Mahashweta by Sudha Murty

told me straightaway that they knew why the earlier engagement was broken off, and they do not want an alliance with our family.’
    ‘This is all because of Anupama,’ muttered Sabakka.
    Shamanna was tired of all the troubles that had beset him. He said in a pained voice, ‘Why did I have to father girls? They have become millstones around my neck. My worries have doubled since Anu returned home Why does she have to remain here? I am going to retire soon; how will I fend for all of us?’

    Shamanna’s words had pierced Anupama’s heart like a hot skewer. She constantly tried to find ways to reduce her father’s burden, but to no avail. She sometimes wished the ground beneath her feet would split open and swallow her. But she was no Sita, born of the earth, to be taken back into its folds; she was the ordinary daughter of a poor schoolteacher.
    There was only one option left for her. She would pray—one last time—to the goddess of the village as Savantri had suggested. She thought of the innumerable shrines she had visited, the many types of medicines she had tried, the saints she had prayed to, and the vows she had taken. Would the village goddess be the one to help her? She did not know, but she was so desperate for a cure that she was prepared to try anything.The next morning, she got up early, took a bath and collected the white flowers for her visit to the temple.
    While combing her hair, Anupama looked into the mirror and shivered with shock. A small white patch had appeared on her arm. It was the death knell for her happiness; a sign that she should abandon all hopes of a cure. She felt as if she had caught a thief stealthily entering the house. The patches would spread rapidly over the rest of her body. . .and the doors of her mother-in-law’s house would remain shut forever.
    Tears blurred her vision as sorrow welled up in her heart. What was the point in going to the temple now? She started sobbing, but there was not a soul to console her. She was like a lonely traveller on a long and arduous road.
    Anupama heard her father stir. She didn’t want him to know that she was crying, so she took the flowers that she had plucked, and silently walked out of the house.
    The temple of the goddess of the village was on top of a hillock two kilometres from the house. At that hour of the morning, the only people out were the devotees who were going to the temple. Exhausted, Anupama slowly made her way up the path, completely oblivious of her surroundings. It was a while before she noticed the two women walking ahead of her. They were talking so loudly that Anupama could hear them without any difficulty.
    ‘Sharada, why did you take this vow?’ the older woman asked her companion.
    ‘My husband had some problems at office. His boss is very strict and wants to transfer him. Someone told me that if I prayed to the goddess and offered her a sari, the transfer would be cancelled.’
    ‘Oh, I never knew the goddess was so powerful.’
    Even in her present state of dejection, Anupama smiled ruefully. Could the goddess satisfy everyone’s wishes—cure her white patches, cancel a transfer, grant children to the childless, and who knew what else? How could the goddess fulfil such endless desires?
    The conversation went on.
    ‘Indira, by the way, you never told me anything about the wedding.’
    ‘Oh, it was fabulous. Girija looked like the goddess Lakshmi herself. And the groom. . .he is so handsome! He works at a very high position in his office. Radhakka is truly blessed, but for one thing.’
    ‘They have Lakshmi’s blessings, what problems can they possibly have?’
    ‘Life is never perfect, Sharada. God gives everyone their share of woes, otherwise they’ll stop thinking about Him. In Radhakka’s case it is her son, Anand.’
    Anupama’s breath caught when she heard Anand’s name and, for a moment, she forgot her own worries as she waited for the older woman to continue.
    ‘It seems he fell in love