People say marriage is sacred. But for Meenakshi, it felt like a 12-year-long prison sentence served with broken promises and cheap liquor.
She was only 18 when she married Ramesh, a lean man with thick hair, a sugar-coated tongue, and a casual approach to work. For five years, he fooled the world and her with small-time jobs that rarely lasted more than a month. He always had an excuse: the boss was rude, the work was boring, or the pay wasn’t “respectable” enough for a man like him.
By the time she turned 23, the burden of the household—financial and emotional—had quietly shifted onto her slender shoulders.
Every morning, Meenakshi would rise before dawn, cook for her two kids and Ramesh, pack lunchboxes, and then step into her only armor—her large cloth bag filled with synthetic sarees, cotton kurtis, and leggings in all imaginable shades.
She wasn’t just a saree seller. She was a performer, a negotiator, a listener, and sometimes even a therapist for the bored housewives of Bhuleshwar. Her voice, laced with a Gujarati accent, could make any woman believe she looked like Deepika Padukone in that rani pink saree.
And yet, by 7 p.m., she would return not to applause, but to a slurring husband, who demanded two things—his daily glass and his dinner hot. If the drink wasn’t funded or the roti wasn’t warm, Meenakshi knew the consequences.
Ramesh would turn into an animal. Furniture would be flung, abuse hurled, and sometimes—if the alcohol had dissolved every last shred of shame—even fists would fly.
To outsiders, Ramesh was just “ill-tempered.” To Meenakshi, he was a slow-burning curse she had learned to outlive.
There was no romance. There was no partnership. There wasn’t even sex—at least not the kind that would leave her fulfilled. Just mechanical acts occasionally demanded, never shared.
But she stayed.
She stayed for her kids, for her reputation, and most of all—for the hope that one day, this storm would pass.
A Turning Point
After 12 long years of emotional servitude and street selling, Ramesh’s body began giving up on him. His liver screamed, his eyes yellowed, and yet the bottle remained his closest friend. Every year, he needed to be hospitalized, and every year, the hospital bills quietly emptied Meenakshi’s savings.
One evening, she came back to find him lying on the floor, unconscious—again. The neighbors helped carry him to the rickshaw. She sat next to him, a plastic bag filled with medical documents in one hand and ₹5000 borrowed from her friend in the other.
At the hospital, the doctor looked her dead in the eye.
“Madam, he won’t live long like this. Either he quits drinking or…”
She cut him off, “Or the funeral will be cheaper than treatment, doctor?”
The doctor didn’t smile. Meenakshi did.
The Village Trip
Fifteen days in Gujarat—that was all she asked for. Her sister’s daughter was getting married, and Meenakshi hadn’t left Mumbai in years.
She stocked up the house with atta, rice, lentils, and even Maggi for her kids. She placed ₹1000 in a separate envelope labeled “Daaru Baba” (Liquor Dad) and gave it to Ramesh with clenched teeth.
“I’ll be gone just 15 days. Don’t overdrink. And don’t let the kids skip school.”
Ramesh nodded like a schoolboy. He had already calculated how many quarters ₹1000 would fetch.
The Freedom Call
On the 10th day of her trip, her neighbor called.
“Meenakshi… I’m sorry, but Ramesh bhai is no more.”
There was silence. Not shock. Just… silence.
She didn’t drop the phone. She didn’t scream. She didn’t run to pack her bags.
Instead, she asked just one thing.
“Did he suffer?”
“A lot,” said the neighbor. “He had a fit. Must’ve consumed something strong. Or too much.”
She muttered softly, “Strong and too much—that was his style.”
The Funeral
She returned on the 14th day.
Ramesh’s body had already been cremated by the time she arrived. The neighbors had chipped in for the last rites, not out of love, but pity.
Meenakshi stood near the ashes, staring. There was no garlanded photo. Just a pile of silence and a cheap bottle of rum someone had placed nearby, “in his memory.”
Her son came up, holding her pallu.
“Ma, are you crying?”
“No, beta,” she replied. “I’m just thinking how peaceful this house finally feels.”
The Village Verdict
A week later, she resumed selling clothes.
One customer whispered, “Poor Meenakshi. Now she’s a widow.”
Another one said, “She’s free now. She should celebrate!”
But Meenakshi? She didn’t weep. Nor did she dance.
She simply upgraded her stock to include lingerie.
“Freedom should look sexy too,” she winked at her first buyer.
Moral of the Story:
Sometimes, the death of a toxic bond is not a tragedy but a second chance at life. Grieve only what added value to your soul.
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