The Transformation of Bitiya

When I stepped into the living room, the air conditioning hummed softly, but my heart pounded louder. I’d borrowed my sister-in-law’s red and gold lehenga choli, its fabric stiff from starch, the skirt flaring as I moved. My face was a canvas of makeup—foundation smoothing my skin, eyeliner winging my eyes, blush dusting my cheeks, and blood-red lipstick staining my lips. The bridal jewelry weighed heavy—gold earrings brushing my shoulders, a necklace with jingling pendants, and a maang tikka resting on my forehead. The sindoor in my wig’s parting felt like a hot brand, and the round red bindi between my plucked eyebrows seemed to glare. My arms were buried in red glass bangles, their clatter echoing as I shifted nervously. Even my toes, peeking from silver payals, were lacquered red.

“Bhabi! I was just trying out something for the fancy dress competition,” I blurted, though the lie tasted bitter. My voice cracked, betraying my fear.

My sister-in-law, Anjali, stepped closer, her sari swishing. Her eyes swept over me—lingering on the stuffed bra (socks filled with rice) and the lace panties peeking from the lehenga’s hem. She smirked. “Aree meri pyari gudiya. Ab to maan ja. Tu toh ab meri nanad ban gayi hai.” (Oh, my doll! Do accept now. You’ve become my sister-in-law.)

I recoiled, the payals ringing as I shuffled back. Her hand shot out, brushing my chest. “These are my best bras,” she said, her tone playful but sharp. “And what’s this?” Her fingers dipped lower, grazing my hips. “My panties too?”

Heat flooded my face. “I… I thought you and bhaiya were still away.”

Anjali’s laughter echoed. “Your brother had to return for work. He went straight to the office, but I came home to this!” She circled me, her gaze lingering. “Arre pagli, tuh to mujhse be sundar lag rahi hai.” (You crazy girl, you’re looking more beautiful than me.)

That evening, my brother, Vikram, barged into the house, his travel bag slung over his shoulder. “Anjali! Where are you?” he called, before freezing at the sight of me.

“Meet your new sister,” Anjali said, pushing me forward.

Vikram’s eyes bulged. Then he burst into laughter. “Bitiya! (Darling!) You look stunning!” He hugged me, his voice warm. “I have no objections. Stay like this for a few more days. I love how you look.”

Relief washed over me—until Anjali whispered, “You’re trapped now.”

After Vikram’s laughter subsided, he pulled me into a bear hug, his grip surprisingly strong. “You look stunning, bitiya,” he said, using the term of endearment for a daughter. “I’ve always wanted a sister. Maybe this is fate.” His words hung in the air, a mix of jest and sincerity.

Anjali, ever the puppeteer, smirked. “She’s all yours now,” she told Vikram, patting my shoulder. “But no changing clothes until I say so.”

That afternoon, Anjali forced me into a peach salwar kameez, its fabric clinging to my frame. “Walk like a girl,” she instructed, her tone sharp. “Hips swaying, eyes downcast.” I shuffled through the house, the bangles jingling with each step. Vikram watched, grinning, as I tried to pour tea with trembling hands.

“Careful, sister,” he teased, catching the cup before it spilled. “You wouldn’t want to ruin that pretty outfit.”

The doorbell rang. It was Vikram’s colleague, Raj, who’d stopped by unexpectedly. “Hey, Vikram! Who’s this?” he asked, eyeing me.

“This is my sister, Bitiya,” Vikram said, his arm around my shoulder. “She’s visiting for a few days.”

Raj’s gaze lingered on my bindi and bangles. “She’s beautiful,” he said, blushing.

Anjali nudged me. “Thank him,” she hissed.

I murmured a polite response, my cheeks burning. Vikram laughed, louder this time. “See? Everyone loves her!”

That night, after Raj left, I locked myself in the guest room. The lehenga lay discarded on the bed, its red fabric a stark contrast to the white sheets. I stared at my reflection in the mirror—foundation smudged, lipstick faded, the wig askew. Yet, beneath the makeup, I saw a stranger.

Am I really this? I wondered, touching the sindoor mark. The rice-filled bra felt suffocating, the bangles heavy. But as I adjusted the wig, brushing the curls over my shoulders, a flicker of something stirred. The thrill of being seen, of being desired, clashed with the shame of deception.

Anjali knocked on the door. “Time for dinner,” she said, her voice muffled. “Wear the green saree. Vikram wants to show you off.”

At the dining table, Vikram’s parents, who’d arrived unannounced, froze at the sight of me. “This is Bitiya,” Vikram said, beaming. “My sister.”

His mother, a stern woman in a sari, studied me. “She’s very… pretty,” she said, her tone cautious.

Anjali served biryani, her smile fixed. “We’re so glad she’s here. She’s been helping with the housework.”

Vikram’s father chuckled. “Looks like you’ve finally found a daughter, son.”

The meal passed in a blur of compliments and curious glances. I ate mechanically, the rice sticking to my red-polished nails. When Vikram’s mother offered me a gold necklace, I nearly choked.

“Wear it tomorrow,” she said, her voice softening. “It suits you.”

The next morning, Anjali dressed me in a green georgette saree, its pallu draped over my shoulder like a shackle. Vikram posed for photos, his arm around me. “Perfect for Instagram,” he said, snapping shots.

“Delete those!” I hissed, but he ignored me.

“Relax, bitiya,” he said. “You’re a natural.”

As the day wore on, the reality sank in—I was trapped. Every hour brought a new outfit, a new layer of makeup, a new round of introductions. Neighbors praised my “feminine grace,” unaware of the boy beneath the wig. Even Vikram’s friends began treating me as one of the girls, inviting me to their wives’ gatherings.

That evening, as I stared at my reflection, a knock interrupted my daze. It was Vikram, a train ticket in hand.

“We’re leaving for the hills tomorrow,” he said. “Anjali’s packing your things. You’ll love it there.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but he kissed my cheek. “You’re part of the family now, bitiya. Don’t fight it.”

The ticket burned in my palm—a one-way trip into the unknown.

The next morning, we boarded a train to a hill station. I wore jeans and a tank top, but the stuffed bra drew stares. Boys lingered in the aisle, their gazes lingering on my chest. I pretended indifference, though a thrill coursed through me.

At Vikram’s office guest house, the staff fussed over me. “Such a pretty girl!” they’d say, adjusting my chair, refilling my glass.

That evening, Anjali urged me into a salwar kameez—emerald green with a gold border. The fabric clung to my curves, the dupatta draped demurely. Vikram joked, “Ab toh bitiya ke liye dulha lana padega!” (We need to find a groom for our darling!)

When Ramesh stepped into the guest house the next morning, the air seemed to hum with anticipation. Tall and broad-shouldered, he carried himself with an effortless confidence that made Vikram’s friends whisper in admiration. His dimpled smile was the stuff of local legends—girls blushed at his glance, and even the seasoned staff at the guest house fluttered as they served him tea.

“Bitiya!” he said, his eyes widening as he took me in. I’d dressed in a pink georgette saree with silver trim, its fabric whisper-light against my skin. The pallu draped over my shoulder like a second skin, while the matching blouse hugged my frame, accentuating the curves I’d once tried to hide. My hair, styled in a thick braid adorned with white orchids, cascaded down my back, the ends brushing my waist. Kajal rimmed my eyes, their almond shape intensified by the dark liner, and my lips were stained with rose-pink gloss. A round red bindi sat between my plucked eyebrows, its color echoing the sindoor I’d grown accustomed to.

“You’re even more beautiful than Anjali described,” Ramesh said, his voice low and velvety. My cheeks flamed, the heat spreading to my chest. I fidgeted with the orchids in my braid, their petals soft against my fingertips.

That afternoon, we ventured into the pine-scented forests surrounding the hill station. I trailed behind Ramesh, my heels sinking into the soft earth. He moved with a natural grace—shoulders back, strides long—while I minced along in my saree, the fabric swaying with each step. When a particularly steep incline loomed, Ramesh turned, his hand outstretched. “Need help?”

I hesitated, then placed my palm in his. His grip was firm, calloused from work, yet gentle. He pulled me effortlessly upward, his other hand steadying my elbow. “You’re so light,” he murmured, his breath warm on my neck.

A thrill shot through me. I’d never felt so… small. So delicate. So feminine. His strength contrasted sharply with my own—my slender arms, the saree’s thin fabric, the way my chest heaved with the effort of the climb. When we reached a clearing, he turned me to face him, his hands on my shoulders.

“You’re blushing,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. His touch lingered, thumb grazing my cheek. “You’re breathtaking.”

I bit my lip, the gloss sticky. “Thank you,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

Later, at a cozy café, Ramesh ordered for both of us—masala chai for him, rose milk for me. He pulled out my chair, his fingers brushing my arm. “Sit,” he said, his tone a command softened by a smile.

As we sipped our drinks, he leaned back, his legs stretched casually. “You’re very quiet,” he said.

“I… I’m not used to this,” I admitted, my hands twisting the napkin on the table.

“Used to what?” His brow furrowed.

“Being… treated like this. Like a girl.”

His laughter was low, rumbling. “You’re more than a girl, Bitiya. You’re a princess.”

The words settled in my chest like a warm stone. I’d spent years hiding, pretending, but here, in this mountain town, Ramesh saw me—not the boy beneath the makeup, but the girl in the pink saree. When he reached under the table, his fingers grazing my thigh, I froze. Then, slowly, I relaxed, the heat of his palm seeping through the fabric.

“Like it?” he asked, his voice a dare.

I nodded, my gaze dropping to my lap. “Yes.”

The next morning, he led me to a secluded waterfall. The mist clung to my saree, the pink fabric clinging to my curves. Ramesh stood at the water’s edge, his back to me, adjusting his watch. When he turned, his eyes were dark.

“Come here,” he said, his voice rough.

I obeyed, my payals clicking on the wet rocks. He grabbed my wrist, pulling me close. “You’re mine,” he growled, his lips crashing onto mine.

I gasped, the force of his kiss stealing my breath. His hands roamed my body—cupping my face, then sliding down to grip my hips. The saree crumpled between his fingers as he deepened the kiss, his tongue demanding entry. I clutched his shoulders, my nails digging into his shirt. This was nothing like the hesitant pecks I’d shared with Vikram’s friends. This was raw, possessive, real.

When he broke away, his chest heaving, I whispered, “Do it again.”

He laughed, low and throaty. “You’re a bold one, aren’t you?”

I blushed, the heat pooling in my stomach. “Only with you.”

That evening, at the guest house, Ramesh brought me a plate of sweets. “Open,” he said, holding a jalebi to my lips.

I obeyed, the sugary syrup dripping onto my chin. He wiped it with his thumb, then sucked the digit clean. “Messy,” he teased.

“Sorry,” I murmured, though I wasn’t. I liked the way he took charge—the way he fed me, adjusted my dupatta, even scolded me when I stumbled in my heels. It felt… safe. Protected.

As we sat on the balcony, the mountain lights twinkling below, he laced our fingers. “You’re different from the girls here,” he said. “More… fragile.”

I tensed, fear pricking my skin. “What do you mean?”

He squeezed my hand. “You’re softer. More… breakable. Like porcelain.”

The metaphor stung, yet I leaned into it. Let him see me as delicate. Let him shield me from the world.

That night, after Ramesh left, I lay awake, the pink saree still clinging to my body. Vikram’s words echoed in my mind: “Stay like this for a few more days.” Days had stretched into weeks, each one blurring the line between pretense and truth.

I wanted Ramesh to touch me again—to kiss me, hold me, claim me. But what if he discovered the truth? The rice in my bra, the wig on my head, the boy beneath the makeup?

Yet, even as fear gnawed at me, a darker part thrilled. What if he did find out? Would he still want me? Would he still call me bitiya?

As the moonlight streamed through the curtains, I touched my lips, still swollen from his kiss. I’d never felt so alive. So seen. Even if it was a lie.

One afternoon, Ramesh led me to a “secret viewpoint.” We trekked through pine-scented air until the path vanished. “This is it!” he said, pulling me into a clearing.

But there was no viewpoint—only thick trees and dappled sunlight. Ramesh’s smile faded. “I wanted to be alone with you,” he murmured, stepping closer.

His lips met mine, soft and urgent. Hands roamed my body, his touch firm. When he unfastened my salwar, I froze. “Wait,” I whispered, but desire drowned my fear. I knelt, my mouth finding his warmth.

Afterward, he held me, his breath ragged. “I’ll marry you,” he said.

That night, I confessed to Anjali. “He loves me,” I said, tears mingling with relief.

She hugged me. “We’ll fix this. Vikram and I will speak to his family.”

Weeks later, at the engagement ceremony, I wore a lehenga of peacock blues, my hair styled in curls. Ramesh’s eyes never left mine as we exchanged rings. Vikram grinned, whispering, “You’re home now.”