The woman is crying. Not sobbing, not hiccupping, just crying. Her shoulders do not move, her expression does not change, her eyes run freely. “Nothing, nothing,” says the husband to television correspondent Ravinder Bawa. “Don’t pay attention to her. She feels she is going to get attached to the child. We [names another man, presumably the agent] have told her it is not like that.” The husband takes the camera home, to those parts where his wife’s advance payment has already been put to use, a part of a re-done kitchen, the cementing of a deity-plinth. “It is all for her good only. Even when the rest of the money comes it will only go for the boy’s education.”
Camera back to where the woman is, sitting on the floor, eating from a stainless steel tiffin-box. Mercifully for her, the husband does not direct the camera to a close-up of the box and proclaim, “See, all her favourite foods!” Perhaps the only thing preventing him is that he has nothing to do with either procuring or paying for his wife’s food. Squatting a little away from the woman is the boy, their son, face as expressionless as his mother’s when she was crying.