Esha Chowdhury

The monsoon was late this year. Even in June, the skies over our village in southern India were only faintly gray, teasing us with the promise of rain. The air hung heavy with heat and the unspoken tensions that were my constant companions. I brushed rice grains into the pot, my mind spiraling through memories and futures I couldn’t control.

When I was a girl, before marriage redefined my worth, I dreamed of working in a city hospital. I wanted to be the first in my family to wear a white coat, to save lives. Instead, at 19, I traded that dream for a mangalsutra and a life in my husband’s home. I am 32 now, though I feel far older.

The first time my husband hit me, I convinced myself it was my fault. By the fifth time, I knew better, but knowing didn’t change anything. His family said I must learn to please him. My family said to endure. When I miscarried my first child—a daughter—I wept not just for her, but for the fragile hope she represented.

Now, I am pregnant again. This time, it’s a boy. I know this because the midwife whispered it to me after my last check-up. My husband’s mother offered a rare smile, and even my husband has been gentler these past weeks. The irony gnaws at me: my value rises with the child inside me, though nothing else about me has changed.

I hear stories on the radio about women in Delhi, Bangalore, and even smaller towns standing up for themselves. They go to school, work in offices, and speak in courtrooms. But those stories feel as distant as the rainclouds. Here, women are still tethered to the rules of the house, as unshakable as the banyan tree outside.

I have no illusions that birthing a son will fix my life. The scars—both visible and unseen—will remain. But for now, I hold on to the hope that this boy will live. That he might grow into a man who does not see women as burdens or possessions.

I pour water over the rice, watching it bubble and swell, and pray for something I cannot name. Perhaps rain. Perhaps justice. Perhaps the strength to survive long enough to see something better.