She Wore the Uniform. I Wore the Saree - 2

Chapter 2 - Permission Is Never Just Permission

The debts didn’t come all at once.

They came disguised as hope.

First, the borewell failed. Not completely—just enough to make us believe the next one would work. The second borewell failed more honestly. By then, hope had already signed papers in my name. Seeds were bought on credit. Fertilizer came with smiles and casual promises after harvest, after harvest. When the harvest failed, the promises stayed, sitting heavy in the air like unfinished sentences.

The men from the cooperative bank began coming regularly. They never raised their voices. They never threatened. That made it worse. They sat on my veranda as if it belonged to them, legs crossed, notebooks resting comfortably on their thighs, speaking in calm tones—rainfall, interest rates, government schemes—as though they were discussing weather, not the slow dismantling of my life. I nodded, said *yes* at the right places, offered coffee I could barely afford.

Meena watched everything.

She never interrupted. Never stood too close. Never asked questions in front of them. She stayed near the kitchen doorway, half-visible, eyes sharp, absorbing every word. When they left, she wiped the cups clean with more force than necessary. Still, she said nothing.

One evening, she placed coffee in front of me and sat down on the floor, not too close, not too far. Her voice was steady when she spoke.There’s recruitment for women head police in Madurai.I laughed.Not mockingly. Not angrily. Just disbelief slipping out of me before I could stop it.

“You?” I said. “In police khaki and stick?”

I laughed again.“Do you even know how police talk?” I went on. “That voice—firm. Commanding. A head constable doesn’t explain. He orders. Even men with moustaches twice as thick as mine listen.”I leaned back, warming to my own words.

“Police work isn’t like house work. There’s standing all day. Shouting. Writing reports late into the night. Sitting with men. Rough men. You have to think sharp. Speak sharp. Walk like you belong.”

She stood there holding the empty coffee tumbler.I didn’t look at her face.

“At home, things are different,” I continued. “Here, silence is enough. Softness works. Outside, it won’t.”

For a moment, I thought she might say 

She didn’t defend herself. Didn’t explain. Didn’t list reasons or dreams. She simply looked at me and waited.That was her strength then. Waiting.

A week later, she mentioned it again. I refused again—this time sharper, louder. Words about respect. About people talking. About how Kandamalli Puram would look at us. A woman working outside was already a stain. A woman in police uniform? Unthinkable.

She nodded. Accepted it. Went back to her routine.Then the bank notices came. Red stamps. Official language. No smiles.

That night, Meena did something she had never done before.She touched my feet.Not dramatically. Not in front of anyone. Quietly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. " i have cleared exams.I’ll only go for training,” she said. “If it doesn’t work, I’ll come back. I won’t answer anyone. Only you.

I felt something tighten in my chest—not pride, not anger, but fear. Debt does that. It removes choice slowly, the way termites hollow out a beam from the inside. The structure looks intact until the roof begins to sag.

I told myself it was temporary. I told myself I was still in control. I gave permission.That was the first mistake.

Read out the first part if you missed it or just try it . She Wore the Uniform. I Wore the Saree part 1