‘Knead the dough, Laxmi, it is late already. In no time, your Bapa may come back from work,’ Kumudini, her mother, intoned from another room.
Laxmi Swain, the only child of Kumudini Swain and Nabin Swain, lived in a small village in Tirtol, East Orissa. The family of four, including her grandmother, lived in poverty — but the daughter of the house was a hope for all.
Laxmi’s father was a farmer who, in due time, was hired to cultivate fox nuts. His feet had a routine each day — leaving the house early in the morning and returning when dusk called.
Laxmi was an exceptional student. Her Matric results were a testimony to her seriousness and assiduity toward her dreams. But her father was not quite on the same road of beliefs. A year ago, when Laxmi passed her Matric, her father withdrew her from school and commanded her to learn cooking, help her mother with household duties, and minister to her sick grandmother.
For a girl who was, by the tip of a finger, seventeen years old, it was a sudden shock. It was as if her soul had dropped into blue.
Laxmi begged her father to let her study, but nothing entered her father’s thick skin. She saw her life get squashed. She had always dreamt of becoming a dressmaker, and to have witnessed such injustice to her dreams, she became silent — but her heart didn’t stop.
One regular day, the man of the house, as was known from his fixed schedule, left for work.
Laxmi knew that her dreams were as important as not letting her father know about her learning tailoring. Every day, at around 4:00 p.m., she would visit her friend Jaya’s house to learn tailoring.
Not being privileged enough to buy a sewing machine, and conscious of her father’s restrictions, the tailoring machine at Jaya’s house was her only anchor to her dreams.
It was 4:15 p.m.
‘Maa, I am leaving,’ Laxmi said.
‘Okay, but come back home before Bapa returns.’
‘Thik achi, Maa.’ (Translation: Okay, Maa.)
‘Au pherila pare Bapaanka pai khaiba badhiba bhulibu ni.’ (Translation: And don’t forget to serve the food to your father after returning.)
‘Han, Maa, mu mane rakhibi.’ (Translation: Yes, Maa, I will remember it.)
Except for her grandmother, nobody really knew about this secret — not even her mother.
Knowing the certainty that her mother was not very supportive either, Laxmi had already told her that she was going to Jaya’s house to play Kit-Kit.
Things never felt dubious to her parents. But that day, the terrible awaited.
After returning from Jaya’s house, Laxmi, in haste, changed her dress and went to the kitchen to arrange the food for her father. It was not very late when her father entered the house. He soon freshened up and sat on the veranda. Laxmi brought the food and served him.
Before Laxmi could stand up and head toward her room, her father muttered:
‘Since when has this been going on?’
Baffled by his words, Laxmi sat down. Her eyes revealed fear. She didn’t understand the question — or perhaps she did.
‘What?’ Laxmi asked, lowering her voice.
‘Do not test my patience, Laxmi. I heard something about you.’
Laxmi knew what was coming.
She gulped air. ‘Bapa…’
Before she could say anything more, her father cut her words midway.
‘I told you not to get involved in anything other than household work,’ he stated angrily.
Hearing the sharp voice of her husband, Laxmi’s mother quickly barged in.
‘What happened?’ she asked tensely.
‘Ask your daughter.’
Laxmi lowered her gaze at once.
‘What have you done?’ her mother asked, lifting Laxmi’s chin.
Laxmi kept her lips parallel. Tears stuck at the very end of her orbs. Cowed.
‘It seems I have no choice left now,’ her father replied.
‘I will, with no delay, proceed with your marriage,’ he added.
‘Bapa, but…’
‘My friend Govind’s son recently got a clerical job in Cuttack in a small factory. He was upset about his son’s marriage. And I suppose it is a good decision to fix our daughter’s marriage with Govind’s son.’
‘But his son is twenty-seven years old,’ Laxmi’s mother replied resentfully.
‘I married you when you were fifteen and I was twenty-eight,’ he stated.
‘But…’
‘I have made my decision final. I will not take a single breath of reconsideration.’
Laxmi was silent the whole time; she was scared. She knew that turning against her father’s will might cost her life as well. But for her, her dream was more meaningful than death.
Standing up, Laxmi cried out loud, ‘I will not marry anyone. I will make clothes. I will draw flowers and circles and lines on the fabrics. I will make clothes.’
Laxmi’s mother grabbed her mouth. ‘Don’t speak to your father like that,’ she said.
‘No… I will not marry. I will not marry. I will not…’
Before she could finish, her father stood up and slapped her — not once but thrice.
One after another, and after another. Laxmi started screaming in pain. The kajal in her eyes smudged. Her father continued striking her until she fainted. He even pressed a burning bidi on her palms as an act of punishment.
Days passed. It was a Sunday morning. Govind and his family were invited to Nabin’s house. The groom’s family sat in the main room. A discussion began, and everybody sat down in unison. Laxmi was there, but not her soul. No tears anymore in her eyes — just emptiness.
‘So, what are your hobbies, Laxmi?’ Govind’s wife asked.
‘She can make good food,’ her father replied quickly.
‘And hobbies?’
There was silence in the room — somewhat similar to the silence after a thunderclap.
‘Clothes.’
‘Laxmi can stitch and make clothes. She knows tailoring,’ her mother added.
‘Oh, wonderful. Then I assume she will sew and make new clothes for our son after marriage.’
Laxmi felt a pin in her heart when she was asked to stitch clothes for Govind’s son after marriage. She didn’t just watch her destruction silently — she witnessed the humiliation of her dream.
21st of December, 2009
It was the night before Laxmi’s marriage. Despite her grandmother’s sickness and twisted old voice, she called her. Laxmi entered her room, slouching. She sat near her.
‘Kana hela?’ her grandmother whispered. (Translation: What happened?)
‘Kichi nahi, Jejemaa.’ (Translation: Nothing.)
‘Mate kaha, mu kahaku kahibini,’ she insisted. (Translation: Tell me, I won’t tell anyone.)
‘Jejemaa…’ Laxmi voiced, taking a pause.
‘Was I born to stitch clothes for my husband? Are my dreams not important?’
Laxmi’s grandmother couldn’t say more. She was silenced by her dejection.
‘Jejemaa?’
‘Can’t you all see my pain? Or is it that I am invisible now?’
The moment Laxmi said this, her grandmother’s eyes filled with tears that once carried the same light of dreaming when she was young.
Due to early marriage, Laxmi’s grandmother’s dream of becoming a dancer had been brought down to mud.
Something struck her grandmother that night. She asked Laxmi to find a book-sized steel box under her mattress. Laxmi followed her instructions and handed the box to her.
‘Laxmi… this has twenty-two thousand rupees. Take this money,’ her grandmother said.
‘But what will I do with this?’ Laxmi asked curiously.
‘Run away.’
‘What?’
‘There is a railway station 6 km from here. But there are no passenger trains that stop there. You will have to get inside a goods train. The last stoppage is Bhubaneswar.’
‘Laxmi, just promise me that you will become the best dressmaker of Orissa.’
Staring in quiet understanding, Laxmi replied, taking a deep breath,
‘Jejemaa, I will become the best dressmaker of India.’
That night, Laxmi’s will grew stronger than ever; her eyes carried a distinct flame.
She left the house.
The next morning, when Laxmi’s mother entered her room, she saw the almirah open — a few clothes hanging, and many gone. She rushed to her husband, gasping.
‘Laxmi is not in her room. I can’t find her anywhere.’
‘She must be somewhere around,’ he replied, unbothered.
‘No. I think she ran away.’
Hearing this, Laxmi’s father, in disbelief, stood up and left the house with his bicycle. He searched houses, playgrounds, local shops, and even Jaya’s house, but he couldn’t find her anywhere. The house was no longer the same. And after hearing the news, Govind’s family withdrew in anger.
A week later, a revelation knocked at Nabin’s door. The local police, with the High Commissioner, arrived at his house.
Laxmi’s parents were terrified. The unknown was yet to sound. The police informed them that they had found the dead body of a girl on the outskirts of Cuttack and that a family photo found in her pocket helped trace her family. The High Commissioner requested that Nabin and Kumudini come inside. He lamented that their daughter had been gang-raped and brutally murdered by three middle-aged men. Laxmi’s mother stifled. She sat down and started striking her chest.
‘This is all our fault, this is all our fault. She wanted to study, she wanted to become a dressmaker,’ she cried terribly, looking at her husband. Laxmi’s grandmother heard everything silently. The guilt stayed with her until her deathbed.
And Nabin Swain — he was silenced. Perhaps his realisation came far too late.
A month later, Laxmi’s mother, while cleaning the rooms, found a small, ruptured piece of paper between the pages of Laxmi’s book. It was a letter that Laxmi had written before leaving the night before her marriage.
She opened the letter and read:
“Maa, Bapa, Jejemaa, I am sorry. I know how you all are feeling right now. But don’t worry, I will come back after I become a dressmaker. I will bring a bag full of clothes made by me for all.
Maa, for you, I will make a saree of your favourite colour.
Bapa, I will make a pair of pants with a special print.
And Jejemaa, I will make an embroidered shawl for you.Tame mane nijara jatna neba.
(Translation: Take care.)”
Laxmi’s almirah had three beautiful clothes that she had tailored. Nobody knew this. But now, her dreams hang still in that almirah — except that she is not here anymore.
Her desperation to leave the house of torture and catch the train of her dreams was so knitted that, in the end, she couldn’t rest anywhere. Her father’s compulsion had almost killed her dreams, and three men killed her body and soul.
Laxmi Swain was neither safe in her house nor outside in society.
