On Sunday morning, before Vimal and his mother arrived,
Shivani and a beautician came over to help me get ready.
Shivani handed me the soft cotton petticoat and helped me
tie it firmly around my waist. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I could
already see the difference—the saree would fall more gracefully because of the
shape it gave me.
The blouse was simple, elegant, and perfectly fitted, its
sleeves ending just above my elbows. Fortunately, it had built-in pads, and
Shivani added a little extra fabric
inside them. The subtle change gave my figure more feminine contour, and I
found myself lingering in front of the mirror longer than I intended.
Then came the saree.
Shivani moved around me with practiced ease, wrapping the
fabric around my waist and drawing it snugly across my body. She carefully
formed each pleat, smoothing them with her fingers before tucking them into
place.
When she finally brought the pallu up and folded it over my
shoulder, I stood still, almost afraid to move. The unfamiliar weight of the
layered fabric made me suddenly conscious of every curve and every small
movement. I lowered my eyes, feeling a flutter of nervousness.
For a moment, I simply looked at my reflection.
The person in the mirror still felt like me, yet somehow
softer, more graceful, and strangely captivating. I touched the edge of the
pallu resting against my shoulder and felt a quiet thrill run through me. I
wasn't entirely sure whether I was nervous about being seen this way.
My long hair, which usually I let flow freely, was now a
great help to the beautician. She added subtle hair extensions to give volume
and length. She decorated the braid with fresh jasmine flowers, their sweet
scent filling the room and adding a traditional touch to the look.
Next, she helped me put on a set of bangles slid over my
wrists. Finally, Shivani added a simple silver chain around my neck, something
modest but elegant.
I looked at myself in the mirror. The makeup softened my
features, the saree and jewellery framed me gently, and the jasmine flowers in
my hair completed the transformation. For a moment, I hardly recognized Hari in
the reflection—yet beneath it all, I was still me, trying to prepare for what
was coming.
Though I was still angry and frustrated about everything, I
had to admit—the makeup had completely transformed me. When I looked into the
mirror, I didn’t see the usual version of Hari. What stared back was someone
softer, someone unfamiliar… someone society might easily mistake for a young
woman dressed for an arranged marriage.
But inside, I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten anything since
morning, and the smell of breakfast from the kitchen only made it worse. Yet,
dressed like this, I couldn’t just walk into the dining room and eat like I
normally would. I felt stuck in a role that I wasn’t sure I had chosen.
At exactly 9:00 AM, the doorbell rang.
As committed, Vimal arrived along with his mother, another
woman—probably his sister—and the middleman who had arranged everything. Mom
opened the door, and Shivani stepped forward to greet them. I remained seated,
trying not to meet anyone’s eyes.
The room fell silent.
Only Shivani broke the quiet atmosphere with her usual
charm. “How was your journey, aunty? Did you find the location easily?”
Vimal’s mother gave a polite nod. “Yes, it was fine. The
driver knew the route.”
The middleman smiled and added a few casual remarks to
lighten the mood, but the rest of the room was heavy with silence. I sat with
my hands neatly folded on my lap, aware of every movement, every glance.
Out of the corner of my eye, I finally looked at Vimal.
And for the first time, I noticed how handsome he really
was. Clean-cut, confident, well-groomed, with calm eyes that didn’t dart around
like others—he held himself with quiet strength. Wow… this person is gay?
I thought. Hard to believe. No wonder his mother looks so upset…
Then my eyes shifted to his mother. Dressed in a rich but
simple saree, she had an air of discipline about her. Her posture was stiff,
and her eyes sharp—clearly a woman of high standards and strong opinions. And
yes, I could feel it—she wasn’t happy. She tried to hide it with a neutral
face, but the disappointment was there, quietly sitting in her eyes.
No one said anything for a few minutes. The silence was
almost awkward.
Then the middleman spoke up. “Shall we allow Vimal and Hari
to speak privately?”
He looked toward Vimal’s mother. She hesitated for a moment,
then gave a short nod. The middleman turned to my father, Satyam.
“Is it okay, sir, if the boy and girl—” he paused, slightly
awkward, “—talk for a few minutes in private?”
Dad looked at me.
He didn’t say anything. Just waited for my response.
I didn’t have a choice. I gave a slight nod.
Shivani stepped in immediately. “Come,” she said, lightly
holding my hand.
She guided me to our parents’ bedroom and made sure I was
seated comfortably on the edge of the bed. Within moments, Vimal walked in.
Shivani gave him a quick glance, then looked at me, and quietly stepped out,
closing the door behind her.
The room was still.
Just me and Vimal.
For a few moments after the door closed, neither of us said
a word.
I kept my eyes down, staring at the floor. The pallu of the
yellow saree sat neatly in my lap, my bangles resting against each other with a
soft clink every time I shifted slightly. I could feel Vimal looking at me, but
I wasn’t ready to meet his gaze.
Finally, he spoke—his voice low and calm.
Vimal held my gaze for a long moment, his hand still resting
gently over mine.
Just as I began to feel a strange calm between us, he took a
slow breath and said something I wasn’t expecting.
“There’s something I need to tell you, Hari… something
important.”
I looked at him cautiously.
“I’m not gay.”
I froze slightly.
My fingers instinctively reached down to adjust the pleats
of the yellow saree on my lap. They had started to shift slightly with all the
sitting and nervous movements. As I neatened them quietly, I looked up,
confused, waiting for him to explain.
He continued, voice low but honest. “The first time I saw
you… it was at the SBI bank. You were at the counter. Dressed in a soft blue
kurta, long hair… something about the way you stood. I thought you were a
woman.”
I slowly picked up the pallu that had slid down from my
shoulder and held it gently in my fingers. The soft fabric felt oddly
comforting in the middle of this conversation.
“You weren’t even trying to get attention,” Vimal said, “but
I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”
He smiled faintly, lost in the memory.
“I went home that day thinking I had just seen the most
beautiful woman I'd ever come across. I didn't even know your name.”
As he spoke, my fingers reached for the simple silver chain
around my neck—an unconscious movement. I twirled it gently between my fingers,
then pressed the cool metal lightly to my lips. My thoughts drifted as he
continued talking. I wasn’t just listening—I was feeling every word settle deep
into me.
“Later, I saw you again in Bangalore. Near your office.
That’s when I asked around—quietly, carefully. And that’s when I found out you
weren’t a woman.”
He paused, letting the moment sink in.
“I was confused at first. Really confused. But I couldn’t
ignore how I felt. I was already in love with you. Something about your
presence, your silence, your grace… it just stayed with me.”
I continued to hold the chain to my lips, staring slightly
away, not directly at him, lost in thought. My mind was still catching up to
everything he was saying.
Vimal leaned forward slightly. “I knew my mother would never
accept it—not in our Jain family, not with our traditional views. So I told her
I’m gay. That I found someone who understands me and that I wanted to marry
that person.”
I turned to look at him now, chain still resting between my
fingers.
“You lied to your mother… just to meet me again?”
He nodded without hesitation. “Yes. It was the only way. And
I don't regret it. Because it brought me here, to this moment—where I could
finally sit across from you and say honestly… I want a life with you.”
There was silence again. A softer one this time.
I looked down at my hands—the bangles faintly jingling as I
adjusted the chain around my neck, my thumb gently tracing the edge of the
pendant.
His voice broke the silence one last time.
“I’m not asking you to change everything in a day. I’m just
asking… will you take a chance on this? On me?”
I looked up again. There was no pressure in his eyes. Just
hope.
I took a slow breath. My voice came out softer than I
expected. “I don’t know what this life will look like… or how I’ll even fit
into it. But if what you said is true—if you really saw something in me, not
just what I wear—then… yes.”
He exhaled gently, his shoulders relaxing. A soft smile
spread across his face.
I felt a strange calm inside me. The chain rested back
against my neck, and the pleats of the saree no longer felt awkward. I wasn’t
pretending anymore. I was simply... choosing.
Vimal’s eyes stayed on me—not searching for more, not
pressing for anything else—just full of something I couldn’t quite name. Maybe
respect. Maybe admiration. Maybe love.
Then, gently, he said with a soft smile,
“You know… you’re looking really cute in this saree.”
I looked away, slightly embarrassed. My fingers
automatically went back to the silver chain around my neck. I didn’t know what
to say.
But Vimal wasn’t done.
“And when you were sitting there, holding the chain like
that, lost in thought… my heart actually skipped.”
That made me pause. My breath caught for a second.
Without saying a word, I stood up slowly. Something pulled
me to look at myself. There was a mirror behind me, slightly to the side near
the wardrobe.
I turned and walked towards it, almost without thinking.
And there I was.
In the soft yellow saree, the pleats now properly arranged.
The jasmine flowers still fresh in my long hair. The silver chain resting just
at my collarbone. Eyes lined lightly with kajal, lips tinted softly. Bangles on
my wrists, quietly reflecting the sunlight streaming through the window.
I didn’t recognize this version of me… but I didn’t reject
it either.
As I was still taking it all in, I suddenly felt warmth
around me.
Vimal stepped closer and gently hugged me from behind. His
arms wrapped around my waist in a quiet, steady embrace.
Then, softly, he kissed my collarbone.
His voice was low but sincere as he whispered,
“Thank you for dressing up in the saree to meet me and my mom.”
The moment felt fragile and real, and I didn’t pull away.
Just then, a soft knock came at the door. It was Shivani.
“Do you two need some water? It’s been almost 30 minutes… and everyone’s
waiting. Please come out when you’re ready.”
Vimal gently opened the door, and I stayed seated inside the
room, still wrapped in the quiet of that moment.
When we joined the others, Vimal and his family politely
refused breakfast, settling instead for coffee.
After a short while, they said their goodbyes.
Before leaving, Vimal’s mother pulled my dad aside for a
private conversation. She said she would call later to share their decision.
Dad nodded silently, but I saw the confusion flicker in his eyes—a confusion
that soon made sense to me. It was all part of Vimal’s careful plan.
The moment they left, Mom and Shivani gathered around me,
their questions pouring out, but I was still numb, struggling to find any
words. My mind was spinning, unable to process the sudden turn of events.
Then after some 30 mins, Dad called Mom, and just five
minutes later, Mom called me and Shivani. Dad’s voice trembled with uncertainty
as he told us that Vimal’s mother had called, saying they liked me and wanted
to take things forward.
Now the weight of their hopes pressed down on me, and
confusion tangled inside my heart. What could I say? How could I decide? I
simply turned away, slipping quietly into my room without answering.
Dad followed me, his presence calm and steady. He placed his
hands gently on my head and spoke softly, “Don’t worry, whatever you decide, I
will support you.”
Overwhelmed, I carefully tucked my pallu across my waist,
adjusted it over my chest, and bent down to touch his feet. In that humble
gesture, a silent prayer escaped through my tears. In that moment, I felt both
lost and deeply loved — caught between fear and the promise of hope.
Meanwhile, both my sister and mom came into the room, gently
urging us to have breakfast.Sister glanced at me and asked softly if I wanted
to change my saree. But somehow, I pretended not to hear. I hurriedly took a
plate of idlis and began eating as if I hadn’t eaten in days.
After two or three idlis, I suddenly realized I was still
wearing the saree, and the soft jingling of bangles echoed every time I moved
my hand. The whole room was wrapped in a quiet stillness.
When everyone finished their breakfast, I quietly gathered
their plates and carried them to the kitchen. Sister followed me, asking if I
could prepare coffee for all of us. Cooking and kitchen work were familiar to
me, but the challenge was how to manage everything gracefully while wearing a
saree.
Noticing my hesitation, sister suggested I change into
something more comfortable. I shook my head, insisting it was fine. Then she
carefully arranged my saree pallu and tied it firmly around my waist.
Immediately, I felt more freedom to move my hands.
But as she observed me still struggling to move easily, she
advised me to lift the saree pleats and tuck them in neatly to make walking and
working more comfortable. The trick worked perfectly — except for one thing: it
exposed my bright yellow petticoat underneath.
Despite that, I smiled quietly to myself, feeling a little
more confident as I got on with the work.
I placed all four coffee cups carefully on the tray and was
about to carry them to the dining table when my sister stopped me.
“As a lady, before stepping out of the kitchen, you should always adjust your
saree properly,” she said gently.
She took a moment to remove the pleats I had lifted earlier
to make the coffee. Slowly and carefully, she adjusted my saree pleats and
draped the saree perfectly around me. With a soft pat on my head, she
whispered, “Make sure you cover yourself properly.”
Her words lingered in the air, heavy with meaning. It wasn’t
just about the saree or the blouse—it was about the new life I was being asked
to step into. The unspoken expectations, the traditions I was supposed to
follow, the careful image I needed to present to the world.
Was I truly ready for all this? For the changes, the
responsibilities, the unknown?
Dad complimented saying coffee is very good and I told that
I need to leave today evening and will leave by 5.00 PM bus. And sister
informed me that she is going to stay here for one more week and then my
brother in law will come next weekend and to pick her. With that mom told me
that she will prepare for lunch and dinner box so that it will be helpful in
the journey. After lot of hesitation, my dad asked me what should I respond to
them. I told him that will share my thoughts after reaching Bangalore. And my
dad told me to confirm by Monday evening for which I accepted.
Dad took a sip of the coffee and smiled, “This is really
good.”
I nodded and then told them, “I need to leave this evening. I’ll catch the 5:00
PM bus.”
Sister mentioned that she would be staying here for another
week, and that my brother-in-law would come to pick her up next weekend.
Mom chimed in, “I’ll prepare lunch and dinner boxes for your journey. It’ll be
helpful on the road.”
After a pause filled with hesitation, Dad finally asked me
softly, “What will you tell them?”
I took a deep breath and replied, “I’ll share my thoughts
once I reach Bangalore.”
Dad looked at me with quiet understanding and said, “Make
sure to confirm by Monday evening.”
I nodded, accepting his request, though inside I felt a
mixture of uncertainty and resolve. The days ahead felt heavy with decisions
yet to be made, but at least for now, I had a little more time to gather my
thoughts.
Taking a deep breath, I moved to my room to start packing my
bag. Sister followed quietly, offering to help. She handed me a nighty to wear
and closed the door behind her.
She looked at me gently and asked, “What are you thinking?”
I hesitated for a moment, then confessed, “I’m confused.”
“At one point, I know that with all this, our financial
problems would be solved. But at the same time, I don’t know what lies ahead.”
I paused, gathering my thoughts. “I’ve struggled so much to
finish my education. Slowly, I’ve been tasting success. And now, I might leave
all of that behind to settle into a completely different life—as a married
woman.”
“Until now, I’ve lived life like a boy, carrying burdens,
sharing responsibilities. But if I say yes to this marriage, I’ll be stepping
into a new role—the role of a wife, the lady of the house. That’s a huge
responsibility, and I don’t know if I’m ready.”
I looked down for a moment, then admitted with a small
smile, “But I have to say, Vimal is very handsome—any woman would be lucky to
have him. And honestly, I’m surprised that someone like him would even like a
guy like me.”
If I marry him, I need to forget that I am man and need to
live like a woman. I am feeling am I ready and confused.
Shivani was quiet for a moment, then picked up both a
t-shirt and boxer shorts from the drawer and held them up beside the nighty.
With a soft smile, she asked, “If I gave you a choice between these—what would
you choose to wear now?”
I looked at the clothes in her hands—the soft cotton nighty
on one side, my usual boxer shorts and t-shirt on the other.
I didn’t even have to think. “Boxer and t-shirt,” I said,
almost instinctively, reaching out to take them.
My sister didn’t pull them back, but she didn’t hand them
over either. She just looked at me.
I avoided her gaze.There was silence for a moment. Then she
said, gently, “Why?”
I shrugged. “It’s comfortable. I’ve always worn them.”
She nodded. “Fair enough.” She sat beside me on the bed,
placing both sets of clothes between us. “But maybe comfort isn’t always about
habit. Sometimes, it’s about letting yourself grow into something new.”
She turned slightly to face me. “You said something a few
minutes ago... that if you marry Vimal, you’ll have to let go of the man you’ve
been. That’s not a small thing. But are you sure it means giving up who you
are?”
I frowned. “Isn’t that what this all is? Becoming someone
else? Living like a woman, dressing like one, thinking like one... being seen
like one?”
She tilted her head. “Maybe it’s not about becoming someone
else. Maybe it’s about becoming more of who you already are. You’ve carried so
much, Hari. You’ve been strong. You've protected us, supported us. Who says
those things aren’t part of being a woman too?”
She continued, “Wearing a nighty doesn’t erase the strength
in you. It doesn’t take away the sacrifices you’ve made.. What it can do
is help you step into this new part of yourself—not as someone pretending, but
as someone embracing.”
I looked at the nighty again. It was light, floral, soft.
Simple. Intimidating, somehow, for everything it symbolized.
I swallowed. “I’ve never worn one before.”
“Then maybe now a give it a try,” she said, her voice warm.
“Just for yourself. No one else. No expectations. Just you… seeing how it
feels.”
I ran my fingers over the fabric, hesitant. Then, quietly, I
said, “What if I don’t feel anything? What if I still feel like me?”
She smiled. “Then that’s your truth. But you’ll only know if
you let yourself try.”
I held the nighty in my hands, feeling its softness, its
unfamiliar weight. For a moment, I was silent. Then, almost in a whisper, I
said, “Okay.”
My sister said nothing, just placed a gentle hand on mine.
I stood, holding the nighty close to my chest, and walked
slowly to the bathroom. My heart was pounding. I didn’t know if I was letting
go or stepping forward. Maybe both.
As I clutched the nighty to my chest and walked slowly
toward the bathroom, my heart pounded like a drumbeat echoing in my ears.
Just as I reached for the door handle, Shivani’s voice
stopped me.
“Hari…” she said softly.
I turned, surprised.
She stood there, not moving, eyes gentle but serious.
“Wait.”I looked at her, confused. “What is it?”
She hesitated, then walked a little closer.
“We were brother and sister from birth,” she said
quietly. “But today, looking at you in that saree… I didn’t see my brother.
I saw my sister. And sisters… share things.”
Her words landed in the space between us, quiet but
undeniable.
“You don’t have to go hide in the bathroom,” she said
gently. “You’re not doing anything wrong. You don’t need to feel ashamed or
alone.”
I felt my face flush. “It’s not about shame, Shivani.
It’s just… I’ve never done this before. It feels… private.”
She nodded, understanding. “It is. But it can also be
safe. You're not alone anymore.”
She stepped forward and held out her hands.
“Take off the saree here. I’ll help you fold it. You can
wear the nighty over petticoat. There’s no need to run from this moment.”
I looked at her, stunned.
Something inside me shifted—something soft and fragile, long
buried beneath duty and denial.
“You’re serious?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
She smiled. “I’ve never been more serious. Sisters
support each other. Trust me… I’ve folded sarees a hundred times.”
My hands trembled as I loosened the pallu. The fabric slid
gently off my shoulder. She reached out and caught it, carefully folding the
end, her movements practiced and respectful.
Together, in silence, we unwrapped the saree—layer by
layer—until I was left in just the blouse and petticoat. Then I removed blouse
as well. I clutched the nighty to my chest, uncertain.
She folded the saree into a neat square and placed it gently
on the bed. Then she turned to me.
“You’re beautiful, you know,” she said. “Not
because of the saree or the nighty—but because you’re brave enough to be
yourself. That’s what makes you shine.”
I swallowed hard, my throat thick with emotion.
“I don’t know what I’m becoming, Shivani.”
She placed her hands on my shoulders.
I pulled the nighty over my head. It caught on the
petticoat, so I gently adjusted it with my hands and pulled it down. The
petticoat gave the nighty a soft, smooth shape and helped me feel covered. I
understood then why women wore one beneath a nighty—not only for modesty, but
also for a gentle, feminine touch.
I smoothed the fabric and looked at Shivani.
Shivani took a step back and smiled.
“There she is.”
I looked down at myself. I didn’t feel like a stranger. I
still felt like… me.
Shivani smiled. “Feels nice, doesn’t it?”
I nodded, quietly. “Yeah… it really does.”
But my eyes kept going to one thing—my chest.So flat.
Shivani, standing behind me, noticed the shift in my expression—how my fingers
lightly tugged at the fabric near my chest, how my smile faded just slightly.
She stepped closer and placed a reassuring hand on my
shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” she said, her voice calm and warm. “One
day, you’ll have a breast like mine too. And all the dresses… they’ll fit you
perfectly and you can feed your hubby and kids.”
Hey! It's not like that," I said, crossing my
arms playfully. "I was just… looking at myself. That’s all. Just
checking how I look in this."
Shivani raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced but amused. "Oh
really?"
I smirked, but then my voice softened as my eyes drifted
back to the mirror.
"Honestly… I was just wondering what made Vimal like
me. I mean, look at me. I'm still figuring all this out."
As I stood there in front of the mirror, still lost in
thoughts about Vimal and everything that was changing inside me, the room’s
quietness was broken by the sound of the door opening.
It was Mom.
She stepped in, paused for a brief second when she saw me in
the nighty—but said nothing.
"Finish your lunch quickly," she said in
her usual tone. "Then take some rest. You have a long journey
ahead."
And just like that, reality returned. The spell of the
moment broke, and I nodded quietly.
We all stepped out of the room. I looked around,
instinctively searching for Dad—only to realize he wasn’t home yet.
Mom headed to the kitchen and called out, "Come help
me."
I followed her, and Shivani joined us too.
She was preparing to cook chicken—one of our family
favorites. We moved around the kitchen like clockwork, chopping, cleaning,
stirring… no one saying much, yet everything feeling complete. Natural.
Three women in the kitchen.
It struck me suddenly, almost silently—how normal it
felt.
No one pointed it out. No one acted like it was strange. We
were just… there. Together.
And somehow, time began to fly. Between laughter, quiet
exchanges, and shared glances, it was already 1:00 PM when Dad returned.
We all sat down to eat. The meal passed in silence, not
heavy—just comfortable. A shared quietness.
By 3:00 PM, I went to change. I took off the nighty and petticoat, folded
them neatly, and slipped into my blue jeans and a blue kurta.
But when I looked in the mirror again… something felt off.
The fabric was familiar. The style was safe. But it didn’t feel
like me—not anymore.
Still, I said nothing.
As I stepped out, Dad looked at me and said, "I’ll
drop you at the bus station."
I shook my head gently. “It’s okay, Dad. I can manage.”
He smiled and patted my head, like he always did, but this
time, it felt different. Like a silent blessing.
“Just let me know your thoughts about the proposal by
Monday evening,” he said. “I need to inform Vimal’s mother.”
I nodded.
With a swirl of thoughts clouding my mind, I reached the
Guntur bus stand around 3:30 PM. I checked the ticket counter, asked about the
next bus to Bangalore—still unsure about everything.
Just then, a man approached me and said politely, “Sir is
waiting for you outside. Please come.”
I hesitated, confused. Who?
Before I could ask, he took my bag and started walking. I followed him,
uncertain.
Outside, near a black SUV, stood Vimal.
He smiled gently. “I’m travelling to Bangalore today too.
Thought we could go together.”
Before I could respond or ask about his mother, he added,“Amma
and Veda will leave for Vijayawada today. They want to visit Kanaka Durga
temple, so they'll come to Bangalore tomorrow.”
The driver loaded my luggage into the car and opened the
door without waiting for my approval.
Still stunned, I got in. The car rolled out of Guntur.
Silence filled the space between us. I stared out the window, lost in the
rhythm of the road, until we passed a small Ram Mandir on the outskirts.
Instinctively, I folded my hands and whispered a silent
prayer.
Vimal noticed. He leaned forward. “Stop the car. Let’s
visit the temple.”
I turned to him, surprised—but thankful. I nodded quietly.
I slipped off my slippers and followed him into the temple
courtyard. The air was warm, scented with incense and jasmine. A group of young
boys ran up to me, trying to sell garlands and flowers.
Before I could respond, Vimal handed over some cash and
picked two garlands—a tulsi one, and another of fresh jasmine. He
carried them both.
The priest greeted us with a smile—the temple had just
opened for evening darshan. The sanctum glowed in soft oil-lamp light. We stood
together, side by side, offering prayers.
After the aarti, the priest turned to me, smiling
warmly. He offered me a small bundle of jasmine flowers from the idol of
Sita Devi and said:
“Amma, keep this on your head.”I froze for a second.
He thought I was a woman.But I didn’t correct him. I
simply accepted the flowers into my hands, heart pounding softly, and bent down
to take his blessings.
His palm rested lightly on my head as he spoke: “Deergha
Sumangali Bhava.”
(May you have a long and blessed married life.)
The words struck something deep inside me. I couldn’t speak.
Then he turned to Vimal and handed him a rose flower from
Lord Ram’s feet, blessing him with:“Ayushman Bhava.”
(May you live a long life.)
Vimal bowed silently.
After darshan, we stepped out and sat on the temple steps. I
looked up at the evening sky, holding the jasmine flowers quietly in my lap.
Just then, the priest walked over, smiling warmly.
“Child,” he said gently, “always apply a
tilak—whether you’re in jeans or a saree.”
Before I could respond, he dabbed a bit of kumkum on
my forehead. “Now, a little turmeric on your cheeks,” he added with a
grin, dotting the yellow powder softly across my skin. “And flowers in the
hair complete the blessing.”
I hesitated, still holding the jasmine in my hand.
I glanced at Vimal—his eyes glittered, not with mischief,
but with something deeper.
Pride. Victory. Joy.
In that still moment, between turmeric, kumkum, and jasmine,
I stopped pretending.
After a few more quiet moments on the temple steps, we stood
up and began walking back to the car.
The jasmine flowers still rested gently on my head, the
scent following me with every step. My cheeks carried the soft glow of
turmeric, and the kumkum tilak sat bold and bright on my forehead.
As I walked ahead, I could sense Vimal just a few steps
behind me.
I wasn’t imagining it—his gaze lingered.
There was a quiet awareness in me… how the sway of my hips,
shaped subtly by the petticoat earlier, now carried a grace I hadn’t noticed
before. Feminine.
I didn’t turn around. I just kept walking. Somewhere behind
me, I could feel Vimal still watching.
For nearly two hours, the car didn’t stop. The hum of the
road and the soft AC lulled me into sleep. I rested my head against the window,
jasmine still faintly fragrant in my hair.
Around 6:00 PM, the car pulled over near a Café Coffee
Day on the outskirts.
I felt a light tap on my hand—Vimal.
“Wake up,” he said softly, “Let’s grab some
coffee.”
I nodded sleepily and stepped out. We walked slowly, side by
side, into the café and found a quiet corner seat, tucked away from the rest.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The silence between us
had become familiar, almost comfortable.
Then, Vimal broke it—his voice low, steady.
“You know… this isn’t the first time I saw you in that
blue kurta and jeans.”
I looked up, surprised.
He smiled faintly. “SBI Bank. Guntur branch. A few months
ago. You were standing at the counter, filling a form. Hair tied up, same
kurta. I was there for some paperwork.”
My eyes widened. I tried to recall.
“I noticed you,” he continued, his tone calm but
direct. “Not because of how you looked… but because of how you carried
yourself. Strong. Still. Like you were hiding something beautiful without even
realizing it.”
I didn’t know what to say. My fingers wrapped around the
coffee cup, heart beating a little faster.
“That day,” he added, leaning back slightly, “I
kept thinking about you long after I left the bank. I didn’t even know your
name then.”
I looked at him, quietly stunned.
All this time, I thought I was invisible. And yet, someone
had seen me—fully—even before I had begun to see myself.
And it was him.
I took a deep breath, feeling a little more open than
before.
“Do you think it’s that easy for me?” I asked
quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.
“You say you thought of me as a lady... but I’m a man.”
I looked down at my hands, struggling to find the words.
“Draping a saree in front of family. Letting strangers
see me as a woman... it’s not easy. Not for me.”
I swallowed hard, my throat tightening.
“Can you even imagine how much I’ve gone through? How
much my dad must have struggled?”
For the first time, I was letting him see the weight I
carried—not just the surface changes, but the deep, silent battles inside.
Vimal looked at me, his eyes soft but steady.
“Hari,” he said gently, “I can’t fully understand
what you’ve been through—no one can unless they’ve lived it. But I see your
strength, not just in how you look, but in everything you’ve shared with me.”
He reached out, lightly touching my hand.
“Your journey, your pain, your courage—it all matters.
And it’s real.
“I don’t expect you to change overnight or pretend to be
someone you’re not. I just want you to be who you want to be. No
judgments, no pressures.”
His words wrapped around me like a quiet promise.
We started our journey again and this time, Vimal slept on
my lap, I rested one hand gently on his shoulder, while the other slowly
stroked his hair, giving him a simple, soothing massage.
The warmth of the moment reminded me of the time he had
hugged me from behind when I was in the saree—a quiet, protective embrace that
had stayed with me.
Feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath, I realized
he had slipped into a deep sleep.
Carefully, almost hesitantly, I leaned down and kissed his
forehead.
It was a soft, unspoken promise—a delicate beginning of
something mutual, something quietly growing between us.
After kissing his forehead, I leaned back and looked out the
car window. The sky was quiet, but my mind wasn’t.
All these years, we’d been fighting to survive—harassed by
private lenders, drowning in debts, abandoned by relatives who refused us our
share of the property.
And now, this man—this handsome, gentle man sleeping on my
lap—thinks I’m a woman. Loves me like one. Even after learning the truth, he
said, “I’m not gay. But I’m here—for you. As a man, I’ll stand by you.”
He asked for nothing but love… and for me to be his wife.
And the strangest part? My elder sister is ready to help me
become the woman.But am I ready? Do I want this?
My thoughts tangled. Then suddenly, Vimal stirred. Still
resting on my lap, he looked up and saw the storm in my eyes.
Without a word, he lifted my hand and kissed it.With his
gentle kiss on my hand, I came back to my senses.
I looked down at him—those eyes, soft and steady—and gave
him a small smile. Quiet, but real.
As if my smile was the answer he’d been waiting for, he
reached up, cupped the back of my head, and pulled me toward him.And then,
without hesitation, he kissed me.
Firm. Certain. A man’s kiss.I didn’t pull away. I couldn’t.
He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at me. His
thumb brushed my cheek, and I realized I just closed my eyes. “I didn’t mean to
scare you,” he said softly.
“You didn’t,” I whispered. “You… you just made me feel different.”
He smiled then, keeping his head on my lap, slowly inserted
his hand inside my kurta and started
messaging on my tummy and that making me feel uncontrol.
His touch was gentle and slow. As his fingers touched my
stomach, I felt something change inside me. The kurta felt like a kurthi—a
woman’s clothes..
My heart raced, but I felt peaceful.
He asked quietly, “Is this okay?”I nodded. “Yes.”
The car slowly stopped outside a restaurant, and the driver
got out, showing it was time for a dinner break. He got out first, and then I
stepped out after fixing myself.
I still felt like there were flowers in my head. I tried to
brush them away but left them, curious how people might react.
He waited for me and then motioned me to come closer. we
ordered food. While eating, I asked him what he expected from me in marriage.
He smiled kindly. “Nothing hard. I want a loving wife.”
He looked at me with care. “Hari, you have done so much for
your family. Now, I want you to become the woman you really are—the wife I have
hoped for.”
He spoke softly. “My mother wants you to follow our Jain
traditions. That means wearing sarees and living as a woman. You can wear what
you want in private, but outside, I want you to be the woman.”
My heart beat fast, and I asked, “Does that mean you are
ready to marry me since you are asking about what I will be?”
I asked softly, “What kind of sarees do you mean? Do you
have any idea?”
He smiled warmly, his eyes full of hope. “Those are the
little things that make a woman’s world beautiful. As my wife, you’ll learn to
choose them—you’ll know. And your sister can help, too. I dream of us slowly
building a family together, filling our home with love and laughter... maybe
even children someday.”
After we finished dinner, he reached across the table and
gently took my hands in his.
“Marry me,” he said softly.
I looked at him, and for a moment, I couldn’t speak. There
was something so honest, so pure in his eyes—it made my heart flutter. I was
right at the edge of saying yes.
But instead… I smiled, leaned in just a little, and said,
“Hmm… let me think about it.”
The night air was cool as we stepped outside the restaurant.
He looked up at the stars, then turned to me, his voice
barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to say yes now. But I meant what I
said.”
I stepped a little closer. “You asked me earlier… and I
wanted to say yes. I almost did.”
He turned toward me, searching my eyes.
I smiled, heart pounding. “So… here it is.”
I reached out and took his hand. “Yes. I’ll marry you.”
For a moment, he didn’t say a word. Then his hand tightened
around mine, his eyes shining. He pulled me into a hug—no words, no rush. Just
two people standing still under the stars.
Soon, we got back into the car. I shared my Bangalore
address with Vimal and the driver. Without even realizing it, I was holding
Vimal’s hand. We both closed our eyes and drifted off to sleep.
Around 3:30 AM, the driver stopped in front of my place.
Vimal gently woke me up, helped carry my bag, and walked with me to my small
1BHK flat. He stepped inside for a moment, smiled, and said softly, “Take care.
I’ll wait to hear from your parents officially.”
Then he left. I watched as his car slowly drove away into
the early morning stillness.
