Morning joggers sporting trendy outfits filled the Damside streets and parks. These joggers smiled, nodded at each other, and sometimes even stopped to converse. For Nepali tourists from different parts of the country, the ease with which people moved and interacted with each other was unique, even discomforting. From the clothes people wore to the delight etched on their faces, one would assume that everyone around was wealthy and content. However, if one sat at the park and watched closely, they would conclude that Pokhara does not only belong to the elite class.

Among the joggers on Damside street was a brown-skinned girl whose ponytail bounced rhythmically with each step. Her appearance contrasted with the city’s elegance. The ragged suruwal, grubby t-shirt, and discoloured slippers seemed out of place in the aristocratic milieu. On her way to Mrs Shrestha’s house every morning, she would come across the sophisticated people who never acknowledged or smiled at her, even though they knew she was the tailor’s daughter. People also knew her morning stroll was destined for Mrs Shrestha’s house. “That Shrestha professor is touched in the head. Why would she waste her time teaching that tailor’s daughter? Can the tailor even afford to pay the tuition fees?”

“She is stupid. She holds a PhD but teaches a seventh-grader.” People made comments like that after talking about their businesses and office work.

Thanks to Mrs Shrestha, Dikshi received the best guidance, which her classmates couldn’t get despite being resourceful. The tailor’s wife had won the hearts of many because she was punctual and worked more than she talked. No one double-checked the utensils she washed. Finding a speck of dirt was impossible when she was handed the broom. Mrs Shrestha had suddenly liked her, and why wouldn’t she?

In the early years of their marriage, the tailor was patient with his wife, despite her lack of interest in sewing clothes.

“I’ll do anything other than this. I just can’t learn this skill no matter how I try,” she said, and the newly married tailor didn’t mind. He thought she would eventually develop a passion for sewing, complementing their income. It wasn’t like Nirmala didn’t try. She tried imitating her husband, feeling awed by his fast and skilful hands and the rapid motion of his feet on the pedals.

Nothing worked. She stayed up night after night, only to weep later when her hands failed to craft the order demanded by customers. One day, in the face of the festival season, the tailor demanded that she cut the cloth for a shirt given by a teacher. Mistakenly, she cut more than required. The next thing she knew, the tailor’s palm had met her right cheek with a sharp smack.

Teary-eyed, she was humiliated. What must a wife feel when her husband slaps her in front of people?

The same night, he burst out with the accumulated anger. “Am I your slave? I know you are knowingly not trying to learn sewing. Do you think this will continue to happen? That I continue to toil and you just relax and eat?”

“I’m sorry, hajur! I don’t intend to just sit without doing anything. I have been telling you that I’ll try to earn money by doing other chores,” the wife choked, wiping the tears.

“What chores?” The tailor pressed forward and, never once blinking, met her eyes. Nirmala couldn’t lift her bruised body the next morning. Brawls continued with Nirmala always being on the receiving end. Pink bruises spread exponentially on her body. Her eyelids and lips swollen, she would come to the shop and ask, “Can I be of any help, hajur?” The tailor always responded with a cold glance, not even finding it necessary to open his mouth.

On their marriage day, before applying the sindoor, Nirmala looked him in his eyes, and when he immediately looked away, she thought that her man was shy. She thought she had loved him right away. Now, locked within the confines of four walls, she realised that she had been wrong. How could that shy man in a newly sewn suit harass her to this extent?

One evening after preparing the meal, she left her room and walked to the shop. She was taken aback upon discovering that the shutter was closed. Her husband would never close the shop before 9 pm. She dialled his number, but there was no answer. Where did he go? Thinking he had gone to a friend’s place, she returned to the room and took a quick shower. At times, her husband beat her, cursed her, and did other worse things too, but what mattered the most to her was the fact that they were still together. In her mind, she liked to assume that her submissive nature had somehow saved their marriage. Her delicate skin had mustered enough strength to save the relationship. The swollen belly reminded her of the growing responsibility that she was to take on in the coming days. She hoped that once the baby came into the world, her husband would soften and make her feel loved as in the initial days of their marriage.

After her seventh call went unanswered, she decided to eat dinner alone. She kept her door unlocked, hoping that her husband would come later. But she woke up the next morning and didn’t find her husband by her side. Did something bad happen? Quickly, she slipped out of bed and rushed towards the shop. She gasped for breath as she waited outside. She took out the phone and called him. No answer!

It was only in the evening that the tailor opened the shop, and he was not alone. A grown-up, pockmarked woman ironed the clothes as the tailor pedalled the machine. A butcher was standing before his shop when Nirmala was about to enter the tailor’s shop. Using every ounce of his strength, the butcher walked up to Nirmala, pulled her aside, and whispered, “People are saying that he married another woman yesterday.” The ground beneath her feet shook, and she wished the baby inside her belly would kick her to death. Yes, her husband was violent, but how could he betray her like that? How could he be heartless and bring another woman, knowing that their baby was soon coming into this world?

The butcher looked helpless when Nirmala cried like a baby in the middle of the road. The tailor had promptly closed the shutter after seeing Nirmala nearby his shop. The butcher felt obliged to pass on the message from the tailor. “He said that you can continue to live in your current room, and he has already found a place for himself and his new wife.”

That night, she stood in front of the mirror and wept. She went to the bathroom and wept. She lay on the floor and wept. Everywhere she wept. She cried until her eyes swelled and her throat parched. It seemed as if she had emptied her tears that very night. The next morning, she wasn’t the same person. When she checked her reflection in the mirror, she saw herself as a strong, independent woman whose life had finally opened up with endless possibilities and opportunities.

The prospect of taking care of her baby overwhelmed her. She had a purpose. Her survival was the first goal in her life. And her life would be dedicated to the baby growing inside her. She rented a room in town, and luckily, it was near Mrs Shrestha’s flat. Mrs Shrestha had not built her own house in those days.

After listening to Nirmala’s stories, Mrs Shrestha’s heart broke, and she helped the poor woman. For the last 10 years or more, Mrs Shrestha and Nirmala have been faithful companions. They did their jobs honestly; Nirmala was good at housekeeping, and Shrestha excelled at teaching. However, Mrs Shrestha didn’t over-pour money on Nirmala and her daughter, for she believed money should be earned through hard work.

The ragged clothes of Dikshi didn’t shatter Mrs Shrestha because she knew the small girl would someday find ways to buy the new clothes on her own. Strangely, when the tailor and Nirmala crossed paths, she still smiled, and it only threatened the tailor.

As the alarm chimed on Mrs Shrestha’s phone, she heard another sound outside the door. Rubbing her eyes, she opened her door to welcome the little, grubby girl holding books to her chest.