S. Petchiammal was 20 years old when her husband died. Fifteen days after the wedding. And she was pregnant.
Alone, in a village in southern India where a woman without a man was easy prey.
She worked in construction, hotels, and tea stalls. And wherever she went, she suffered harassment and humiliation.
Then she made a decision that no one in that village would have imagined.
She took the first bus to Tiruchendur, shaved her head, traded her sari for a dhoti, and assumed the identity of a man: Muthu.
Over time, Muthu became her official identity: it appeared on her ID card, voter ID, and bank account.
She worked as a painter, tea maker, and parotta cook. She saved every penny to give her daughter a safe life.
Thirty-six years. Without anyone knowing.
Her daughter Shanmugasundari lived for more than ten years without knowing who she really was. When she learned the truth, she said: “I understood her, because that is how she kept us both safe.”
Petchiammal has said that she wants to continue living as Muthu until the end of her days.
Not to hide. But because that name carried everything she was capable of giving.