Bathroom

Someone pushed the door. Finding it locked, they went away. Kavya checked the latch once again and continued her bath.

The six-house compound shared three public toilets and bathrooms. Every morning followed the same rhythm. Kavya left for college at the same time as three schoolchildren and two working men, all of them needing the bathroom before stepping into the day. Most days, she managed to get in first. On the days she didn’t, she waited outside for long minutes, soap in one hand, towel in the other, carefully hiding her undergarments beneath the clothes meant for after the bath.

The bathroom was small—four by five feet. Two narrow holes punctured the right wall, letting in light and air. The latch on the right bathroom was faulty; a push too hard and it would spring open. The middle one had a small hole in the door. Kavya always chose the left bathroom.

Her father, Dhanabalan, drove a rented auto. Her mother Bhagyam was asthmatic. The family survived on his meagre income. The house was cramped; all three slept on a single mat in one room. The small kitchen was blackened with charcoal smoke, which often worsened her mother’s breathing.

Kavya was in her final year of B.Sc. That morning, she bathed slowly, her thoughts drifting. Since it was summer vacation, the schoolchildren would not come knocking at the door. She poured water over her head without hurry.

Like most people, strange thoughts visited her while standing there. When would the monkey she saw on a tree branch yesterday become human? Why had her Java professor never married? What would she do if she became the Chief Minister of the state? Some thoughts were sensible. Others were absurd.

Those walls knew her well. As a child, she had run into this bathroom to escape her mother, only to cry when she was caught for her mischief. Years later, it became a private refuge—where she confronted her fears, her confusion, and her growing awareness of her own body.

A desire had begun to take shape within her. A house of her own. A spacious bathroom with a proper latch. A comfortable, airy kitchen. A place where she could bathe without interruption. She felt the time was coming closer.

Today was her last exam. She had already been selected through a campus interview for a job in a reputed company.

There was time. She left for college leisurely. The exam went well. The campus was filled with a strange mix of joy and sadness. It was the last day—photographs taken; memories sealed into smiles. Kavya, who had grown up not showing much emotion, watched quietly.

When she saw Arun, she asked if there was a house for rent in his area. She enquired about the advance. The office she would join was right next to his house. Once she received her first salary, she wanted to move out—rent first, then buy her own place. In her mind, she had already planned the next thirty years: costs, loans, interest, and repayment.

After spending some time with her friends, she returned home in the evening with a light heart. A car was parked outside the house. Shoes were scattered near the entrance.

As she stepped inside, Vimala called her and led her in.
“Bhagyam!” Vimala called out loudly and disappeared. She was a neighbour; Kavya called her aunt.

Bhagyam came quickly. “Wash your face well. Apply some powder. Wear this.” She handed Kavya the only good saree she owned—a peacock blue.

“Why, Ma?” Kavya asked.

“People from the groom’s house have come.”

For a moment, Kavya felt dizzy.

Bhagyam and Vimala left her to change. Kavya came out and stood where she was told. The room was small—space enough for five or six people. Chairs had been borrowed from the house next door. She glanced once at the man seated in the middle, wearing white pants and a marigold shirt. Not dark, but a shade lighter than that. She couldn’t judge his height while he was seated, but he seemed tall. His hair was thick.

Her mind felt lighter for a fleeting moment. She disliked herself for it.

The marriage date and arrangements were discussed then and there. Decisions were made quickly. Soon, everyone left. Long after they were gone, Kavya still sat there in her saree, unable to fully grasp what had just happened.

“His name is Ram Prakash. He has a good job—around sixty thousand salary. Thirty-two years old, but it hardly shows. See, he still has good hair. Mahalingam uncle told them about us and sent them here. They are distant relatives too,” Bhagyam concluded.

“I don’t want this now. I want to go to work,” Kavya said, her voice hesitant.

“See, this is a good alliance. They came to us on their own. I think we should accept it. You can find a better job there,” Bhagyam said.

Dhanabalan said nothing. Kavya needed no words to know he stood with Bhagyam.

Since childhood, she had learned to live with what she received. Even the clothes bought for her birthday were chosen by price, not by preference. Wanting something for herself had never really entered her life. She had never been stubborn. Accepting had become a habit.

***

The marriage was conducted simply on June 6. The astrologer had insisted it be completed within a month, and so everything happened quickly. It was the very day she was supposed to join work. Instead, she stepped into a different life.

She considered the best thing that had happened to her to be her husband’s house. Not the people in it—but the house itself. Silent, unmoving concrete. Spacious. A separate room. An attached bathroom.

She spoke of going to work many times. Each time, the answer changed.
“My mother is not well. You must look after her.”
“You won’t manage if you work night shifts.”
“I earn enough. You don’t need to work.”
There were many reasons.

Only after some days did she understand that they had not come willingly. She was not their first choice. The astrologer had warned them that if Ram did not marry within a month, he would remain unmarried until thirty-six. That urgency had brought them to her door.

Ram’s mother slowly grew comfortable speaking of Kavya’s family with sarcasm. One day, she said it plainly—that they were a beggar family with nothing.

“Don’t mind her. She’s old,” Ram would say—always softly, always at night, only when they were in bed.

Six months passed this way. Kavya visited her parental home only four times. Once, she went alone. Slowly, the smell of the house she grew up in faded from her memory. She had become a guest in the place where she was born.

Her name was removed from the ration card there and added here. Her Aadhaar card was updated. Kavya Dhanabalan became Kavya Ram Prakash.
Ram Prakash Ramamurthy remained Ram Prakash Ramamurthy. He always would.

She was surprised when she was suddenly permitted to work. Within two weeks, she found a job in a good company. The commute was long—forty-five minutes in the morning, more than an hour in the evening traffic. By the time she returned, she cooked, ate, washed the vessels, and went to bed. The day ended quietly. She didn’t mind. Work gave her energy. She loved her office.  

That month passed happily—new place, new faces. But it did not last.

***

One evening, as she returned home, a new white car stood outside.

“Amma has to go to the hospital often. We kept renting cars. Wouldn’t it be better if we had our own?” Ram said.

“How much?” she asked.

“Ten lakhs.”

“How did you manage that?”

“It’s a loan. You can pay it with your salary. We’ll manage the house with mine.”

The reason she had been sent to work became clear.

Her first salary was credited to the bank. A message lit up her phone. For a brief moment, she felt as though she were floating. A minute later, another message followed—the loan amount had been debited. Fourteen rupees remained. One rupee short of a cup of tea.

The next afternoon, hunger weighed heavily on her. She carried to the office lunch area the green gram gravy from the previous night. It had turned sour. She closed the container slowly, disappointment settling in. Just then, Anurekha walked up to her.

“You kept saying you were hungry. Why are you closing it?”

“I think it’s spoiled.”

“Hmm. Come, let’s eat outside. I didn’t bring lunch either.”

“No, some other day,” Kavya said.

Anurekha insisted.

“I… don’t have money,” Kavya said, the words barely audible.

Anurekha looked at her for a moment, then caught her hand and pulled her along.

They ate at a small hotel near the office. Though she was starving, Kavya couldn’t eat more than three parottas. Anurekha paid the two-digit bill. They walked slowly under the Gulmohar trees.

“You got your salary just yesterday. Is everything already gone?”

“I have a car loan. I paid it.”

“Oh. You bought a car?”

“No. My husband did.”

“What’s the difference?” Anurekha said lightly. “It’s yours too.”

“There is a big difference,” Kavya said.

As her hunger eased, the mild January sun and the cool breeze under the trees loosened her tongue. Slowly, she told Anurekha everything. The words came without force, as though they had been waiting.

Anurekha listened in silence. She felt sorry for Kavya. Somewhere inside, fear stirred. Her own marriage was to be fixed the following month. The thought of ending up with a husband and mother-in-law like Kavya’s unsettled her. But she was not that unlucky.

After that day, Kavya and Anurekha grew close. Friendships formed in hunger tended to last.

Five years passed. Kavya became the mother of two children. Both deliveries required surgery. Her body thinned; strands of grey appeared in her hair. She looked older than her age.

She was exhausted—physically and mentally. Much of the fatigue came from her mind. She loved her job and worked with complete dedication. She did not like returning home. She went back for the children. From time to time, she asked around about houses near the office. She searched property websites late into the night. The desire for a home of her own had not left her.

Anurekha remained her closest support. Though Kavya earned well, she had little to show for it. Bhagyam and Dhanabalan still lived in the same house. Kavya could not help much even with her mother’s hospital expenses. Occasionally, Anurekha lent her money. Kavya passed it on to the house. Anurekha never asked for it back, never even mentioned it.

Every evening, Anurekha’s husband came to pick her up. He was a good man. At times, Kavya felt a faint jealousy. Even after having twins, Anurekha looked radiant—more so than before.

Work alone gave Kavya satisfaction. That day was a good one. After a long wait, the promotion came, along with a significant salary increase.

Her husband offered no congratulations.

“How much is the increment?” he asked.

“Thirty-five percent,” Kavya said.

“Hm. I saw a plot in Neelampur—four cents. Eight lakhs per cent. Good area. The car loan is over now. Let’s buy the land. It will be useful in the future.”

Kavya said nothing. Years ago, she had imagined the next thirty years of her life. That dream had dissolved without even laying a foundation. Now she could clearly see what the next thirty years would look like.

She walked to the bathroom and closed the door behind her. She turned on the shower. She had parents, but she now saw them barely twice a year. She had a job, a good salary, a car, and a house with a spacious bathroom—just as she had once wished for.

Yet nothing belonged to her.

She had grown used to living under the illusion that it did. Even her name was no longer entirely her own. Cold water ran over her body.

***