[48]sabha
The winter sun had climbed high enough to burn away the morning fog, but the air still carried a sharp bite that made everyone wrap their shawls and jackets tighter.
The Sabha ground—a wide open field ringed by ancient neem trees—was packed.
Over three hundred villagers had gathered, men on the right in turbans and kurtas, women on the left in colourful sarees with pallus drawn over their heads for modesty, children darting between legs or sitting cross-legged in front.
The ground was still damp from last night’s dew, and the scent of wet earth mixed with the faint smoke from nearby chulhas.
A simple wooden stage had been erected at one end: a long table covered with a white cloth, a microphone stand, and five plastic chairs for the panchayat elders.
Banners in Hindi fluttered on bamboo poles:
“Gaon Ki Ekta – Mahila Suraksha Sabha.”
A few constables stood discreetly at the edges—police presence requested by Abhiraj himself, though no one expected trouble today.
The Shekhawat family arrived together in four vehicles, stepping out in a quiet, united line.
Rajveer Papa and Minakshi Ma took the front seats reserved for elders on the side of the stage.
Dadi sat beside them, walking stick planted firmly, shawl wrapped like armour, eyes scanning the crowd with the authority of someone who had seen generations come and go.
Mihir and Karishma sat just behind, Karishma’s hand resting lightly on Mihir’s arm.
Shatish and Shushila took the next row, Shushila’s pallu drawn low, her posture straight but eyes watchful.
Megha bounced in beside Dadi, unable to sit still, whispering questions every few seconds.
And Amisha.
She walked slowly, one hand supporting her lower back, the other resting on her seven-month bump.
The deep-maroon saree with gold borders looked elegant, but only she knew the price she was paying for it.
The bra.
She had worn it again today—because it was the Sabha, because the entire village would be watching the sarpanch’s wife, because she couldn’t bear the thought of whispers.or any gaze which last more than necessary.
But oh, how she regretted it now.
The underwire dug cruelly into her ribs with every breath.
The straps cut into her shoulders.
Her breasts—already heavy and tender from pregnancy—felt trapped, swollen, aching.
Breathing felt shallow, like she couldn’t quite fill her lungs.
The tightness made her shift constantly, trying to find a position that didn’t hurt.
She sat carefully on the cushioned chair someone had thoughtfully placed for her, legs together, pallu adjusted perfectly.
On the outside, she looked every inch the dignified sarpanch ki bahu—calm, composed, glowing with that pregnancy radiance everyone kept commenting on.
On the inside, she was counting minutes until she could rip the thing off.
Megha leaned over, whispering,
“Bhabhi, aap theek ho na? Chehra laal ho raha hai.”
Amisha forced a smile.
“Haan… bas thodi garmi lag rahi hai.”
But it wasn’t heat.
It was the bra squeezing her like a vice.
The Sabha began.
Abhiraj took the stage, white kurta pristine, turban perfectly tied, face calm but eyes burning with purpose.
He greeted the crowd, voice carrying clear over the microphone.
“namashkar, gaon wasiyon.”
“namashkar, Sarpanch ji,” the crowd echoed.
Then he began.
No long speeches.
No beating around the bush.
“Aaj yeh Sabha ek bohot ahem mudde ke liye bulayi gayi hai.
Ghar mein aurat pe haath uthana—domestic violence.
Yeh gaon mein bohot dekhne ko mil Raha hai.jo nahi chalega.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
He continued, voice steady, every word landing like a stone.
“Kal raat ek ghar se chillane ki aawaz aayi.
Ek aurat ko maara gaya.roz hota hai
Yeh pehli baar nahi hua.
Par aakhri baar hoga.”
He paused, letting it sink in.
“Police apna kaam karegi—case, jail, saza.
Lekin main sarpanch hoon.
Gaon ki taraf se bhi saza doonga.”
The crowd leaned forward.
“Jo mard apni biwi, maa, behen, beti pe haath uthayega—
pehli baar: gaon se 6 mahine ke liye nikaal.
Dusri baar: gaon ke beech mein khada kar ke itni maar padegi ki zindagi bhar haath uthane ki himmat na ho.or shayd esa bhi ho ki kabhi vapas dikho na.”
(are guys he is giving warning.gayab ho jaoge is duniya se agr maar kutae ki to)
Gasps.
Whispers.
Minakshi Ma stood from her seat, voice clear and strong.
“Main sabki maa hone ke naate kehti hoon—
aurat ghar ki laxmi hai.
Uspe haath uthana matlab apne ghar ko barbaad karna.
Jo biwi se pyar nahi karta, woh kabhi sukh nahi paayega.”
Rajveer Papa rose beside her.
“Main sabke baap hone ke naate kehta hoon—
mard ka dharam hai raksha karna, nahi satana.
Jo aurat pe haath uthata hai, woh mard nahi, darinda hai.
Aur darindon ko gaon mein jagah nahi.”
Dadi didn’t stand, but her voice carried anyway.
“Mere zamane mein bhi aisa hota tha.
Par hum chup nahi baithte the.
Aaj bhi nahi baithenge.”
The women in the crowd nodded, some wiping tears, some clutching their children closer.
The men shifted uncomfortably, eyes on the ground.
Amisha sat through it all, pride swelling in her chest like a tide.
Her husband—her Abhiraj—standing there, protecting every woman in the village like they were his own.his sisters his mother's and his daughters.
Tears pricked her eyes (not from sadness, from overwhelming love).
But the bra…
God, the bra.
Every breath felt restricted.
The underwire pressed harder when she sat straight to listen.
Her breasts ached, trapped and swollen.
She tried to adjust discreetly under her pallu, but it only made the straps dig deeper.
She regretted it so much.
Why had she worn it?
For appearances?
For “log kya kahenge”?
(Ma chudane jae log comfort pehle ata hai.)
She shifted again, wincing slightly.
Megha noticed, leaned close.
“Bhabhi… blouse tight hai na?”
Amisha nodded miserably.
“Bra… saans ruk rahi hai.”
Megha’s eyes widened in sympathy.
“Ghar jaake utaar dena. Bhaiya ko bolo, woh sab samjha denge logon ko.”
Amisha managed a small laugh.
The Sabha continued.
Abhiraj called Poonam Rana forward.
She came slowly, pallu low, bruises still visible on her cheek and neck.
The crowd murmured.
Abhiraj’s voice softened, but stayed firm.
“Poonam ji… aapko jo hua, woh galat tha.
Aaj se gaon aapke saath hai.
Koi bhi takleef ho, seedhe mere paas aana.”
Poonam’s eyes filled.
She touched his feet from a distance.
“Dhanyavaad, Sarpanch ji.”
Then Abhiraj addressed Ashish Rana directly.
“Rana sahab… aapne galti ki.
Aaj maafi maang lo apni biwi se, sabke saamne.”
Ashish, face pale, stood and folded hands.
“Maafi, Poonam… galti ho gayi.”
The crowd watched in silence.
Abhiraj nodded once.
“Yeh pehli aur aakhri maafi hai.
Aage se ek bhi shikayat aayi… saza milegi.”
The Sabha ended with a final declaration:
“Gaon ki har aurat safe rahegi.
Yeh mera vaada hai.”
The crowd dispersed slowly, whispers buzzing—some in awe, some in fear, all in agreement.
The family walked back to the cars.
Amisha’s pride in her husband was a living thing, warm and fierce in her chest.
But the bra…
She couldn’t wait to get home.
The moment they reached the haveli, she would rip it off and never wear one again for a public event unless absolutely necessary.
Abhiraj had spoken for every woman.
And she, sitting there uncomfortable for the sake of “log kya kahenge,” had quietly promised herself:
Next time, comfort over everything.
Because her husband had just proven—
a woman’s dignity matters more than appearances.
And she was done sacrificing her breath for anyone’s gaze.