Padmaja – Part 1
(Fahima, exhausted, suddenly collapsed onto the floor. Her stick fell from her hand with a soft thud. Her body was drenched in sweat. She wiped the beads of sweat from her forehead with her palm and took several deep breaths. Then she lifted her gaze and looked ahead. No man has ever lasted in remand, yet this girl has endured four straight days. She's slumped in the chair, tied up, not a single word uttered. Despite all the physical and mental torture, not a cry of pain escaped her lips. It's as if they've been beating a stone—one that bleeds, yet never speaks.
That's when Inspector Tushar entered. Fahima, seeing him, said in a pained voice, "It's impossible. She just won't talk."
Tushar stared at the girl with experienced eyes for a moment. Then, in a serious tone, said, "You may leave."
Fahima walked out with weary steps. Tushar pulled up a chair and sat in front of the girl. After a long silence, he said, "This is the first time we're meeting."
The girl didn't respond. Didn't even look at him.
Tushar observed her closely.
He asked, "Do you miss your parents?"
The girl raised her eyes. They were hazy and bloodshot. Her chapped lips were bleeding. Dark circles surrounded her eyes. The face bore the same look all remand victims have. Still keeping his expression neutral, Tushar repeated, "Do you miss your parents?"
The girl nodded. She did miss them.
Tushar leaned in a little. The girl gave him a helpless look. He untied her hands and calmly asked, "What's your name?"
Even though Tushar already knew everything about her, he asked anyway. Something told him she was about to speak. And she did. With a heavy voice, she whispered, "Padma... I... I'm Padmaja."
Padmaja collapsed onto Tushar. He caught her just in time and shouted,
"Miss Fahima! Quick, come here!"
Fahima and two others rushed in immediately.
1989.
Morning.
Rashid Ghatak's early arrival greatly irritated Hemlata. She had told him over and over again, "I won't marry Padma off now. I want her to study."
Yet Rashid kept showing up, each week with a new proposal. The girl was only sixteen. Shamsul Alam's daughter married at twenty-four. Padma would too—and to someone she chose.
Pretending not to notice him, Hemlata went about her chores. Rashid spat into the yard and said,
"Listen, Padma's mother, this one's a real gem."
Annoyed, Hemlata replied,
"I didn't ask for a groom. Why do you keep coming back?"
"A young girl shouldn't remain unmarried at home."
"She's my daughter. Let me decide what's best."
Rashid couldn't convince her. With a sour face, he walked away muttering,
"Are there no other girls in the village? Why does everyone only want her? Can you get everything just because you want it?"
Purna, in her school uniform, called,
"Sis? Hey sis? Aren't you coming to school?"
Padmaja slowly opened her eyes and murmured, "No."
Then closed them again.
Disappointed, Purna went to her mother's room.
"Ma, isn't Apa going to school?"
Hemlata, dusting the bed, shot her a sharp look and said sternly,
"She will. Go tell her."
Purna lowered her head. Hemlata had strict rules—especially about proper speech. She disliked slang or informal language. Seeing Purna's obedience gave her satisfaction.
"She's unwell," Hemlata added. "Cried all night with stomach pain. Let her sleep."
Purna's young mind understood what kind of pain Padmaja had suffered. She hadn't been home that night—she'd stayed at their grandparents' place, just five minutes away. Seeing her standing quietly, Hemlata said,
"Go. Head down, both ways."
"Yes, Ma."
Purna went to the mirror and examined herself. Then took out a deep red lipstick she bought from the fair and applied it. Fourteen-year-old Purna had recently taken a liking to makeup. Hemlata didn't approve of girls dressing up for school, so she never wore it before.
The wooden clock on the tin wall struck ten. Padmaja still hadn't gotten up. Hemlata entered the girls' room. Padmaja was sleeping with her hands folded under her face. Sunlight filtered through the curtains and lit up her smooth, pale skin and delicate lips. Hemlata whispered "Bismillah" and gently blew over her daughter thrice. Elders said a mother's gaze carries weight—Bismillah clears the air.
She hesitated to wake her, but finally, in a sweet voice, said,
"Padma… hey Padma…"
Padmaja opened her eyes and quickly sat up. She knew—whenever she overslept, Ma would wake her herself.
"Am I late, Ma?" she asked in a guilty tone.
"No worries. Wash your face and come eat."
Padmaja went to the well to brush and wash. Hemlata, a teacher's daughter, upheld discipline. Her daughters grew up within firm rules.
When Padmaja entered the kitchen, her plate was ready. She smiled softly and took it to the table. Hemlata came in just then. Padma quickly covered her head with her scarf. Another rule—head must be covered while eating.
"Why are you in such a rush?" Hemlata asked gently. "You soaked your hair while washing. Sit in the sun after eating to dry it."
"Okay, Ma."
"Did Purna and Prema come yet?"
"Purna's here. She's gone to school. Prema will come at noon."
"When's Abba coming home?"
Hemlata stiffened. Her voice dried up.
"I don't know. Don't talk while eating."
As soon as she left, a teardrop fell on Padmaja's plate. She quickly wiped it away. She had a father, yes—but not his love. She didn't even know what she had done to deserve such neglect. Twice she had asked her mother,
"Am I really your daughter, Ma? Did you adopt me because you couldn't have children? Why doesn't Abba ever speak to me? Please, tell me!"
Hemlata stayed silent then. Later, she just said,
"You were born of my womb. And you are your father's daughter. Now go study. You have to study a lot."
That was it. Nothing more. Padmaja always felt, one day, her mother would reveal a deep secret—she just prayed it wouldn't be something she couldn't bear.
"What are you thinking so much about? Hurry up and finish eating."
Hemlata's words snapped her out of her thoughts. She ate quickly. Today they were supposed to make mango pickle.
Evening came. Power went out. It had only been a few months since the village got electricity—eight villages formed Alandpur, and theirs was called Atpara. Every night like clockwork, the power would disappear for three hours.
Padmaja, Purna, and Prema were studying. Nine-year-old Prema clutched Padmaja's scarf tightly—she was scared of the dark.
"Ma?" Padmaja called softly.
"Take the torch," Hemlata replied.
As she got up, she heard the gate creak open. She peeked and saw Hanif entering—and quickly went back into her room. Hanif was her step-uncle.
"Why's the house so dark, Bubu? Turn on the lights!" Hanif's voice boomed.
"You're here, Hanif?" Hemlata emerged with a hurricane lamp.
Hanif grinned widely. "Yes, it's me."
"Come inside."
He entered and asked, "Where are your daughters?"
"In their room. Studying."
"In the dark?"
Hemlata didn't answer. For some reason, Hanif's visits made her uneasy.
"It's time for dinner. Will you eat here?"
"Should I eat here or go to your royal inn?" he joked.
He was referring to the fact that Hemlata had a separate dining room—which in a village was unusual.
"If you want to eat, come and eat," she replied.
Padmaja refused to come out. She seemed tense, almost fearful of Hanif. Or perhaps, she simply didn't like him.
Hanif had been in Saudi Arabia for six years. Returned three months ago. Since then, every time he visited, Padmaja avoided him with excuses. Hemlata's sharp mind pieced things together. She didn't push today. But she knew—this game of hide-and-seek would end soon.
Hanif tried many tricks to see Padmaja but failed. An hour later, after the electricity returned, he left.
As soon as Purna and Prema entered the room, Padmaja leapt up and whispered desperately,
"How many times have I told you? Don't stay near that man! Why don't you ever listen to me?"
The girls were stunned. Padmaja had never said such a thing before.
Hemlata entered. Padmaja fell silent.
"Padma, come to my room."
Her stern tone sent a chill through Padmaja. She followed with trembling steps.
Hemlata stared at her intensely. Padmaja knelt, shaking. Beautiful girls were often timid and foolish—and Padmaja was proof. Despite her sharpness, Hemlata felt pity and softened her voice,
"What are you hiding? Why don't you want to be around Hanif? What has he done?"
Padmaja whimpered. Hemlata took a deep breath, calmed herself, and asked gently,
"Hanif is a sleazy man. I'm not saying this just because he's my stepbrother. I know what he's capable of. I'll believe anything you tell me. Now speak—what are you hiding?"
Hearing her mother's soft voice, Padmaja suddenly broke down like a dam had burst.
She cried uncontrollably