watching. She came every morning, never entering the room, but always waiting patiently. Her eyes held a sadness, but also something else-curiosity, maybe even quiet admiration.
"I don't know about fate, but praying gives me peace."
Ramya remebered her words. She just stood there, leaning lightly against the doorframe. There was a time when Ramya had believed too-but that time had passed. Life had changed them both, but in different ways. But her friend had held onto her faith, like a lamp in a storm while ramya had let go, choosing silence over hope.
She placed the diya in front of the idol and picked up the kumkum. She gently applied it to her forehead, just between her brows. Her fingers lingered there for a second, grounding herself. Then she folded her palms and began to chant:
"Govindam adi-purusham tam aham bhajami..."
Her voice was low but steady, each word spoken with devotion. The chant filled the small space, almost making time stand still. As she circled the diya in front of Krishna's idol three times, the flame glowed brighter for a second-as if the god himself had accepted her offering.
She placed the marigold petals at Krishna's feet, letting her fingertips brush against the stone. Her eyes closed. For a moment, everything outside that room disappeared. No pain, no noise, no shame. Just stillness. Just her and her god.
In that moment, she wasn't a prostitute. She wasn't someone the world whispered about. She was just a girl, born with hope, raised in shadows, but still glowing like a lotus blooming in the murky water. Her name meant 'the one who blooms,' and she had held onto that meaning every day of her life.
The prayer ended, but she didn't move right away. She sat still, breathing deeply, letting the quiet sink into her bones.
Then she opened her eyes, took a deep breath, and gently placed the thali down.
"Kumudini," Ramya called softly, still standing at the door.
Kumudini turned her head and saw her friend's familiar face. Ramya had never stepped into the room, never joined the puja-but she had never stopped coming either. Every day she waited, quietly, with the same look in her eyes.
Kumudini stood, adjusting her dupatta over her head again. She picked up the thali and walked over to Ramya. Dipping her ring finger into the kumkum, she held it up.
Ramya bowed her head silently, and Kumudini pressed a small red mark on her forehead.
Ramya wasn't religious. She didn't pray. But she never said no to this small gesture. Never refused Kumudini. Never. Because for Ramya kumudini was god.
She held out her hands for the prasad, and Kumudini placed it gently in her palms-a small piece of jaggery and some soaked tulsi leaves. Ramya accepted it quietly.
Kumudini turned back, placing the thali near the idol again. She looked once more at Lord Krishna, folded her hands, and whispered a final prayer in her heart.
Then, turning toward Ramya, she stepped out of the room.
The sunlight had fully entered now. The world outside was wide awake. The voices were rising. The footsteps echoed in the distance. And life, once again, was waiting for her.
The moment Kumudini stepped out of the room, the serenity she'd wrapped herself in began to peel away-slowly, like a second skin she couldn't take with her.
The long corridor was lined with aging wooden pillars, their carvings faded by time and touch. A torn cloth hung from one window like a forgotten flag, fluttering lazily in the morning breeze. The walls, once painted with intricate floral vines, now wore cracks like veins-spreading wider each year, like they too were tired of holding secrets.
From somewhere deep within the haveli, music began to play. Not the soft strains of a sitar, not bhajans or lullabies. This was the kind of song that wore heavy kajal and cheap perfume-bold, loud, suggestive. It belonged to the night, yet here it was, echoing through the morning like a cruel reminder: here, time didn't move the way it did outside.
A girl in her early twenties, wrapped in a red sequined blouse and a skirt too bright for the hour, laughed shrilly as she walked past, fixing her bangles. Her lips were stained with leftover lipstick. Her eyes held sleep, but not rest.
"New girl didn't cry last night," she muttered to another passing girl, both of them glancing at a room near the end of the corridor.
"Too broken to cry, maybe," the other replied, biting into a guava like it was gossip.
Kumudini didn't stop. She never did.
But she slowed just enough to gently brush her fingers across the edge of the torn cloth hanging by the window-straightening it without a word, a small act of care no one noticed.
Her steps were measured, head held high-not out of pride, but preservation. She had learned long ago that even broken things could hold their shape if they refused to bow.
As she passed the open courtyard, she caught sight of Bindu-an older woman with sharp eyes and a louder mouth, sitting cross-legged on a charpai, oiling her greying hair while barking orders at a young girl sweeping the floor.
"Arrey! Put some thumka when you walk, na? You're not a corpse!" Bindu shouted at no one in particular. Then she spotted Kumudini and smirked. "Look who's glowing again. Found another rich babu?"
Kumudini smiled faintly-not the kind that reached her eyes, but kind enough to soften the moment.
"Maybe or maybe not.," she said gently, walking past.
Ramya followed a few steps behind, adjusting the pallu of her faded duppata. Her eyes scanned the courtyard quickly-counting faces, reading moods, calculating the temperature of the morning. That's how one survived here.
A door creaked open upstairs.
A man stepped out-middle-aged, adjusting his kurta, hair still messy. He didn't look down. He didn't have to. He was done.
A soft sob leaked from the room he left behind.
The girls in the courtyard didn't even turn their heads. Some of them were already smearing lipstick. Some just stared at nothing, their eyes empty.
This was the morning.
This was routine.
Kumudini walked to the back kitchen, where she knew her hands would find work-chopping vegetables, lighting the stove, grinding masalas. The kitchen had no clock, but it was where time passed the slowest. Where the smell of turmeric and onions masked the stench of regret.
But just as she reached the threshold, she paused.
A cry-sharp, shrill-rang through the air. Not pain. Not joy. Just raw panic.
From the far end of the courtyard.
Everyone froze for a split second.
Ramya looked up sharply. So did Bindu. Even the music seemed to stop breathing.
Then came the sound of rushed footsteps. A girl-barely sixteen-came running out, her dupatta slipping from her shoulder, face streaked with tears. Behind her, a man stumbled out, shirt half-buttoned, anger painted across his face like alcohol.
"She scratched me!" he shouted.
"I told them no-I told them-" the girl sobbed, clinging to the wall like it might save her.
The air turned thick. Heavy.
Kumudini stepped forward, instinct overriding hesitation. Her hand moved toward the girl-not dramatically, not loudly-just a quiet offer of comfort. A presence. A softness that asked for nothing.
But before she could reach, a voice rang out-sharp and cold.
"Enough."
Everyone turned.
At the top of the stairs stood Ammaji.
Draped in a dark green silk saree, with silver hair tied in a neat bun and a stare that had withered men and gods alike, Ammaji surveyed the scene like a judge watching over her kingdom.
Her voice was calm. Too calm.
"Take the girl inside."
Two older girls moved quickly, grabbing the crying girl and pulling her back in. Not gently. Not harshly. Just... like they'd done it before.
The man opened his mouth to argue, but Ammaji raised one brow.
He shut it.
Then Ammaji flicked her hand toward another girl standing by the archway.
"Send Rukmini," she said flatly. "He's paid enough."
The music resumed. Someone laughed too loud. Another girl began combing her hair. Life stitched itself back together, thread by thread.
Kumudini didn't move. Her eyes lingered on the path the young girl had taken. She blinked slowly, letting the sting settle behind her lashes where no one could see.
Ramya exhaled slowly. "It's going to be a long day."
Kumudini nodded once, her voice soft. "It always is."
But she turned back to the kitchen anyway, rolling up her pallu, ready to lose herself in rhythm-chopping, stirring, wiping, giving her kindness in small ways.
Because sometimes, that's all a woman had left to give.
The courtyard slowly returned to motion-at least on the surface.
The air, however, remained heavy, as if grief had been folded into it like the scent of turmeric and sweat. The laughter that followed the guard's rage was sharp, forced, like broken glass pretending to be crystal. Girls returned to their routines, but their eyes moved differently now-darting, flinching, always watching.
Kumudini stood still.
She watched the steps where the young girl had disappeared, her fragile form swallowed by the haveli's shadows. Her sobs still echoed faintly in the back of Kumudini's mind, wrapping around her heart like barbed thread.
Ramya touched her arm gently. "Don't," she said softly, "you'll break if you care too much."
Kumudini turned her head slowly. Her eyes didn't flicker. "Then let me break in silence."
She walked away before Ramya could respond.
The path to the back quarters was quiet, lined with faded jasmine creepers and stone idols smeared with vermillion. This part of the haveli-far from the music, away from the noblemen's chambers-felt like a different world. A forgotten one.
She stepped into the small room where the new girl had been taken.
The girl sat curled in a corner, knees pulled to her chest, her forehead pressed against them. Her body trembled-not dramatically, not like a storm, but like a leaf caught in uncertain wind.
Kumudini did not speak at first.
She knelt quietly, letting the silence settle between them like dust. From her small satchel, she pulled out a copper bowl, a damp cloth, and a tiny jar of sandalwood paste. Simple things. Gentle things. Not cures-but comforts.
The girl flinched as Kumudini reached out, but didn't pull away.
Kumudini dipped the cloth in the cool water and gently pressed it to the girl's cheek, where a faint red mark was beginning to swell.
"You scratched him?" Kumudini asked, her voice calm, almost curious.
The girl nodded, her chin still tucked between her knees.
A faint smile ghosted across Kumudini's lips. "Good," she whispered.
The girl lifted her face slowly, surprise flickering in her wide eyes. She was even younger than Kumudini had thought. A child, really. Her cheeks were still soft with youth, her wrists too thin to carry the weight of the heavy bangles clinking around them.
"They told me I would be dressed like a bride," she said hoarsely, her voice barely more than a breath. "I thought I was getting married... to someone who would love me. But they brought me here."
Kumudini paused, her hand still. The memory of her own past-the promises, the silks, the lie of being special-rose unbidden. She swallowed hard, forcing it down, and resumed dabbing the girl's cheek.
Tears brimmed in the girl's eyes again, slipping silently down her face.
"Why didn't Ammaji stop him?" she asked, her voice breaking. "Why didn't she stop him before it happened?"
Kumudini hesitated.
Because she didn't. Because she never does. Because in this place, mercy comes in whispers, and power smiles as it devours you whole.
"She stopped it now," Kumudini said instead, her voice carefully even. "That is her mercy."
The girl said nothing.
Kumudini opened the sandalwood jar and used her fingertip to trace a thin, cooling line across the girl's bruised forehead. The scent rose between them-familiar, calming, like temple bells at twilight.
"What's your name?" Kumudini asked softly.
"Devika," the girl whispered.
Kumudini smiled gently. "Do you know what it means?"
Devika shook her head.
"It means daughter of God," Kumudini said, her voice almost reverent.
Devika blinked at her. "Then why did God leave me here?"
Kumudini stilled.
For a moment, she had no answer.
"They haven't," she said quietly, rising to her feet. "Not completely."
But as she turned to leave, Devika's trembling hand reached out and clutched the edge of her pallu. Her grip was desperate, small fingers clinging to soft cotton like it was the only thing anchoring her to the world.
"Will I have to stay here forever?" she asked, her voice brittle.
Kumudini looked away, unable to meet her gaze.
"I cannot say anything with certainty," she said, then crouched again, gently cupping Devika's face and guiding her to look into her eyes. "But you are not alone."
Devika's eyes brimmed again. "Will I have to... do that again? With that man?"
The question hit like a stone.
Kumudini didn't answer right away. Her hand brushed away the tears on Devika's cheeks as her own throat tightened.
She remembered her first night. The way her voice had cracked from holding back screams. The cold floor. The weight. The silence that followed. She remembered Ammaji gifting her a pair of gold earrings after her third 'visit'-a reward. A price. A mark. And how no one-not even once-had asked if she was still herself beneath the painted smiles and hollow eyes.
Kumudini leaned forward and pressed her forehead gently against Devika's. A silent promise. A shared grief.
"No one should ever have to," she whispered.
And though she could not promise safety, nor salvation, in that moment-she gave her presence.
And sometimes, that was all they had.
She couldn't offer safety. She couldn't offer rescue. But she offered her presence-warm, steady, trembling beneath the weight of everything she'd survived.
And sometimes, presence was all they had.
Kumudini reached up and wiped Devika's tears with the end of her own dupatta, the cotton worn soft with time and sorrow. Her hand trembled just slightly, not from weakness-but from a body that still flinched at remembered touches.
"No," she whispered again, brushing a gentle thumb along Devika's cheek, as if trying to erase what had just happened. "You won't have to see that man again."
A flicker-barely a spark-of hope lit Devika's eyes.
But Kumudini's next words were firm, like stone laid over a grave.
"But you might see others," she said. "This place... it doesn't promise freedom. It promises silence. You'll learn that quickly."
Devika's lips parted. Her throat worked as if trying to form words-a plea, maybe a scream-but only silence came. Her voice had already learned this place's cruelest rule.
Kumudini let out a slow breath and sank down beside her, letting her back rest against the cool, unfeeling stone wall. She pulled Devika closer until their shoulders touched, like sisters sharing warmth in a winter neither had asked for.
For a long moment, the only sound was the soft rustle of their breathing.
"I was your age," Kumudini began, her voice drifting, laced with the ache of remembrance. "When they brought me here. They told me I would serve the royal court. That I would wear silk, sing songs, and be admired by nobles."
Devika blinked at her, listening like a child who didn't want to know but couldn't stop herself from needing to.
"They gave me a red lehenga," Kumudini continued, her voice quieter now. "Embroidered with gold thread. They called me beautiful. My mother's anklets jingled on my feet as they led me away. I thought I was going to a palace. I thought I was lucky."
Her smile came slow and bitter. "But the door they shut behind me that night... it didn't open again. Not really."
Devika sniffled. "Did you try to run?"
Kumudini let out a laugh-dry, cracked like broken earth. "Twice."
"The first time, I barely made it past the courtyard. The guards dragged me back. Ammaji-the one who oversees this hell-she didn't scold me. No. She smiled. She gave me sweetened milk the next morning. Said if I ever tried again, they'd break my legs and chain me to the wall anyway. That was her kindness."
Devika's eyes widened. "And the second time?"
"I reached the gate," Kumudini said, her voice dull. "No one caught me. But I looked up. Saw the sky. And realized... I had no one waiting for me. No place to run. My mother had sold me. My father was dead. The village wouldn't take me back."
Devika dropped her gaze. Her small hands twisted in her lap, knuckles white.
"You said... that I'm Devika. Daughter of God." Her voice was so soft, it trembled on the air.
Kumudini turned her head, her eyes suddenly wet. "Yes. That's what your name means. And I gave it back to you not as a label, but as a truth. Not because of where you are-but because of who you still are."
"But what am I?" Devika asked, voice cracking. "After this? After him?"
"You are not ruined," Kumudini said, firmly this time. "You are not broken. Not because of what they did, and not because of what they'll try to do. You're whole. Even if the world won't let you believe it."
She placed her hand gently over Devika's chest. "And if you can't carry that truth yet... I'll carry it for you. Until you're ready."
Devika's hands, shaking, reached out and found Kumudini's. She clutched them like a girl drowning.
"Will you stay?" she asked, her voice barely more than a breath. "Just... just until I stop shaking?"
"I'll stay," Kumudini said. "Until you're strong enough to stand. And then we'll rise together."Devika leaned her head against Kumudini's shoulder, a fragile bloom of warmth in a frozen world. Her tears came again-but not from terror. From the fragile trust that maybe, just maybe, she wasn't alone.
"Will I ever be free?" she whispered.
Kumudini didn't answer right away.
She looked at the window high above them, where the light had turned golden, filtered through dust motes that danced like forgotten stars.
"I don't know," she said finally. "But I swear this-if there's a door out of this place, I will find it. And if I do, I'll come back for you. I'll come back for every girl who still remembers how to hope."
Devika closed her eyes, tears soaking the folds of Kumudini's dupatta. But her grip remained tight.
And somewhere deep inside her chest-where horror hadn't reached yet-a tiny spark flickered.
Not of faith in gods.
But in a girl who stayed.
And beside her, for the first time in a long time, Kumudini allowed herself to hope again.
Not for escape. Not yet.
But for revolution.
It always began with two-one to believe, and one to fight.