It started as a harmless game among friends. Four of us—Rajesh, Ajay, Karan, and I—sat cross-legged on the living room floor, a deck of cards spread between us. The monsoon rain drummed against the windows, the air thick with the scent of wet earth and masala chai. We were playing Bhabho, a Punjabi card game where the loser is dubbed “Bhabho” (brother’s wife) and must perform a penalty.
That night, fate dealt me the losing hand. “Bhabho Neeraj!” Rajesh crowed, tossing a pillow at me. The others laughed, clapping. My cheeks burned, but I played along, draping a dupatta over my head as a makeshift pallu.
“Now, do the dishes!” Ajay said, shuffling the deck.
I obliged, rinsing plates in the sink, the dupatta slipping as I moved. When I returned, the game had resumed, but the teasing hadn’t. “You make a cute Bhabho,” Karan said, grinning.
I rolled my eyes, but a flicker of something stirred inside—a curiosity I’d buried for years. What would it feel like to be a woman, not just play at it?
The next morning, the memory of the game lingered. I found myself lingering in the women’s section of a mall, my fingers brushing a crimson silk saree. The fabric slid through my hands like water. “For my sister,” I lied to the saleswoman, flushing.
That evening, I slipped into the saree in my dimly lit apartment, the pallu draped over my shoulder. I twisted my hair into a low bun, tucking in a jasmine flower. In the mirror, I saw a stranger—soft curves where there were angles, eyes framed by kajal.
A knock at the door made me jump. It was Rajesh, a bag of snacks in hand. “Neeraj?” he said, pausing.
“Come in,” I said, my voice softer than usual.
Rajesh’s gaze dropped to my saree, then rose to my face. “You look… different,” he said, sitting on the couch.
I fidgeted with the jasmine flower. “I wanted to try something new.”
He nodded slowly. “It suits you.”
Weeks passed, and the game of Bhabho became a ritual. Each weekend, I’d transform into Neerja, my feminine alter ego. Rajesh, Ajay, and Karan took turns joining me, bringing gifts—lipstick, bangles, a wig. They’d help me apply makeup, adjust my saree, and braid my hair.
One Saturday, Ajay brought a pink georgette saree with a gold border. “Wear this,” he said, handing it to me.
I slipped into the fabric, its lightness surprising. Ajay styled my hair in loose waves, the wig cascading past my shoulders. “You’re stunning,” he said, adjusting the pallu.
That night, we watched a movie, my hand brushing his arm. He squeezed it gently, a silent understanding passing between us.
The turning point came with Rajesh. It was a rainy evening, the city lights blurred through the drizzle. I’d worn a fuchsia salwar kameez, the fabric clinging to my frame. Rajesh arrived with a box of chocolates and a rose.
“You look beautiful,” he said, handing me the rose.
I blushed, tucking it into my hair. “Thank you.”
We ate chocolate on the balcony, the rain misting our skin. Rajesh’s hand landed on my thigh, his touch lingering. “Neerja,” he murmured, “I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks.”
My breath hitched. “I’ve wanted it too,” I whispered.
He kissed me softly, his lips warm against mine. The rain intensified, the thunder a drumroll to our embrace. When we moved inside, our bodies moved with a rhythm I’d only imagined. He undressed me slowly, his fingers tracing the curves of my borrowed femininity.
“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice rough.
I nodded, my heart pounding. “I’ve never been surer.”
Afterward, we lay entwined, the sheets damp from the rain. Rajesh stroked my hair, the wig’s strands soft between his fingers. “You’re more than a friend,” he said. “You’re… mine.”
I smiled, tears pricking my eyes. “I’m yours,” I said.
Weekends became a blur of silk and skin. Each friend brought something new—Ajay taught me to cook paneer butter masala, Karan took me shopping for jewelry, and Rajesh wrote me love letters in Punjabi. I learned to walk in heels, apply winged eyeliner, and style my wig in a French braid.
One Sunday, Karan surprised me with a surprise—a breast form and a lacy bra. “For when you want to feel more… you,” he said, blushing.
I tried them on, the weight foreign yet comforting. “Thank you,” I said, hugging him.
But the dream lingered—a wish to be a real woman, not just a weekend persona. I began researching hormone therapy, watching videos of transgender women, and saving money for a trip to Delhi.
Rajesh noticed. “What’s on your mind?” he asked one evening.
“I want to… become a woman,” I said, my voice trembling. “Not just play at it.”
He took my hand. “We’ll support you. Always.”
The journey was long and arduous—hormones, surgeries, and endless paperwork. But with each step, I felt more like myself. My voice deepened, my hips widened, and my breasts grew. The friends who once called me “Bhabho” became my family.
One rainy evening, a year after my transformation, I stood in front of the mirror, now Neerja fully. I wore a crimson silk saree, my real hair styled in a low bun. The jasmine flower was real, the makeup mine.
A knock at the door. It was Rajesh, a ring box in his hand.
“Marry me,” he said, his voice steady.
I gasped, tears spilling. “Yes,” I said, throwing my arms around him.
The morning of the wedding dawned with the sun painting the sky in hues of gold and rose. Neerja woke to the excited chatter of her friends—Ajay, Karan, and Priya, who had insisted on being her bridesmaids. The air buzzed with anticipation as they gathered in her apartment, a riot of color and laughter.
Neerja’s transformation, years in the making, was now complete. Hormone therapy had softened her features, widened her hips, and gifted her the curves she’d always dreamed of. Her voice, once deep, now carried a gentle lilt, and her skin glowed with a newfound radiance. But the most dramatic change was her hair. Once short and practical, it had grown to waist-length cascades, thick and wavy, thanks to diligent care—regular oiling with almond and coconut, biweekly deep-conditioning, and nightly braiding to prevent tangles. Now, it was styled in a voluminous braid, studded with jasmine flowers and a string of pearls, the end secured with a gold pin.
As her friends helped her into the lehenga, the fabric whispered against her skin. The skirt was a riot of peacock blues and emerald greens, embroidered with gold threads that shimmered like sunlight on water. The blouse was sheer, with cap sleeves and a sweetheart neckline, while the dupatta, draped over her head like a veil, was sheer net embroidered with silver peacocks. Priya adjusted the maang tikka on her forehead—a gold pendant with a teardrop ruby—while Ajay applied kajal to her eyes, thickening the lashes with mascara.
“Hold still,” Karan said, fastening the mangalsutra chain around her neck. The weight of the gold chain, cool against her collarbone, felt like a promise.
When Rajesh arrived, the world outside dissolved into a blur. He stood at the entrance, dressed in a crimson sherwani with gold embroidery, his turban matching the lehenga’s hues. His eyes met hers, and for a moment, time stopped.
The ceremony was a whirlwind of tradition. Neerja’s hands shook as she held the mangalsutra, its gold links glinting. When the priest instructed her to lift her braid, the ladies gathered around, their hands gentle as they parted her hair. The mangalsutra slid into place, its weight a comforting anchor. Later, during the sindoor ritual, Rajesh’s fingers brushed her scalp as he filled the parting with bright vermillion. The sensation was electric—a mix of intimacy and finality.
During the pheras (sacred vows), Neerja’s bangles chimed softly with each step. The weight of the mangalsutra swung against her chest, a constant reminder of her new identity. When she bowed to her elders, the bangles on her arms clinked like wind chimes, their weight grounding her in the moment.
The reception was a kaleidoscope of color. Neerja danced with her friends, her lehenga flaring like a peacock’s tail. When Rajesh lifted her veil during the first dance, the crowd erupted in cheers. His smile was the brightest star in the room.
That night, in their hotel suite, the air was thick with jasmine and rose petals scattered on the bed. Rajesh held her close, his voice a soft murmur. “You’re real now,” he whispered, his fingers tracing the sindoor on her forehead.
Neerja smiled, her hand resting on his chest. “I’ve always been real,” she said. “Just waiting to be seen.”
His laughter was a warm embrace. “And now the world sees you.”
As they lay together, the mangalsutra cool against her skin, Neerja felt a profound sense of belonging. The weight of the bangles, the sindoor’s warmth, the sindoor’s permanence—each detail felt like a piece of a puzzle clicking into place. She was no longer Neeraj, the boy who played Bhabho. She was Neerja, the woman who’d claimed her truth.
The next morning, sunlight streamed through the curtains, painting gold streaks on her lehenga. Neerja traced the mangalsutra chain, its links a testament to the journey—a journey from a game of cards to a life lived fully, authentically. And as she looked at her reflection, her hair loose and wavy, her eyes bright with joy, she knew: This was the beginning of forever.
Years later, we live in a cozy house in Chandigarh.
Our home is filled with the scent of jasmine and the laughter of our daughter, Anika. She’s three now, with eyes like Rajesh’s and hair like mine—thick, wavy, and reaching her shoulders. We adopted her two years ago, a tiny bundle of cries and coos who stole our hearts the moment we held her.
I run a boutique now, Neerja’s Closet, a tiny shop filled with silk sarees that shimmer like moonlight, lehengas in peacock hues, and jewelry that jingles softly. Each morning, I wake before dawn, the mangalsutra cool against my chest, and style my hair in a braid adorned with marigolds. Then I slip into a saree—sometimes a crisp cotton for work, sometimes a silk one for special days. The fabric sways as I move, a constant reminder of the life I once dared to dream.
Rajesh teaches history at a school nearby, his turban a familiar sight as he cycles past our shop each afternoon. When he arrives, Anika claps her hands, shouting, “Papa!” He sweeps her into his arms, his laughter echoing through the house. In the evenings, we eat dinner under fairy lights strung across the balcony, the city lights twinkling below. Rajesh feeds Anika dal and rice, his patience endless, while I sip chai and watch them.
Weekends are still sacred. We take Anika to the park, her tiny legs pumping as she chases pigeons. Rajesh and I dance in the living room to old Bollywood tunes, our hands clasped, his palm warm against mine. Sometimes, as we sway, I rest my head on his shoulder, the weight of my bangles a comforting rhythm.
Being a mother is the best thing I’ve ever done. Anika calls me “Maa,” her voice a melody. I rock her to sleep each night, her head nestled against my chest, the scent of her shampoo filling the room. When she falls asleep, her fingers curled around mine, I feel a peace I never knew existed.
I love being a housewife too. It’s the best job in the world—to wake up and make Rajesh’s favorite paratha for breakfast, to fold his shirts just so, to press jasmine flowers into his kurta. When he comes home tired, I meet him at the door with a cup of tea, his smile my reward.
Sometimes, I think of the game of Bhabho that started it all. It was a fluke, a dare, a moment of vulnerability. But it led me here—to this life, this family, this home.
Every morning, as I style my hair and slip into a saree, I know: This is who I’ve always been. A wife, a mother, a woman. And it’s everything I ever wanted.
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