Arjun ChavahBeneath the overcast and uninspiring sky, a training aircraft soared through the air, casting its shadow upon the hills below. If one were to gaze down from the heights of the hill or from the aircraft itself, the fields of cotton would reveal a spectacle of popped-up bolls resembling miniature ice balls. These were harvested by elderly women clad in simple shirts on top of their sarees, their heads covered with cloth from the heat—one among them visually impaired, lagging slightly behind her companions—as they filled sacks with the precious bolls. With a solemn countenance, Bodi Amma observed these activities, seated beneath the shade of a tamarind tree beside a dirt road—on it now and then a lorry passed by— in the modest village of Islampur.
Desolation, despair, and confusion swirled around Bodi Amma. Her gaze darted between her distant village and the new cotton fields, a dilemma gnawing at her. Should she seek employment from the elderly women, the shirt still draped over her arm – a silent reminder borrowed from the blind woman? Or return to her village, reconcile with her family, and face the scorn (or sympathy) of the community? Her beloved husband Chandra Shekar and three hundred goats and sheep were gone, victims of a lightning strike on the vast plain where he grazed them. At eighteen, Bodi Amma was a widow, the weight of raising her children settling heavily on her shoulders. Memories of her grazer husband, a love that burned bright even now, mingled with the anxieties of their uncertain future.
Despite the passage of time, Bodi Amma’s love for Chandra Shekar remained a constant ache in her heart. Even at eighteen, her beauty was undeniable – dark complexion framed by an innocent face, her long neck rising gracefully from her six-foot frame. In her youth, she had followed tradition, wearing half-sarees in her late mother’s village. Every man there, regardless of caste, had desired her hand. Yet, her heart belonged to Chandra Shekar, a man of honesty.
Now, a widow, those same men, their old desires rekindled, reappeared. Some offered marriage, some a more fleeting solace. Notably, they came primarily from the upper castes, a fact that did not escape Bodi Amma. But her loyalty to Chandra Shekar’s memory remained unshakeable. Their children’s well-being was her sole focus, and she wouldn’t be swayed by empty promises or attempts to exploit her vulnerability.
Undeterred by age, affection often blossoms in unexpected places. It wasn’t surprising then, that a young widow like Bodi Amma would attract attention. School teacher Yellam, with his neatly combed brown hair framing a kind face, seemed a constant presence. He carried a book titled “The Eternal Love” almost everywhere, its worn cover a testament to his own romantic beliefs. Typically dressed in black pants and a red shirt with sleeves rolled up to reveal a silver watch, Yellam favored leather sandals. Unlike the others who sought her hand, Yellam offered a different kind of solace. He didn’t pressure her with conversation, proposals, or unwanted kisses. Instead, his devotion manifested in silent gestures. He would follow her respectfully to the fields, the river, or even the market, a silent guardian by her side. This quiet support, a balm to her grief, brought a flicker of a smile back to Bodi Amma’s face.
One day, Yellam presented three bars of Cadbury chocolate, a rare treat in the village, to Bodi Amma’s children. This small gesture, witnessed by her mother-in-law Revathi Amma, caused a ripple in the family dynamics.
Within the teak woods, a tense gathering of Bodi Amma’s relatives unfolded behind closed doors in their village of Toopranpet. All sat except for Bodi Amma herself, who stood accused by Revathi Amma. Revathi Amma, positioned against a large rock, clutched the Cadbury chocolates, their smooth surface marred by the heat. Her impoverished grandchildren stared longingly at the treats, their desire a silent plea. Revathi, however, wouldn’t allow it. The teacher’s gift fueled suspicion. What if the chocolates were laced with something to manipulate the children?
“Her behavior is unacceptable,” Revathi declared, her voice tight. “It brings shame upon our family.”
“Therefore,” she continued, her gaze hardening, “I demand she marry my eldest son, Illaiah.”
Seated nearby, the family elder, his white turban a stark contrast to his brown lungi and green shirt, listened intently. He stroked his mustache thoughtfully before fixing Bodi Amma with a steady gaze.
“I have done nothing wrong,” Bodi Amma asserted, her voice firm. “I will not marry again. My heart belongs to Chandra Shekar alone.”
Revathi’s anger flared. “She must marry him! Otherwise, she’ll leave, abandoning the children to us!” Her eyes darted towards her grandchildren, who, sensing her distress, clung to their mother for comfort.
“I won’t remarry,” Bodi Amma repeated, her voice resolute. This defiance enraged Revathi. “Who needs your approval, you wretched woman?” she screamed. Then she lunged at Bodi Amma, shoving her to the ground, and then grabbed her hair, dragging her a short distance before roughly pulling her up. Exhausted, Revathi took Bodi Amma back home forcefully. The relatives followed, their faces etched with worry. In stark contrast, Illaiah, surprisingly, hurried alongside them, a strange cheer in his step.
The panchayat head, powerless to stop Revathi’s tirade, sighed. He pulled out a leaf, rolled some tobacco into it, and lit it, the smoke curling lazily into the air as the sounds of grazing animals filled the clearing. He took a long drag, his eyes following Revathi’s retreating figure. Muttering under his breath, “Stubborn old bitch doesn’t leave her wealth so easily,” he finished his cigarette and sauntered towards a nearby rock. He picked up one of the abandoned chocolates, a silent witness to the family’s turmoil, and popped it into his mouth.
Confined within a stifling room, Bodi Amma’s hands were bound with coir rope. Uncontrollable sobs wracked her body, the anguish worsened by the rhythmic, thunderous beating of drums echoing from outside. Valiantly, she gnawed at the rope, determined to break free. Workers decorated the room with marigolds, a stark contrast to her despair. Across the central courtyard, Revathi Amma, her posture rigid, her gaze like a predator’s, kept vigil over her sleeping grandchildren. She wouldn’t let Bodi Amma take them. Meanwhile, on the other side of the house, Illaiah, assisted by his wife, examined the wedding attire.
After nearly thirty minutes of relentless gnawing, the rope finally snapped. With surprising agility, Bodi Amma leaped from the cot and, like a seasoned acrobat, grasped the roof beams sixteen feet above. There, in a dusty attic, she found a hatchet. Using it as a tool, she navigated the perilous terrain of the tiled and wooden roof, her muffled cries a constant reminder of her defiance. She moved with a desperate urgency, hoping the sounds of her escape wouldn’t alert anyone.
Enveloped by suffocating darkness and despair, Bodi Amma walked towards the Haldi River. Here, her existence felt like a burden on her children and family. Revathi Amma would care for them, that much was certain.
The gentle murmur of the river reached her ears as she reached the bridge. With trembling legs, she climbed the parapet, the cold stone a stark contrast to the turmoil within her. But as she prepared to jump, a heart-wrenching cry pierced the night – “Mother!”
Bodi Amma whirled around. Through the darkness, three tiny figures emerged, their forms illuminated by the faint starlight. A flicker of hope ignited within her. Tears streamed down her face as she rushed towards them, engulfing her children in a fierce embrace. The gurgling river seemed to soften its tone in response to their tearful reunion.
Fueled by a newfound determination, Bodi Amma grabbed her eldest son Yadaiah’s slipper and flung it with a defiant cry onto the concrete bridge, the act echoing over the rushing river below. With trembling hands, a tear tracing a path down her cheek, she tore her saree in two. One half, a symbol of her defiance against a life she no longer recognized, was tied firmly to the bridge railing. With the other half saree clutched in her hand, she ran with her children towards her husband’s grave. At that moment, she knelt, adorned in the blouse and undergarment known as a langa. With reverence, she embraced the weathered stone slab and delicately placed the cloth upon it. A silent farewell, carried by the wind, was her final gesture.
Days later, the bereaved family members, guided by the lone slipper abandoned on the bridge, reached the tragic conclusion that Bodi Amma and the children had perished in the Haldi River. Meanwhile, the school teacher, Yellam, remained deeply troubled. The dreams of Bodi Amma and her family, a constant presence in his sleep, offered no answers. In a desperate attempt to find some clarity, and perhaps a way to help those he cared for, Yellam made a life-altering decision. He would affiliate himself with the Naxalites, a movement known for its fight against social injustice.
Shaken from her reverie by a gentle tap on her shoulder, Bodi Amma looked up to see an elderly man from Islampur village. His weathered face and gnarled walking stick spoke of a life spent under the harsh sun.
“Woman,” the old man inquired kindly, “What brings you to this place? And who are these children with you?”
Bodi Amma, her heart pounding with a mix of fear and hope, explained her situation. “Respected elder, I am Bodi Amma. These are my children. We’ve come seeking work.”
The old man stroked his beard thoughtfully. “Daughter,” he replied, “our village offers few opportunities. Many travel to Hyderabad for jobs. It’s a big city, but not without dangers. The sand lorry drivers might mistake you as a prostitute, and some villagers might suspect you of thievery.”
Bodi Amma felt a knot of apprehension tighten in her stomach, but her resolve remained firm. “Grandfather,” she pressed, “Is there a chance of finding work in Hyderabad?”
A glimmer of hope flickered in the old man’s eyes. “Indeed, child. The city offers opportunities, and shelter can be found in parks or on the footpaths or in the ruins or at the lakes.”
Bodi Amma’s heart soared with a fragile hope. “How can we reach Hyderabad?”
“By foot, my dear,” the old man chuckled. “Follow the sand lorries. They travel all the way there.
Expressing her gratitude, Bodi Amma gently roused her children. As they rose, she pointed towards the sky. A training aircraft still circled the hills. The children, wide-eyed with wonder at the sight, reached out their tiny hands, beckoning it closer.
As twilight descended, the sky bled from a vibrant blue to a deep purple, the heat slowly surrendering to the approaching night. Two brothers, Yadaiah and Naresh, led the way along a dusty red path, their bare feet leaving fleeting imprints. The air hung heavy and still, broken only by the rustling of corn stalks brushing against their legs. Fields of corn lined both sides of the road, remnants of the harvest golden in the fading light. As they walked, they reached out and plucked the leftover cobs, their husks dry and papery. Munching on the kernels, Yadaiah and Naresh came to an abrupt stop, their eyes wide with terror. A large herd of deer, startled by something unseen, erupted from the cornfields and thundered across the road in a flurry of brown and white. The pounding of hooves filled the air for a moment before fading away. Bodi Amma, a surge of protectiveness flooding her chest, rushed to her children’s side and sheltered them behind her back. In the wake of the deer came two sleek shapes, powerful and silent – leopards in hot pursuit. As the deer vanished into the safety of the distant fields, Bodi Amma recognized their vulnerability and a new resolve hardened her gaze. The time for gentleness and innocence had passed. She had to be strong, for their sake.
Three hours stretched into a seemingly endless night. Bodi Amma and her children pressed on, their only light the occasional rumble of a sand lorry cutting through the darkness. A woman they’d met earlier had mentioned a village called Malkaram, three more hours down the road. Hope fueled Bodi Amma’s steps as she carried her youngest on her shoulders, the other two boys clinging to her lap.
Exhaustion, however, began to gnaw at her. Her vision blurred, and a wave of dizziness threatened to topple her. Her legs, heavy and numb, buckled beneath her weight. With a collective cry, they tumbled onto the rough asphalt. Scrambling to her feet, Bodi Amma checked her children frantically. Relief washed over her as she found no injuries, but a tremor of fear ran through her. Shame stung her cheeks as she realized the depth of her fatigue. A single tear traced a path down her dusty face.
She attempted to lift them again, but her body screamed in protest. There was no other choice. They had to get help. With a deep breath, Bodi Amma raised her arm, her hand a beacon in the darkness, ready to flag down a passing lorry.
Upon Bodi Amma’s initial attempt to halt a lorry with a pronounced screech, she exclaimed, “In the interests of my children, please bring the lorry to a stop.” The driver, startled by her request, promptly pulled over the vehicle. He opened the door with a resounding thud, and she approached him with determination. In a moderate tone, she implored, “I earnestly request that you drop us off at Malkapuram.” In response, the driver spoke softly, “You may take a seat in the front with me, while the little ones can sit in the back and enjoy the open air.” She paused for a moment to look at him as he smiled at her, his teeth exposed in a disconcerting way. Subsequently, she returned to her children and resumed walking. A minute later, the driver started the vehicle and accelerated with a boisterous exclamation, “A tame chick roams freely on the wild roads.”
As Bodi Amma walked, she glanced back in search of another lorry, but her vision was met with an expansive darkness. However, the faint sounds of music reached their ears from the deck of an approaching lorry emerging from the darkness. As the lorry passed by, she called out in a similar manner as she had to the previous driver. When the lorry came to a stop, the sound of a song, “Son of Badram, be careful,” filled the air. The door of the lorry creaked open, and a kind-faced woman, Pashabi, inquired, “Do you want a ride?”
The children responded enthusiastically, “Yes, we would like a ride to Hyderabad. May we sit in the front?” Pashabi, the driver, replied, “Certainly, brave young ones.” Bodi Amma lifted the children into the lorry, climbed in herself, and the lorry sped away from that location.
The Badram song continued, albeit at a diminished volume. Bodi Amma’s hands encircled our sleeping children, resembling the protective wings of a hen sheltering its chicks on the coir seat adjacent to Pashabi. Despite her evident sleep deprivation, she valiantly attempted to keep her eyes open, occasionally closing them briefly. Pashabi, who had been observing her for the past hour, finally lost her patience and spoke, “Sister, please rest. I won’t kidnap your children. Regardless of your circumstances or destination, it matters not. Five weeks ago, I gave birth to a baby and I haven’t seen her for two days. Therefore, after delivering my lorry load, I shall proceed directly home.” With that reassurance, Bodi Amma closed her eyes and succumbed to a deep slumber.
As the grayish blue hue subtly permeated the morning light, Pashabi elegantly sipped tea at a hotel beside Alwal crossroad while Bodi Amma’s younger son Wesley meticulously dipped a delicate biscuit in the tea. They then proceeded towards the lorry, where Bodi Amma’s gentle hand roused her slumbering children. She gradually opened her eyes, adjusted her attire, and roused her other children. Pashabi gracefully entered the lorry, discreetly unzipped her bag, extracted a pair of pants, and presented them to the mother. She cordially requested, “Sister, please do not hesitate to wear these pants, as wandering about in one’s undergarment langa is not considered appropriate in an urban setting.”
Bodi Amma accepted the pants with a grateful nod. As Pashabi stepped out to give her privacy, a wave of emotion washed over Bodi Amma. Here was a stranger who had shown her unexpected kindness. With a fresh change of clothes and a lighter heart, Bodi Amma emerged from the lorry with her children. Pashabi approached them, her gaze lingering on the children. “This is a military cantonment,” Pashabi explained. “From here, you can proceed on foot into the city to pursue your objectives. Farewell, sister.” She directed her gaze towards the children, “Please, ensure you diligently care for the children.” Observing Bodi Amma’s emotional expression, Pashabi bid them farewell and drove off to her house to see her daughter.
Military personnel lined the footpath, their sickles and hatchets glinting in the sun as they tended to the neatly trimmed grass. Bodi Amma and her children walked by, the soldiers’ curious glances lingering on their unfamiliar clothing. The sprawling military complex stretched before them, grand buildings framed by verdant trees and shrubs. Bodi Amma’s gaze darted around, silently searching for any sign of work opportunities.
They stopped to rest under the shade of a vibrant Gulmohar tree. The children squealed with delight, gathering the scarlet flowers that showered the ground. Wesley, ever the explorer, wandered towards the fence bordering the complex. A massive military tanker stood proudly on display, captivating his attention. He traced the contours of the enormous wheels, his small hands dwarfed by the metal. Emboldened, he climbed onto the main gun, but his attempts to move it were met with giggles of frustration. He then turned his sights to the commander’s hatch, pulling on the handle with all his might.
Bodi Amma watched her son’s antics with a smile, until a stern voice boomed across the quiet scene. A young soldier, a jawan, stood at the gate, his expression stern. He instructed Wesley to climb down and politely informed the family that they weren’t allowed on the premises. Bodi Amma clasped her hands together in a gesture of respect and inquired about job opportunities. The jawan, his tone softening slightly, suggested she look for work in the civilian areas.
By afternoon, they had reached the bustling Hilton Hotel. Outside, the aroma of frying samosas wafted through the air, a tantalizing contrast to the haze of cigarette smoke that hung stubbornly inside the hotel entrance. Bodi Amma noticed the deserted lobby and took the initiative to sweep the floor. She knew the children were hungry, and any work meant a chance to earn some food. With practiced movements, she swept away the cigarette butts, matchsticks, and dust, depositing them in the nearby bin. She continued cleaning, tackling the kitchen, washing dishes, and finally scrubbing the latrine and counter.
The hotel manager, grateful for her unexpected help, rewarded her with leftover puris and curry. As they sat on the steps of a closed shop nearby, devouring their meal, a kind gesture unfolded. Unbeknownst to the manager, the chef snuck Bodi Amma three hot samosas, a small act of generosity that warmed her heart. With renewed hope, Bodi Amma and her children set off again, determined to find a more permanent solution.
After failing to secure permanent employment on her first day and lacking a place to stay, Bodi Aamma sought shelter with her children within an abandoned compound wall the previous evening. The next day, she managed to find Labour Square at the Secunderabad clock tower. There, she positioned herself on the steps of a church with her children, observing the daily wage laborers rush towards the recruiters when they arrived. The woman, clad in a shirt and pants, might have been studying them. Her actions, however, caught the attention of Anji Reddy, who stood across the road observing her. After a while, when a significant number of workers had left for their jobs, Anji gestured for her to approach him. She readily complied. Upon reaching him, Anji inquired, “Young lady, are you looking for work?” Bodi Aamma responded positively, expressing her desire for plenty of work opportunities. Consequently, she and her children went with Anji.
Without delay, Anji led them into a large, old shed belonging to his employer, Pavan Shetty. Inside, an old man hammered nails into tanned cowhides. Anji opened a small room off to the side and addressed the children. “Stay here, little ones,” he said. “Don’t come out until your mother returns. If you get hungry, there’s bread and jam on the shelf by the stove.”
When Bodi Aamma’s eyes narrowed slightly, Anji quickly added, “Don’t worry, children aren’t allowed at the worksite.”
Then they both walked fast to the Lambha theater and entered through its back gate as a throng of people jostled each other in a tightly packed mass in front of the imposing gates of the theater. Anji took her to Pavan Shetty, who was pacing to and fro in the manager rooms. He had scolded the ticket seller (Anji Reddy) for not getting a woman employee to clean the theater’s double piled up due to the film shows having been running successfully for the past week. Now Shetty ordered Anji, “Please, you go and get anyone to clean the theater, even a mad woman can or else I would close the theater today; also, there will be no pay for your day. “Sir, closing the theater would incite public outrage, potentially leading to its destruction,” Anji expressed his concerns, “Furthermore, we would incur greater losses due to possessing the reel. Regardless of whether we project or not, we are obligated to fulfill our financial responsibilities, including the payment of the film, and earlier our repayments.” When he slumped on his chair, then he went to him, “You don’t worry, Sir. I will go and get someone.”Then he walked out of the room.
Introducing her formally to shetty, Anji conveyed, “Bodi Amma has relocated to Secunderabad and is actively seeking employment.” Shetty scrutinized her attire as she stood respectfully with her hands folded. Continuing, he said, “She desires monetary compensation rather than pooris and samosas, as well as a suitable living space for herself and her three children. Her aspiration is to enroll them in the school she had seen in Boodan Colony.” Shetty then responded, “Very well, Bodi Amma. We can discuss your compensation at a later time, as time is of the essence. For the immediate future, you will perform cleaning duties, and Anji will assist you.”
Anji unlocked the theater’s doors, allowing Bodi Amma to enter the darkened space. Subsequently, Anji illuminated the theater by switching on the lights. Thereafter, Bodi Amma first time looked at the modern mini cinema theater and was mesmerized. Then she began cleaning the theater’s three classes, meticulously collecting and disposing of all waste materials such as polythene covers, cool drink bottles, and tobacco packets. She transported these items to the designated outdoor drum for proper disposal. When her gaze fell upon a colorful poster showcasing an English film titled “Deep Throat” in the notice glass board. The title held an unfamiliar ring to Bodi Aamma’s ears, a foreign word in her world of struggle.
Furthermore, Bodi Amma piped the water throughout the theater and employed a coconut broom and surf water to thoroughly cleanse the tobacco marks from the floor; also arid semen at few places. Subsequently, Anji commenced the task of placing room fresheners throughout the theater to ensure a pleasant ambiance. In the restrooms, . Bodi Amma skillfully applied acid liquid to disinfect the toilets and ensured their cleanliness. She then proceeded outside the theater and into the theater cabin, where she meticulously cleaned the entire space. Through her diligent efforts, Bodi Amma successfully completed the cleaning process within a two-hour timeframe.
Subsequently, Shetty presented a sum of one hundred rupees to Bodi Amma, which constituted an unanticipated surprise for Anji. Shetty then proceeded to inform Bodi Amma that she could reside with her children in Anji’s room. As Anji opened his mouth to speak, Shetty continued, “Anji, you are presented with the opportunity to relocate to the theater and select any of the one hundred and fifty seats for your sleeping arrangements during the night.” Shetty then directed his attention to Bodi Amma and requested, “You should continue wearing men’s attire and exit through the rear entrance, but you must return around 1:00 P.M to clean the theater.” Additionally, you must leave the theater once the movie commences and you must return to it only at the end of the film as well as after all the individuals depart from the theater. This constitutes your routine work on a daily basis. Subsequently, Shetty handed the tickets and canteen keys to Anji with the express purpose of selling them and opening the canteen during the film intervals prior to proceeding into the operator’s room.
As Bodi Amma exited the theater, she searched for an affordable dress to purchase. Subsequently, she learned from an unfamiliar woman that she could get children’s clothing at minimal prices at Secunderabad Railway station. Prompted by this information, she proceeded to the station, where she procured the dresses and food for the children upon her return to the room. In the room, the children played with the old music cassettes. Their spirits were greatly elevated after wearing the new dresses and eating famous Alpha hotel biryani. Amidst this joyous occasion, the clock chimed at 1.P.M in the room, prompting her to swiftly depart for the theater like the Charminar express train. Then she returned home after 10 P.M in the night. While walking home she had wondered what movie was screened in the theater and why she was not allowed to watch her movie and so decided to ask Anji tomorrow.
In the early morning, Anji arrived at his performer’s room with a local barber Seethapathy on his bicycle. He knocked on the flimsy wooden door to wake up Bodi Amma. She emerged, surprised to see Anji at this hour, and looked around in confusion. When Anji told Seethapathy to step aside for a movement.
Then he said, “Bodi Amma, I am sorry to disturb your sleep.” “Shetty sir, send me here to clarify regarding your job.”
“Sir, I did something wrong?” she asked him with a worried face.
“Not at all,” He replied.
Then he continued, “Alright, listen, our theater only shows adult movies, for audiences above 18. Only men are allowed; women are not permitted.”
“Then why did you let me work in the theater?” she questioned.
Anji explained, “In the city, no woman wants to work in a pornography theater. They feel ashamed. Some women tried working here earlier, but a few audience members misbehaved with them. They quit their jobs and complained to the police. The police warned us against hiring women. So we hired you in an emergency situation.
He paused for a moment before continuing. “If you want to keep this job, you’ll have to cut your hair short like a man’s and wear men’s clothing every day. Also, you can’t tell anyone about your job, or we’ll have to close the theater permanently. Several women’s associations are already protesting to get us shut down.”
Bodi Amma retreated into the room and observed her children for a fleeting moment. They were fast asleep, nestled in the fetal position. She pondered for an instant, acknowledging that a room provides greater certainty compared to footpaths, ruins, parks.
Then she emerged and said, “I’ll cut my hair.”
Anji provided her with a bicycle to use for daily commutes, a bag full of men’s clothes, and shoes. Next, the barber then proceeded to cut her hair.
Around nine o’clock in the morning, Bodi Amma, dressed in a blue shirt and red bell-bottom pants with rolled-up sleeves, pedaled her bicycle swiftly. Tears welled up in her eyes as she reminisced about her late husband, Chandra Shekar, and the teacher, Yellam. As she reached the theater’s back gate, she was about to enter when she suddenly turned her bicycle around and headed for the main gate. Arriving there, she assertively told the gathered men to move aside to let her pass. As she entered, one man remarked, “Who is this young man with a shaved head? I didn’t see him yesterday.” And she cycled into the theater.
