The Secret Unfolds

Our big family lived in a sprawling house in Chennai. My father, a widower, was the oldest son, and his mother—our grandma—was the matriarch. Two of my father’s siblings had moved abroad, but the wives of his other brothers and his youngest sister were around my age. The men were always busy with our family’s textile business, so I, still a student, spent most of my time with the women at home. That’s when I started sneaking into my favorite aunt Lakshmi’s room to try on her clothes. Once I put them on, I couldn’t stop.

One afternoon during the festive season, the house was empty except for grandma. I slipped into Lakshmi’s room, my heart pounding. I shut the door quietly and rummaged through her closet. Within minutes, my boyish clothes lay in a heap on the floor.

I stood in front of her full-length mirror, heart racing, as I adjusted the green salwar kameez. The fabric was silk, cool against my skin, its borders embroidered with silver threads that shimmered under the light. Earlier, I’d slipped into her bra—a lacy number in cream—and fastened it tightly. My chest, though slight, filled the cups enough to create a gentle curve. The nylon panties clung to my hips like a second skin.

My hair, usually short and messy, was combed into a loose braid that fell over my shoulder. I’d sprayed it with Lakshmi’s rosewater mist, and the faint floral scent lingered. On my wrists were six gold bangles, their surface etched with peacock motifs. They jingled softly as I moved. Around my neck hung a gold chain with a small ruby pendant, a gift from her husband. An ankle chain, thin and delicate, circled my left foot, while a hip chain draped over my salwar, its beads swaying with each step.

I’d hesitated before applying makeup—Lakshmi’s kohl pencil felt heavy in my hand—but curiosity won. I traced thin lines around my eyes, darkening them to almond shapes. Blush in a dusty rose hue warmed my cheeks, and a swipe of glossy lip balm made my lips shine. In the mirror, I looked like a stranger—soft, delicate, almost ethereal.

The door creaked open, and Lakshmi froze in the doorway. Her eyes widened, then softened. “Malti?” she whispered, using my sister’s name. Then she blinked, realization dawning. “Oh my… it’s you.”

She stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. The click echoed in the silence. I pressed a hand to my chest, breathless.

“You look…” Lakshmi trailed off, circling me. Her gaze lingered on the bangles, the hip chain, the way the salwar hugged my hips. “You look like her. Exactly like her.” She reached out, tracing the outline of my braid. “Your hair… it’s so soft.”

I blushed, tucking a loose strand behind my ear. “I used your conditioner,” I admitted.

She laughed softly, a sound like wind chimes. “Let me fix it.” She unpinned my braid, letting the hair cascade over my shoulders. With her fingers, she teased the waves into loose curls, then secured them with a jasmine clip. “There. Now you look like a Bollywood star.”

Lakshmi stepped back, her eyes critical. “Your eyebrows are too thin. Let me fill them in.” She grabbed a pencil from her makeup kit and brushed it gently along my arches, darkening them to match her own. “Better,” she murmured.

Next came the lips. She dabbed on a rose-pink gloss, then blotted it with a tissue. “You need more color,” she said, applying a second layer. The gloss tasted sweet, like mangoes.

She tugged at my salwar, adjusting the fabric to accentuate my curves. “You should pad your hips,” she suggested, disappearing into her closet. She returned with a pair of shapewear shorts. “Try these under your salwar. They’ll give you a nicer silhouette.”

As I slipped them on, she handed me a pair of her high heels—silver sandals with straps that wrapped around my ankles. “Walk in these,” she ordered. I wobbled at first, but soon found my rhythm. The heels clicked-tik on the marble floor, a sound I’d always envied.

When I faced the mirror again, I gasped. The girl staring back was unrecognizable—graceful, poised, her eyes sparkling with newfound confidence. Lakshmi stood behind me, her hands on my shoulders. “You’re beautiful,” she whispered.

I turned to her, tears pricking my eyes. “Thank you,” I said, my voice barely a breath.

She hugged me, her touch gentle. “You belong in these clothes. Don’t ever be ashamed

A knock interrupted us. Lakshmi hurried to the door, finding grandma. “Why’s the door locked?” grandma asked.

“It’s Malti,” Lakshmi lied. “I’m helping her get ready.”

Grandma frowned. “No men are home. No need for secrets.” She left, and Lakshmi returned to her lesson.

“Walk like this,” she said, swaying her hips. “Speak softly, from your throat.” She even padded my hips with cushions to accentuate my curves.

Just then, grandma reappeared, holding the phone. “Malti! Suresh is on the line!”

Suresh was Malti’s boyfriend. Panicked, I grabbed the phone. “Hello?”

“Malti! I got us movie tickets! Be ready in 30 minutes!”

“I can’t—”

“Liar,” he interrupted. “I see you through your window. You’re all dressed up. Just add that lip gloss I love…”

I glanced out the window. Suresh waved from across the street. Blushing, I hung up. Lakshmi giggled. “Looks like you’re going out!”

At the theater, Suresh pulled me close. The lights dimmed, and he began kissing me fiercely. His hands roamed my body, squeezing my breasts until I gasped. “You feel so good,” he murmured.

When his hand dipped lower, I lied, “I’m on my period.” To be safe, I’d worn a sanitary pad. But Suresh didn’t stop. He guided my hand to his lap, where his fly was open. Tentatively, I touched him, then took him into my mouth. As he climaxed, warm liquid soaked my pad.

Afterward, Suresh dropped me home, winking. “See you soon, Malti.”

Lakshmi met me at the door, her eyes knowing. “You’re a brave girl,” she said, hugging me.

That night, I lay awake, replaying the events. The thrill of dressing up, the rush of desire—it was a secret I’d cherish, even as fear and excitement tangled in my chest.

The next morning, Lakshmi woke me before dawn. “Today is the temple visit,” she whispered, sliding a peach silk saree over my arm. “And afterward, the ladies’ gathering. You’ll need to look the part.”

In the dim light, Lakshmi dressed me like a doll. The saree was soft as a cloud, its pallu bordered in gold thread. She draped it carefully, pleats sharp and precise, then pinned a jasmine flower to my hair. “You’ll pass as Malti easily,” she said, applying kohl to my eyes.

I studied my reflection—eyes smoky, lips stained rose-pink, hair coiled into a low bun. The saree clung to my hips, accentuated by the shapewear Lakshmi had insisted I wear. Even my walk felt different, the fabric swishing with each step.

As we entered the temple, the air thickened with incense. Devotees bowed before the deity, their chants echoing off marble walls. Grandma led us to the priest, who dipped his fingers in vermillion and marked my forehead. “A good girl,” he murmured, mistaking me for Malti.

A woman behind us gasped. “Malti! Your saree is stunning!”

I blushed, murmuring thanks. The fabric of the saree brushed my legs as I knelt, the cool marble against my knees. For a moment, I felt weightless—like I truly belonged here, among the women in their silk and gold.

After prayers, we joined the women in the courtyard. Aunts and cousins chattered, their bangles clinking. Today’s ritual was haldi kumkum, a blessing for unmarried girls. A tray of turmeric paste and vermillion was passed around.

“Come, Malti,” Lakshmi urged, pulling me into the circle. The women dipped their fingers in turmeric, dotting my cheeks and forehead. “For good fortune,” they said, laughing.

One cousin, Shobha, applied vermillion to my parting. “You’re glowing today,” she said, her touch light.

I giggled, my nerves melting. The warmth of their hands on my skin, the scent of turmeric and sandalwood—it felt intimate, sacred. When it was my turn, I dipped my finger in vermillion and marked Lakshmi’s forehead. She winked. “You’re a natural.”

As the ritual ended, the women gathered for snacks—samosas, laddoos, and sweet chai. I sat cross-legged, the saree pooling around me. Aunts praised my “grace,” comparing me to a goddess in a painting.

“You’ll make a fine bride someday,” Shobha teased, tucking a rose into my hair.

I blushed, sipping chai. The cup was hot against my lips, the sweetness lingering. For the first time, I understood why Malti loved these gatherings—the camaraderie, the touch of hands, the way femininity felt like a shared language.

On the scooter ride back, Lakshmi held me close. “You did well,” she said, her voice soft.

I leaned into her, the wind lifting my saree like wings. “I felt… light,” I admitted.

She smiled. “That’s how it feels to be free.”