A Mother's Revenge

Sheela (Ammu) was fifteen, studying in 9th class in Rangasthalam gramam. Among her classmates she was bright, quick in studies, good in sports too, always praised by her teachers. Every evening after tuition, she walked home through the busy lanes carrying her schoolbag, humming prabhas songs. Once she reached their chinna house, her first habit was to run inside, drop the bag near the door and hug her amma tightly from behind. “Amma…” she would call softly, pressing her cheek against her. For Sheela, this small hug was more important than anything else in her day. Durgi the mother of sheela would usually be in the kitchen corner at that time, cutting kuragayalu for the night bhojanam. 

She was thirty-five now, a single parent raising her kuthuru alone. Her look was very different from other women in the town. She always kept her head gundu, shining smooth without a single strand of jutta on thala. It was normal for Sheela, but for outsiders it often raised aasakthi. Durgi never explained much, she just smiled and continued her life sadharananga leading it. For Sheela, her amma was her sakthi, her comfort, and her prapancham. Their bonding was filled with warmth and small joys. On Fridays, both would visit Mariamma gudi , offering puvvulu and lighting deepams together. After prayers, 

Durgi would sit near the barber’s stool in the kalyanakata next to gudi corner and get her weekly gundu done, the razor scraping her thala clean and smooth removing all the stubbles. Sometimes Sheela would ask playfully, “Amma, why every week you get gundu... yenduku?” Durgi would only laugh, tapping her daughter’s thala saying, “You wont understand it now , ammu… i will tell you one day vadiley.” Then she would change the topic, asking about school or friends. Their days passed simply, happily, without knowing what storms were waiting ahead. Durgi’s life was simple, yet steady. She looked after a small patch of land owned by Chitti Babu and his wife Ramalakshmi.

They were neighbors and had puvvulu grown in their yard. The elderly couple, though their own children were settled in Hyderabad, had always helped Durgi financially in tough times. Sometimes they gave her dabbu for sheela's school fees, sometimes they gave extra rice for the month, and Ramalakshmi would smile, patting Ammu’s hair gently. Durgi tended the flowers carefully, enjoying the quiet work, and Sheela often helped water the plants after school. Their bond was like swantham  extended family—trust, warmth, and small joys that kept them going for the past twelve years. But not all in Rangasthalam town were as respectable.

Jagan, Revanth, and Balu were wellknown faces, but nobody respected them. Jagan ran a small fan repair dhukanam, but it was usually closed. Revanth had a gutka paan dhukanam, but he himself was spitting and chatting more than selling them. Balu worked at a bar, yet spent most of his time drinking sarayi mandu with friends. Sannasi yadavalu , that’s what the villagers of rangasthalam called them. Everyone knew they pretended to work, but it was only a mask. They were cunning, calculating, and their kaama ran deep, hiding a criminal mind beneath casual smiles. These three were early twenties but mind dirtier than any grown adult .

They were Lusty demons, always hovering near women’s college hostels or markets, watching, waiting for chances to harass. They catcalled, teased, and stalked without siggu, making sure no one elderly noticed—or if someone did, they just laughed it off disrespecting them. Addicted to beedis and mandu, sometimes pyaak aata and gambling with dabbu, they carried a dangerous mix of laziness and kruurathvam. The villagers whispered about them in fear, calling them kaama pisachulu, lusty demons of Rangasthalam, and they believed strongly that one day their kaamam and krurathvam would bring disaster to someone's happy life..

As every Friday, Durgi and Ammu walked to the Mariamma gudi, carrying puvvulu and lighting a small deepam at the entrance. Durgi would sit in front of the temple barber, Bhupathi, who had shaved her head for twelve years now. Water was poured over her week grown stubble, and his rough hands guided the straight razor over her thala until it became smooth and shiny bald. Ammu watched quietly, her eyes curious and doubtful. Bhupathi chuckled, nudging her, “Why don’t you also get gundu like you amma, sheela?” Ammu shook her head, giggling, “ayyo, i dont want gundu, Bhupathi garu.” Durgi laughed softly at her daughter’s cute refusal, ruffling her shoulder, 

While Ammu’s glance lingered for a moment on Durgi’s gundu thala, wondering silently why she doesnt grows her hair. After the gundu, they bathed in the river and changed into fresh clothes. During darshan, Durgi broke a coconut for the offering, but the count was spoilt inside—a bad shakunam in her mind, though she smiled hiding her tension. That evening, Ammu returned from tuition alone; her friend had fever so she couldt come to tuition. Meanwhile, in a random farm, Jagan, Revanth, and Balu were sitting near a bonfire, roasting a stolen chicken for night party, as they sipped mandu sarayi, smoking beedi and playing pyaak aata with dabbu stacked beside them. 

The three were discussing the recent death of Jigel Rani from Lanja Kotha. “Whoever murdered her mava, must have had fun before kilinging her,” Jagan said, full kamam, rubbing his hands together. Revanth laughed, adding, “Aiyo mava, i should have got that chance, then i would have showed her heaven without killing her only.” Balu muttered, “Now adi sachindi… full depression mava… whom will we imagine and kottukukonedi?” Their words were filled with lust and cruelty, making their kaama almost unbearable. And then, through the dim light of the farm lane, their eyes landed on Sheela who was walking alone. 

Revanth’s eyes followed Sheela as she walked along the dusty lane, “Chudu mava… Mini Jigel Rani is going alone,” he whispered, an evil smirk on his face. Balu shook his head, hesitant, “Leave her mava… she’s just a chinna pilla.” Jagan grinned, leaning closer, “Exactly… she won’t understand what we’re doing.n. and she wont complaint to anyone she has no father” Revanth stepped forward, holding a small chocolate, calling, “hi chinnamma, come… just take this chocolate very tasty kada.” Sheela paused but shook her head, remembering her amma’s warning about strangers and gifts. Balu tried next with a tiny teddy, smiling, but she shook her head again and started walking faster. 

The three glanced at each other, irritation and kaamam simmering, plotting the next move. Jagan lost his patience. As she moved a few steps ahead, he ran screaming and grabbing her tightly. Balu pulled at her jutta roughly, dragging her back, while Revanth raised a stick and struck her on the head. Sheela crumpled to the muddy paddy, her body weak, loosing her consciousness. The three laughed with krurathvam, their kaamam and thrill rising at finding a pray before them. Her hair was jagged unevenly by jagan with glass piece, as they roughly dragged her to the bonfire. Every pull was brutal, leaving scratches and bruises across her arms and legs. Their evil laughter filled the air.

Jagan and the others jumped on her, taking turns in violence, tearing her clothes, dragging her across the wet mud, kicking her tightly. Spitting mandu as the paddy field was witness for their brutality—scattered jutta, torn battalu, ans screams of sheela. Her body twitched, eyes closed, tears rolling from her face, responding to the pain even as she was unconscious. The three looked at each other, wicked grins wide, enjoying the forceful act. They were doing atyacharam to the peaks turn by turn... The night was quiet as the three loafers went off to fetch more mandu. Sheela lay in the wet mud, her naked body covered in blood and scratches, clothes torn, her legs smeared with bruises and dirt. 

Chitti Babu, passing through, froze at the sight. His heart pounded, his hands shaking. Without a second thought, he removed his lungi and wrapped it around her body, covering her naked body, and carried her carefully onto his shoulder. His steps were fast and desperate as he ran through the village lanes, shouting prayers under his breath, trying to reach Durgi before anything worse could happen. Durgi sat in front of her house, hand moving with tension over her freshly shaved smooth gundu, waiting for Ammu. When she saw Chitti Babu running, carrying a body on his shoulder, fear shot through her and bad toughts filled her mind like fire. 

Chitti babu laid Sheela down on the coat outside and explained what he had seen, voice trembling. Durgi’s eyes widened as she looked at her daughter’s injuries—blood marks, scratches, torn clothes, jagged unevenly cut juttu and the way she had been through athyacharam. Every second felt like a dagger through her heart. Rage exploded inside her, sudden and full rising, burning through every thought, every fear. Durgi did not waste a moment. She guessed immediately that only those kaama pisachulu of rangasthalam could have done this. Sheela cried loudly, regaining consciousness, tears streaking her raktha marigini face. 

She clung to her mother, whispering and telling her what had happened, her voice shaking. Without a word, Durgi grabbed the nearby sickle kind of a small kathi, her hands tight on the handle, eyes blazing with pure fury. She carried Sheela onto her shoulder, moving fast toward the farm, each step heavy with anger and determination. Her mind was clear—no police, no panchayat can serve her justice for what sheela faced, only justice was in her hands. The farm came into view, the shadows of the bonfire flickering against the ground. Durgi stopped for a heartbeat, sickle raised, ready to finish the kaama pisachulu and end their krurathvam.

The three loafers — Revanth, Balu, and Jagan — are drunk and bragging about the assault, laughing in the dark field. Durgi ran through the field, carrying Sheela, laying her gently on the grass. Revanth spat a filthy comment toward her. “You think you’re some goddess, ah? Come here, amma!” Durgi’s eyes burned red with rage. Without a word, she grabs the sickle from the ground and rushes forward. Her first strike lands deep — Revanth falls clutching his belly, blood spilling. “Aaah… my Kadupu!” he gasped. Blood spread across her face. The other two froze, their laughter gone, fear touching their jeevitham. Durgi’s kopam exploded as she shouts at them for ruining her daughter’s life,

Her voice echoing like thunder. “Paapishtodlu! You will pay!” she shouted. One stone hit her gundu, pain shooting through her head, she stumbles near the bonfire. Balu jumps on her, trying to hold her down. For a second it looks like she might lose, then she grabbed a burning log from the fire and smashed it into him. He screamed, clothes catching flames. “Aaah! Fire, Aiyo, amma!” She rises like Kaali herself, striking Revanth until he lies still, blood and fire mixing on her skin. Then she turns to Jagan, trembling, begging — she says nothing, only takes the sickle and ends it in one move. Revanth was weak and bleeding, his voice screaming for mercy.

“Please… forgive me…” Durgi caught him, swung him to the ground, hitting, striking, smashing his private part. Jagan trembled, begging, “I… I won’t do again, please nanu vadiley!” but her hands moved to the sickle and with one swift strike, and Jagan head fell separated. Blood spattered the ground and her arms, firelight glinting on her gundu. She looked at Sheela, weak and trembling, watching her amma as a goddess of vengeance. “No one will touch you again, ammu,” she whispered. Silence followed, heavy and deep. Only Durgi’s breathing and the crackling fire filled the night. Fear and respect lingered like a shadow over the lifeless kaama pisachula.

Durgi dropped the sickle on the ground and sat beside Sheela, brushing her daughter’s jagged, uneven jutta. Her fingers moved over her own gundu, still trembling from rage. “Amma… why do you always keep your head like this? Why get gundu every week?” Sheela asked softly, her eyes curious and innocent. Durgi paused, staring at her own hands, then sighed, “Ammu… some things are heavy, but I’ll tell you little by little.” Sheela leaned closer, holding her mother’s arm. Durgi shook her head slightly, “Paapishtoda like those kaama pisachula… sometimes life teaches you in fire and blood.” She smiled faintly, hiding her past pain, “Don’t worry, ammu will protect you.”

Durgi’s mind went back years, to when she was just 17. She married Ganesh, a rowdy man, with a bad habit for mandhu and many enemies. “Life seemed easy then, ammu,” she whispered. But Ganesh was killed suddenly; she became a widow at 19, carrying a child in her womb. People told her, “Shave your head, follow the ritual, for last rites!” But she loved her long jada, her beauty, her jeevitham. One incident, small but heavy, changed everything. Fear and sorrow touched her soul. She could feel danger lurking in every street, every shadow. She closed her eyes, remembering the helplessness, the uncertainty that came after Ganesh’s death.

A year later, with little Sheela barely a child, Durgi realized her long jada attracted paapishtoda eyes. Lusty men, kaama pisachula, stalking her in streets and markets and following her. Fear became constant, sleepless nights haunted her. “If I keep this jutta… something will happen to ammu,” she murmured to herself. One night, alone, she looked in the mirror, hands trembling, and decided — no more beauty to tempt them. She took the scissors and then the razor, shaving her head clean. Her gundu was born from fear, from love for her daughter, from survival. “Now, amma’s jeevitham is safe… and yours too, ammu,” she said softly to Sheela, holding her close,

The night was heavy and still. Durgi led Sheela into their small washroom behind the hut. The smell of mud and smoke still hung in the air. Sheela sat on the small stool, her uneven jutta sticking to her face, blood dried on her neck. Durgi filled a brass mug with water and poured it over her head. The cold touch made Sheela flinch, a soft moan of pain slipping out. “Ammayi, stay still,” Durgi whispered, steadying her. She picked up a small knife, its edge dull from use. With slow strokes, she began shaving Sheela’s thala, careful not to hurt the cuts beneath. Hair fell in small clumps, mixing with the muddy water at their feet.

Halfway through, Sheela whispered, her voice trembling, “Amma… why did they do that to me?” Durgi froze for a second, her jaw tightening. She dipped her hand in water again, wet the remaining hair, and kept shaving. “Because they are paapishtodalu, kaama pisachulu,” she said slowly. “They see a woman’s body and forget jeevitham, forget dharmam.” Her tone was rough but full of hurt. “Listen, Sheela… your body is yours. No man has right to touch it. Remember this always.” Sheela blinked, silent tears rolling down her cheek. Durgi’s hands moved steady, clearing the last bits of hair, her anger turning into a quiet fire of protection.

When the head was clean and smooth, Durgi poured the last mug of water and rubbed her gundu gently with soapnut. “Now it is pure,” she said softly. Sheela asked again, “Amma… what did they really do?” Durgi paused, then replied, “They hurt you where only life is born, where no man should touch without love. But you are strong… stronger than them.” She rinsed her, washed the blood and dust from her skin, and wrapped her in a clean towel. Then Durgi washed herself too, scrubbing her own gundu hard as if to erase the stain of sin around them. The night ended with the two sitting side by side, heads bare, quiet under the single lamp — mother and daughter, survivors reborn.

The sky was still dark blue when Durgi folded the last blanket into the old bag. The kerosene lamp flickered beside her, throwing long shadows on the mud floor. Sheela sat on the cot, weak and pale, but she still helped — slowly, carefully, holding her stomach when it hurt. The floor carried faint marks of last night’s chaos, but now silence filled the hut. “Come amma, I’ll hold that,” Sheela whispered, her voice trembling. Durgi looked at her and nodded softly. “Hold tight, kanna. Today we close everything.” Sheela’s eyes followed her mother’s face — calm, determined, eyes tired yet fierce. They stepped out into the misty dawn, leaving behind the house that had seen pain and fire.

The auto stood near the neem tree. Sheela watched silently as Durgi dragged the three shavam who had once laughed cruelly. Sheela shivered. “Amma yenduku ivi…?” she whispered. Durgi’s voice was steady. “They are not men, Sheela… they are kaama pisachula.” She tied the ropes around their neck and drove to the ooru mukhyadvaram where morning birds just started to chirp. Their silhouettes swinging faintly in the morning wind. “Let every man remember this,” Durgi said, her voice breaking the still air. “If a woman cries once and no one listens, next time… she will roar. This is what happens when you touch a woman’s jeevitham and think she will stay quiet.”

Sheela’s tears fell as she clutched Durgi’s arm. “Amma, why like this?” she asked in fear. Durgi turned to her, wiping her cheek gently. “No one punishes truth, kanna. its lesson for other kamapisachulu.” She moved her palm slowly over Sheela’s smooth bald thala, “Nuvvu bhayapadaku ammu… You are strong now.” Sheela hugged her tightly, sobbing into her chest. Durgi held her close for a moment, then started the auto. As the road stretched ahead, Sheela whispered, “Where are we going now, amma?” Durgi looked ahead and smiled faintly. “To Dharmasthali… where I did my schooling, where my acharya still teaches.” Two Gundu Women leaving behind their wounds, carrying only courage into a new fresh life.