A promotion of sorts
A few days later, Vrinda was finally able
to meet Jayantiben. She asked her, in plain words, "What kind of nonsense
is this 'Vahini' business?" Surprisingly, Jayantiben was not of much help.
She only said, "I received this from my boss in Ahmedabad — again, just a
verbal message on the phone. The only thing I can add is that I know one or two
ladies in Ahmedabad who are also addressed as Bhabhi there. But it could be
some kind of promotion."
One thing, however, had now become clear to
Vrinda. This "Vahini" business had nothing to do with her marriage to
Vinit, her past, or her being a widow. Her past remained hidden from the Trust.
Vrinda's confusion and anxiety only
increased. Why should anyone in Ahmedabad decide what she would be called here?
And why Vahini, of all names? Something was wrong. She also realised, with some
unease, that she felt a mild, unexplained flicker of excitement — a feeling not
unlike what she used to feel with Vinit.
Vrinda very much wanted to put a stop to
this nonsense — by resisting it, or, for that matter, by resigning from the
Trust. Yet she found she was unable to do either, as if someone else were
controlling her. A feeling of helplessness seemed to grow from somewhere deep
inside her, and she simply, meekly, let things continue.
Within a few weeks, she had become known as
Vahini to everyone at the Pune chapter of the Trust. All the social worker
girls slowly fell into the habit of calling her Vahini. Strangely enough, not a
single person, among so many around her, thought to ask why.
Work, meanwhile, continued on all the
projects. The Trust ran a number of programmes for women, particularly rural
women — literacy, health, overpopulation — and was active across many fields.
Every project was continuously monitored, with visits from higher authorities,
mostly from Ahmedabad, who filed their own reports. Funding depended on them.
Since joining the Trust, Vrinda had noticed that no social worker was paid a
salary, yet all incidental expenses — transport, cartage — were covered, and
everyone working on rural projects was supplied meals and refreshments at the
site. Nobody quite knew how it was arranged. Once, Vrinda had tried asking the
boy who delivered the food parcels who had ordered them, but even he didn't
know.
Since becoming 'Vrinda Vahini' within the
Trust, she had noticed a subtle shift in the tone of the daily messages and
mails she received. She couldn't quite pin down what exactly had changed, but
the tone had grown unmistakably authoritative. What used to be requests were
now, unmistakably, orders. Jayantiben was no help here either — she was only an
administrative hand. Earlier, the messages had concerned work alone. Now, what
troubled Vrinda was that they had begun to reach into her personal life.
One day, going through her mail, she came
across a message that startled her. It read:
"While working in rural areas, social
workers should not wear clothes that would offend the beliefs and traditions of
the rural people."
That much seemed reasonable enough, Vrinda
thought. But the paragraph that followed was addressed directly to her:
"Bhabhi(s) and Vahini(s) should wear
sarees in deep, dark colours that match the clothes of the womenfolk they work
with. The blouses should be stitched exactly as rural women stitch theirs, and
while draping their sarees, they should take out a long pallu to cover their
modesty. This is felt to be absolutely necessary, so that the rural and tribal
women may identify themselves with the Vahini(s) and Bhabhi(s)."
Who the hell do you think you are, telling
me what blouse to wear? Vrinda thought — but only in her mind, for that
strange, unbidden excitement swept over her again.
Messages of this kind continued for days.
Finally, one arrived with the address of a tailor. By now, Vrinda was so
thoroughly softened by them that she decided to go.
The tailor turned out to be a courteous old
man. He showed her saree designs and blouse patterns, and she chose the most
modern-looking ones among them. Once she had finished selecting, Vrinda went
and stood before him so he could take her measurements. He simply said,
"No need — I already have them."
Vrinda was stunned. How does a tailor I
have never met in my life already have my blouse measurements? Concealing her
unease, she asked about payment. "No worries," he said. "That
will be taken care of." Three days later, a parcel arrived, containing the
finished clothes.
Ever since Vinit had passed, Vrinda had
worn only light-coloured sarees and blouses. Wearing the dark, heavy colours of
the rural womenfolk was going to be a far harder adjustment than she expected.
That night, Vrinda lay awake, brooding.
This is getting far too serious. How could my measurements already be with some
tailor? Then she suddenly thought of an old friend, Varada Khot, an
investigative journalist.
The next morning, she went to see Varada
and told her everything — her work at the Trust, and her mounting fears.
"Are they involved in anything criminal? Illegal? Trafficking of women,
even? Where does their funding come from — who controls it?" She wanted to
ask more, but that strange excitement rose in her again, and she stopped
herself.
Varada nodded. "Give me a week. You'll
have the full picture."
Vrinda went home. She found, oddly, that
she was afraid to open the parcel — her hands trembled as she reached for it.
Finally, gathering her resolve, she tore it open. Inside were four sarees, each
more striking than the last: the colour combinations, the borders, the pallus,
all quite out of the ordinary. She unfolded them one by one, holding each
against herself in front of the mirror. Since Vinit's death, she had not so
much as touched a saree this colourful. For a few moments, she forgot
everything — the Trust, her lonely life, all of it. But looking closer, she
noticed the fabric was rough and thick; the pleats tucked in at the navel while
draping would sit in a heavy, stubborn stack, difficult to manage.
She examined the stitched blouses next.
They were cut open down the front, but had no buttons, hooks, or loops — only
two long, narrow strips of cloth stitched near the lower edge, meant to cross
and flap over one another. The box also held four petticoats, made from the
same coarse fabric, cut loose, with a thick drawstring meant to be knotted
firmly at the navel to hold everything in place.
Vrinda found herself utterly lost. She had
no idea how any of this was meant to be worn.
Over the next couple of days, she tried
again and again, and failed each time. She simply couldn't understand how rural
women managed to wear these, let alone do a full day's hard labour in them.
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Finally, giving up, she turned to her house
help for advice.
The next morning, when the maid arrived,
Vrinda explained her difficulty. Bai burst out laughing, and Vrinda flushed
with embarrassment. Then Bai gave her a few basic tips — no undergarments
needed; the trick to the blouse was tying the two narrow cloth strips together
in a tight knot on either side, so it held firm through any movement; and the
pallu had to be drawn long and wide enough to cover the midriff and chest
completely, and stay that way. Following her advice, Vrinda tried again, and
this time made some progress — though not enough, she felt, to be ready for
fieldwork just yet.
Vrinda had always been a gutsy woman; faced
with a challenge, she would do whatever it took. So she resolved to wear these
clothes around the clock, exactly as rural women did. She sat on the floor, ate
on the floor, slept on the floor, even bathed in them. No ironing, nothing —
only hand-washing, no machine. After ten days, she finally mastered it. No
safety pins, no shortcuts, nothing.
The next day, she presented herself to the
maid, who declared that Vrinda now looked like a queen.
The day after that, she joined the
fieldwork in her new attire. None of the other social workers said a word, but
among the village women, she noticed something new — a quiet warmth, a sense of
being accepted as one of their own. She watched closely, how these village women walked, sat down, stand up, lie down without even a crease of their dresses moved. She tried to emulate them to the extent possible.
That evening, back home, she stood before
the mirror and was startled to find the saree exactly as she had draped it that
morning — not a crease out of place, not a fold disturbed. The maid's advice,
especially about the drawstring petticoat and the bare blouse, had done its
work perfectly.
Vrinda studied her reflection closely —
more closely than she had in a long time — and found, to her own surprise, that
she was genuinely pleased with what she saw.
Within another day, she had become an
expert at carrying the new attire through the whole day without a thought.
A few days later, Jayantiben came to see
her with new instructions: no payments were to be released to anyone from now
on unless Vrinda's own signature appeared on the voucher.
Is this some kind of reward, Vrinda
wondered, for dressing exactly as the Trust ordered?
The next day, a courier arrived from Varada
— Vrinda had specifically told her not to reach out through any social media.
Since it happened to be her day off, she went to see Varada in person.
Varada had news. Her associates had looked
into the Trust thoroughly, and the results were surprising. The Trust was
registered in Kolkata, where its head office still stood. It was largely
foreign-funded, with considerable reserves, and was run by a ten-member board
of directors based in Delhi — almost all of them unknown names, promoted from
within the organisation itself.
The Trust's work, Varada said, was
genuinely excellent, and entirely above board. No investigations, no complaints
against it anywhere. It operated in partnership with several state governments.
In short, it was as clean as an organisation could be.
Vrinda wasn't surprised. Somewhere inside
her, she had already known as much.
She said goodbye to Varada and went home.
An urgent message from the Trust was waiting for her — and this time, there was
no pretence of a request. It read:
"All Vahini(s) and Bhabhi(s) must
obtain, by tomorrow evening, a Mangalsutra designed for them, and must begin
wearing it from the following day."
The name of the shop was given below.
Under normal circumstances, Vrinda would
have been shocked. Instead, as she read the message, a wave of excitement —
closer to a tsunami — swept through her entire body. Where was this feeling
coming from? Who was behind it? She wondered, even as she found herself nodding
along, meekly.
The next day, she went to the jeweller and
bought the Mangalsutra — no payment required, as usual. It was a prominent,
heavy piece, the kind rural women wore proudly around their necks. She put it
on and looked into the mirror. Tears rose, unbidden, and would not stop —
falling freely, wetting the skin around her throat.
She wore it the whole of the next day.
Nobody remarked on it, but she felt a new bond forming between herself and the
rural women, who now spoke to her openly, even about their marital troubles.
Taking her cue from the Trust's instructions, she began rolling her long braid
into a knot and pinning it up behind her head. To everyone at the Trust, she
was now, unmistakably, a married woman.
But married to whom? That question, she
could only ask herself — and there was no one to answer it.
Meanwhile, two girls, who worked as social workers with the trust, came to see her. She was not wearing her newly acquired Mangalsutra. Seeing them coming to her dwelling she hurriedly put it around her neck and faced them. One of them told her. " Vahini, we have been closely watching you for last few days since you have started wearing the village dress. We are just amazed, how you are moving with ease with the village women and how they are accepting you as one of them. We two are thinking of stiching that dress for ourselves, when we come for project work. Could you please guide us. Where can we buy it? or get it stitched?"
Vrinda found herself in real quandry. She probably needs permission from the trust she thought. She told the girls that she was not the boss to decide these things. She would find out and let you know. The girls were satisfied for time being.
At the end of the week, an envelope arrived
from the Trust. Inside were two coupons, each bearing the name of a shop — one
marked 5%, the other 10%. Thoroughly trained by now, Vrinda simply walked into
the shops as instructed. The owners asked no questions. One handed her a stack
of ₹500 notes; the other, two stacks of the same.
Was the Trust rewarding her — for
obedience? For total, unquestioning obedience? Or was it something else
altogether?
There was no one to ask. All she could do
was wait.
(Continued in Chapter3)
(All characters places except for geographical names events actions of people are fictional. Any similarity found is purely accidental. All images AI generated)