Rohan stepped off the bus in the sleepy town of Bundi, his heart pounding like a drum. His cousin Priya waved from the doorway of her family’s bungalow, her smile wide and conspiratorial. “Finally!” she called, pulling him into a hug. “Come, come—before the neighbors spot you.”
The house was empty, save for Priya and her pet cat, Simba. Her parents had left for a two-week retreat in Kerala, leaving her in charge. As they settled in the living room, Priya’s eyes swept over Rohan’s long hair, now reaching his waist in dark, wavy locks. “You’re perfect,” she said, her tone playful but serious. “No one will suspect a thing.”
Rohan frowned. “What do you mean?”
Priya leaned closer. “The neighbors are nosy. If they see a boy here alone with me, they’ll gossip. But a girl? No one will blink.” She grinned. “And with that hair, you’ll make a stunning girl.”
Rohan’s cheeks burned. “I’m not sure—”
“Trust me,” Priya said, her voice softening. “It’s just for two weeks. Think of it as an adventure.”
That evening, Priya led Rohan to her room, a space bursting with color—saris draped over chairs, jewelry boxes overflowing, and a vanity table cluttered with makeup. “First, we need to make you presentable,” she said, pulling out a razor and a tube of hair-removal cream.
Rohan winced as she shaved his arms and legs, the blade gliding over his skin. “This is embarrassing,” he muttered.
“Shh,” Priya said, dabbing cream onto his chest. “Think of it as a spa day.”
Once his skin was smooth, she turned to his hair. “Let’s wash and style this properly.” She shampooed his locks with a fragrant herbal mix, then blow-dried them until they shimmered. “Now, the fun part,” she said, producing breast forms, a lacy bra, and a pair of panties.
Rohan blushed as she adjusted the forms, their weight unfamiliar. “This feels… strange.”
“Wait till you wear a saree,” Priya said, laughing. She dressed him in a sleeveless cotton dress with a floral print, its fabric light and airy. “You look like a doll,” she declared, adding bangles, earrings, and a gold necklace.
That night, Rohan slept in a frilly nightgown, the soft fabric a contrast to his usual T-shirts. As he drifted off, he felt a strange mix of discomfort and curiosity.
Over the next few days, Priya became Rohan’s mentor in all things feminine. Each morning, she’d lay out an outfit—a pink salwar kameez with a matching dupatta, a blue lehenga with silver embroidery, or a crimson cotton saree with a gold border.
“Walk like this,” she’d say, demonstrating a swaying gait. “Let the saree flow with your movements.”
Rohan practiced, his heels clicking on the marble floors. The first time he wore a saree, the pallu (end) kept slipping. “Hold it like this,” Priya instructed, pinning it over his shoulder. “Now, twirl.”
He did, the fabric swirling around him like a flame. Priya clapped. “You’re a natural!”
By the third day, Rohan—now Rohini—was ready to step outside. Priya declared it was time to test her handiwork. That morning, she dressed Rohini in a sleeveless cotton dress with a riot of pink and orange flowers, its fabric light as a whisper. His wig, a chestnut cascade of waves, was styled in a half-up, half-down do, secured with a gold hairpin. The loose strands brushed his collarbone, tickling with every breath.
“Feel the breeze?” Priya said, opening the door. The air was thick with the scent of monsoon earth and fried snacks from a nearby stall. Rohini’s heart hammered as they walked to the market, his heels clicking nervously. The dress swayed with each step, the hem fluttering like a flag.
At the bangle stall, Priya haggled fiercely, her voice rising and falling like a tide. Rohini stood beside her, hands clasped. A vendor nearby winked. “Pretty girl,” he said, his voice warm. He handed Rohini a jasmine garland, its petals cool and fragrant.
Rohini blushed, the heat spreading from his cheeks to the roots of his wig. “Thank you,” he murmured, the jasmine scent mingling with the sweat on his neck. The vendor’s gaze lingered on his hair, the waves catching the sunlight.
Priya giggled, looping her arm through his. “See? No one suspects a thing.”
Two days later, Priya declared it was time to visit the town’s oldest temple, a 300-year-old shrine nestled atop a hill. Rohini’s stomach flipped at the prospect—entering a sacred space as a girl felt like crossing a threshold he couldn’t return from.
That morning, Priya laid out a yellow silk saree with orange trim, its fabric stiff from starch. “This will look divine with your hair,” she said, eyeing Rohini’s wig. The chestnut waves had grown heavier since their first styling, now reaching mid-back. Priya shampooed the wig with lavender-scented shampoo, her fingers massaging the scalp beneath. “Hold still,” she said, blow-drying the strands until they shimmered.
Next came the bun. Priya combed the wig into a low ponytail, twisting it into a neat coil at the nape of Rohini’s neck. “Tight enough?” she asked, pinning it with three gold hairpins. Rohini nodded, though the pressure made his scalp tingle. Priya tucked orange marigold flowers into the bun, their petals brushing his earlobe. “Perfect,” she said, draping the saree’s pallu over his shoulder like a sash.
Rohini stood in front of the mirror, the saree’s border aligning with his ankles. The bun felt like a weight, pulling his neck straight. He adjusted the pallu, the silk rustling. “I look… different,” he said.
Priya grinned. “You look devoted. Now, let’s pray.”
As they climbed the hill, the morning heat clung to Rohini’s skin. The saree clung to his legs, the pallu fluttering with each step. The bun stayed put, its weight a constant reminder of his transformation.
Inside the temple, the air thickened with the scent of sandalwood and camphor. Devotees bowed before the deity, their chants echoing off stone walls. Rohini followed Priya, his palms sweating. When it was their turn, he knelt, the bun brushing his back as he bowed. The flowers shifted, their petals tickling his neck.
An elderly woman in a faded blue sari shuffled toward them, her eyes sharp yet kind. “You remind me of my granddaughter,” she said, patting Rohini’s hand. Her touch was warm, her voice trembling. “So devoted. She used to wear her hair like that too.”
Rohini’s eyes welled. He touched the marigolds, their petals soft against his fingers. The bun felt like a crown, the flowers a blessing. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice cracking.
As they left, other devotees murmured. A young girl pointed at Rohini’s bun, giggling. A man nodded approvingly. “Good boy,” he said, mistaking Rohini’s devotion for piety.
Throughout the visit, Rohini’s hand kept straying to his hair. He’d twirl a loose strand, adjust the pallu, or press the marigolds to his cheek. The bun’s tightness made his neck ache, but the weight felt grounding—a physical anchor in a sea of unfamiliar gazes.
The journey home was a blur of sensations. The saree’s silk chafed his thighs, the pallu tangling in the breeze. The bun, once secure, now slipped slightly, marigolds dangling like ornaments. Rohini kept touching it, his fingers brushing the wig’s waves.
Priya noticed. “Nervous?” she asked.
Rohini nodded. “It feels… heavy. Like everyone’s watching.”
“They are,” Priya said, laughing. “But for the right reasons. You’re a vision.”
That night, Rohini lay in bed, the wig discarded. He traced the outline of the bun on his scalp, the ghost of marigold scent lingering. The temple visit had been a trial by fire—a test of his ability to embody Rohini fully. And though the bun had ached, the flowers had blessed him, and the old woman’s words had cut through his doubts.
You remind me of my granddaughter, she’d said
On the seventh day, Priya dragged Rohini to a college cultural festival. He wore a short black dress with lace trim, its hem just above his knees. The wig was styled in loose waves, the ends brushing his shoulders. Priya applied kajal to his eyes, darkening them to match the dress.
As they entered the grounds, boys turned to stare, their jaws dropping. Girls giggled, pointing at Rohini’s bangles and the lace hem. A senior, tall and lanky, approached. He handed Rohini a rose, its thorns carefully trimmed. “You’re stunning,” he said, his voice cracking.
Rohini’s cheeks burned, the heat spreading to his wig. He accepted the rose, its petals soft against his palm. The senior’s gaze lingered on his hair, the waves catching the stage lights.
“Thank you,” Rohini whispered, his voice barely audible. The senior smiled, walking away.
As the days passed, Rohini grew more confident. He experimented with hairstyles—a French braid, a half-updo with flowers, even a ponytail that swayed with his steps. Priya taught him to apply kajal, contour his cheeks, and paint his nails in vibrant shades.
One evening, they attended a wedding. Rohini wore a blue silk saree with a sheer dupatta, his wig cascading in curls. The bride’s mother mistook him for a relative. “You must be Priya’s cousin,” she said, pulling him into a group photo.
Rohini smiled, posing with grace. Priya squeezed his hand. “You’re flawless,” she whispered.
On the last day, Priya surprised Rohini with a farewell party. Friends and neighbors gathered, showering him with gifts—a saree, a necklace, a hairbrush. No one suspected the truth.
As Rohini boarded the bus back to Delhi, he clutched a jasmine garland, its petals still fragrant. The journey home was a blur of emotions—sadness at leaving Priya, excitement at returning to his old life, and a lingering desire to stay as Rohini.
When he arrived, his mother gasped. “Rohan! You look… different.”
He smiled, the jasmine scent still clinging to his hair. “I had fun,” he said, leaving her puzzled.
That night, Rohini lay in bed, the garland draped across his pillow. He knew the transformation was temporary, but the memories—the silk of the sarees, the weight of the jewelry, the thrill of being seen—would last forever.
Years later, Rohan often visited Priya, sometimes in jeans, sometimes in a saree. The neighbors never guessed. And in his closet, tucked between old shirts, hung a blue silk saree, waiting for the next adventure.
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